#i turned it off as fast as i could but i lost the remote in all my coloring supplies

[pippeebottom]

eep

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[kaiijo]

SUPER-GLUED JAR PRANK — [WIND BREAKER]

characters: sakura haruka, umemiya hajime, hiragi toma, togame jo content: gn! reader, a (very old) tiktok prank notes: they’re so silly, i love them

sakura haruka ✶

in hindsight, you should have known giving sakura the super-glued jar might not have been your best idea but his bright pink face paired with an inevitable tirade were too good to pass up. you can’t take all the credit for it — kotoha played a role too, supplying you with a nearly-empty jar of sprinkles and some acting. 

your boyfriend is sitting with nirei and suo when you emerge from cafe potus’s pantry with the jar. she feigns disappointment when she asks, “any luck?”

“no,” you say, shaking the jar in your hand for effect.

“it’s such a waste to just let all that stuff sit at the bottom.”

you turn to sakura and asks, “can you try opening it, sweetheart?”

sakura’s face flushes at the pet name, which makes his friends giggle, and he takes the jar from you. with each attempt his make, sakura scowls more and more, huffing as he sets it down. nirei suggests that he tap the lid against the edge of the table but sakura uses just a bit too much force and the glass breaks. you gasp and the trio at the table jumps back with fast reflexes. 

kotoha’s already running to grab a broom and dustpan and you’re reaching down to pick up the big pieces. sakura’s hand closes around your wrist before you can and he says, “are you crazy? you could hurt yourself, let me do it.” 

“no one touch it,” kotoha orders as she sweeps the shards up. nirei is apologizing profusely and sakura mutters an apology, complaining about how he almost had it and how they shouldn’t make jars that sealed that tight. when you come clean to him about gluing the lid, he’s huffing and puffing at you, and you make it up to him with a lot of food and a lot of kisses and cuddles in private. 

umemiya hajime ✶

you find umemiya on the roof of furin high, tending to his garden. your heart swells as you hear him coo at his plants, carefully and lovingly watering them. you almost feel bad about this little prank. almost, but you remember the prank he pulled last week with that fake rubber bug in your lunch so you don’t feel too bad.

you thank every star in the sky that sugishita’s not here at the moment because you’re pretty sure this prank would be the last thing you’d get to do if he was. “hajime?” you call to him.

 his head immediately swerves to look at you and his smile is as bright as ever as he set down the water can and makes his way over. he presses a loud, messy kiss against your cheek, and you don’t even have to ask umemiya; he notices the jar in your hand and says, “i can help you open that!”

“thanks,” you say and he takes the jar from you. 

he’s beaming when he replies with a breezy “no problem, baby!” and firmly grips the lid, giving it a firm twist. his smile dims a little and he tries again with no luck. umemiya squares his feet and gives it another go, and you can’t deny that seeing his arms bulge with exertion against the sleeves of his white t-shirt is in any way unpleasant.

he slides on his gardening gloves and tries again. the lid doesn’t budge and umemiya is pouting at the jar and mumbling, “i’ll be right back.” he disappears into the school for about twenty minutes. he comes back with a look of defeat, shoulders slumping. “i can’t help you,” he says. “i’m really sorry.”

oh my god, you feel your stomach twist in sympathy and you answer, “i know. i’m really sorry, haji, it’s because i super-glued the lid.”

he blinks once, twice, and then his smile is back on his face. he wipes some sweat off his brow and sighs in relief, “phew! i thought i’d totally lost my strength there for second!” you can’t help but stare at him as he grins, outshining the sun. what did you do to deserve this angel?

hiragi toma ✶

you walk into your living room, where hiragi is setting up a movie for the two of you to watch. “any movie in mind?” he asks as he leans back in the couch, remote in hand. 

“howl’s moving castle?” 

“again? we watched that last weekend too.”

you grin at him. “it’s not my fault howl’s so cute.”

your boyfriend rolls his eyes, grumbling, “he’s not that cute. and he’s not real.” before you can argue, hiragi motions at the jar in your hand. 

“can you help me open it?” you ask him, holding it out to him. 

he eyes it suspiciously. “you hate pickles.”

“i want to try them again.”

“but why buy an entire jar if you want to just—”

“can you please just open it? help me start this new journey in my life?” he still looks confused but, ever the dutiful boyfriend, takes it from your hand. 

one attempt. two, then three. by the fourth, you feel a giggle threatening to burst forth but the familiar sound of the air pressure releasing has your jaw dropping. hiragi doesn’t take the lid off entirely, letting it sit on top as he hands it back to you. he takes in your awed expression with a frown. “is everything okay?” he’s already reaching for his stomach tablets. 

“i super-glued this,” you say, still a little starstruck. “like, with a lot of glue. you weren’t supposed to be able to open it.” 

you show him the lid and as he swallows down the pill. he sighs, “you’re going to be the death of me.” 

togame jo ✶

“these looks so good!” tomiyama says, marveling at the spread of sandwiches and snacks you had brought to the park. he had been the one to propose a shishitoren picnic, though togame was the one who had pared it down to just a couple of people to make it more manageable. 

“thanks! help yourselves!” you reply, watching on with a small smile as the boys dug into the food you had prepared. you lean against togame, who rests his chin on your shoulder. 

he leans forward for a sandwich, handing you one as well. it’s your favorite variety of the ones you made and you’re thrilled that your boyfriend remembered that. as you take a bite, you figure this the perfect time to execute your plan. you reach into your own bag, pulling out a nearly-finished jar of chili oil. you nudge togame. “you think you can help me open this? i tried all morning.”

“sure,” he says, gently lifting it from your grasp. his arms are still around you as he makes his first attempt and you feel the quick breath he exhales as he tries again. he eventually untangles himself from you, eyebrows furrowing. “shit,” he says, “i don’t know if i can.”

tomiyama makes grabbing hands at it. “let me try!” togame hands it over to his friend and tomiyama tries a couple of times, pouting when he can’t open it either. he hands it over to sako, who glowers when he fails too. the jar gets passed between the shishitoren members present and each one is unsuccessful. the last guy hands it back to you and togame sighs, “sorry we couldn’t help, baby.”

as everyone else apologizes to, you feel a little bashful as you admit to gluing it. you’re relieved when they take it in good stride, letting out relieved cries and playfully protest. you pull out another jar of the same chili oil, this one totally super-glue-free and give it to those who want it as a peace offering.  as the group settles into a nice rhythm, you lean back against togame and his head finds its place in the crook of your neck again.

[jezebelblues]

so not cool | h.s

summary: in which spiderman is obviously much cooler than dad

cw: dadrry. overuse of the word spider-man. u could play a drinking game by how much its mentioned prolly

word count: approx 1.7k

| the result of being up for 20h, writers block n being bored out of my mind !! idk what this is but…it’s..definitely an addition to the dadrry universe .. for sure (prob will delete 🔥)

not necessary but here’s the first dadrry post if ur into that

July 2021

The sound of the credits rolling filled the living room as Harry leaned back against the couch, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips. Atlas, now three years old and still wide-eyed with excitement, sat curled up against his father’s side, his tiny fingers clutching the corner of a fleece one direction blanket that Harry had bought off Etsy, something he found to be absolutely hilarious. They had just finished watching the original Spider-Man movie, the one with Tobey Maguire, and Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at the awe that was practically radiating off his son.

“Dad,” Atlas breathed, his voice filled with wonder as he looked up at Harry with those big, round eyes that mirrored his mother’s. “Pider-man s’cool.”

They were working on his pronunciation of R’s and S’s. Not too much progress yet.

Harry bit back a laugh, ruffling his son’s messy curls as he glanced down at him. “Yeah, he’s pretty cool, isn’t he?”

Atlas nodded vigorously, his little legs kicking against the couch as his excitement bubbled over. “He climbs n’ has webs n’ fights ba’guys!”

Harry grinned, watching the way Atlas’s face lit up as he recounted all of the abilities with the fervor only a toddler could muster. His little hands gestured wildly as if he were mimicking shooting webs out of his wrists.

“Best superhero in’a whole world!” Atlas declared, sitting up straighter as if this revelation were the most important one he’d ever made.

Harry chuckled, reaching over to grab the remote and lower the volume on the TV. “Better than Batman?”

“Super much better.” Atlas exclaimed, his voice incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe Harry would even ask such a thing.

“Better than Iron Man?” Harry tried again, his tone teasing as he listed off another iconic hero.

His boy paused for a moment, his brow furrowing in concentration as he thought it over. His little hand lifted to his chin in the same way Harry often did when he was deep in thought, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it. After a moment, Atlas shook his head decisively. “M’yeah. Way cooler.”

Harry leaned back against the couch, folding his arms as he played along. “So, that’s it? Peter Parker’s just the best?”

“Yeah!” Atlas said excitedly, jumping off the couch and running around the living room, pretending to shoot webs from his wrists. “He’s fast ‘nd he can climb buildings like this!” He hopped up on the couch and began to scale the back of it with his small, wobbly legs, pretending he was on the side of a skyscraper.

Harry leaned forward, his hands hovering near Atlas to catch him in case he lost his balance. “Easy there, spidey,” he chuckled. “No need to break the couch, bub.”

Atlas giggled as he perched himself on the top of the couch, still caught up in his make-believe world. He turned to Harry, his eyes bright with excitement. “Daddy?” He paused, watching his father’s gaze resettle upon him. “y’think spideys stronger than you?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, smirking as he leaned back against the couch again. “Stronger than me, huh? That’s a tough one. I mean, I’ve got some pretty strong muscles too, you know.” He tried to persuade his son, flexing his bicep in front of him.

Atlas tilted his head, considering this for a moment before a mischievous grin spread across his face. “M’no cause he can do this!” He flung his wrist out, making a thwip! noise as he pretended to shoot webs across the room.

Harry’s grin widened as he watched his son in full superhero mode. “Alright, alright, you’ve got me there. I don’t have webs.”

“Duh!” The boy exclaimed again, leaping off the couch and landing with a soft thud on the carpet. He scrambled back up and raced over to Harry, his little hands grabbing at his dad’s arms as he looked up at him with pure adoration. “But y’cool too, dad.”

Harry laughed, his heart swelling at the sight of his son’s wide grin. “Oh, just cool am I? Not the coolest?”

Atlas giggled, shaking his head, jumping in place with his palms against his dad’s knees. “Nope, he–he still more better.”

YN had been listening from the kitchen as she prepared dinner, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the air. She leaned against the counter, smiling to herself as she heard the playful back-and-forth between her husband and their son. Harry always had such a way of connecting with Atlas—whether it was through silly games, bedtime stories, or, in this case, debates over superheroes.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and wandered into the living room, catching sight of Atlas now climbing into Harry’s lap. “What’s all this about Spider-Man?” she asked, crossing her arms with a mock-stern expression.

The curly haired boy whipped his head around, his face lighting up when he saw his mom. “Mama! We watched’ed pider-man!”

YN raised her eyebrows, glancing at Harry, who shrugged with an amused smile. “I see,” she said, nodding seriously. “And where does daddy rank on the superhero scale?”

Without missing a beat, Atlas giggled and pointed at Harry. “M’he not a superhero—he’s just daddy!”

Harry feigned offense, gasping dramatically as he clutched his chest. “Just dad? C’mon, mate, I’m way cooler than that.”

Atlas giggled even harder, clearly enjoying the game. “Y’climb on buildings?”

Harry chuckled, wrapping his arms around Atlas and pulling him into a gentle bear hug. “Okay, I can’t climb buildings, but I bet Spider-Man can’t make pancakes as good as me.”

The boy paused, clearly torn by this new piece of information. He loved his dad’s pancakes, after all. But after a moment, he shook his head, his resolve firm. “Pider-man don’t eat pancakes.”

YN laughed as she sat down on the couch beside them, placing her hand on Harry’s knee. “He’s got you there, babe. You might have to accept second place.”

He sighed in mock defeat, his dimples deepening as he looked down at his boy, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Alright, fine. he can be the coolest for now. But when you get hungry in the morning, don’t come crying to me for pancakes.”

“He make them for me!” Atlas shot back with a laugh, clearly enjoying teasing his dad.

He laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of Atlas’s curly head. “You think Parker knows how to make chocolate chip pancakes like I do? I doubt it.”

YN watched them with a soft smile, her heart swelling with affection. She loved these moments—the way Harry could be completely goofy and playful with their son, never taking himself too seriously, and the way Atlas adored his dad with a fierceness that made her heart melt. It was a kind of magic, watching the two of them together.

She ran a finger through Harry’s curls, pressing a kiss into the locks as she breathed him in. “I’m plating dinner.” She mumbled as she ambled back into the kitchen.

Harry grunted as he stood up, pulling his son up in his arms along with him. “To the table, web-slinger.” He told Atlas, swinging him in his arms with small little swooshing sounds.

Their boy giggled as Harry swooped him through the air like an airplane, his little arms stretched out as if he were flying. They made their way to the kitchen, where YN was setting plates of steaming food on the table.

"Hungry?” YN teased as Harry plopped Atlas into his booster seat.

He nodded enthusiastically. "I want 'tatoes!"

Harry chuckled, grabbing a spoon to serve Atlas a helping of mashed potatoes. "Here you go, bubba. But no webs at the dinner table, okay?"

He giggled, pretending to shoot webs one more time before focusing on his plate. Harry and YN exchanged a fond smile, and for a moment, the room was filled with nothing but the sounds of dinner-plates clinking, forks scraping, and the occasional happy hum from Atlas as he devoured his meal.

After dinner, they settled into their nighttime routine-baths, pajamas, and a bedtime story.

Atlas, freshly bathed and smelling of lavender, jumped snuggled into his bed. It was navy blue with cartoonish planets littered about, but his favorite thing would have to be his rainbow zebra-print 1D blanket tucked around him. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, the familiar worn copy of Goodnight Moon in his hands.

"Goodnight room, goodnight moon," He read softly, his voice soothing. Atlas's eyelids grew heavy as he clutched his favorite stuffed animal, a plush giraffe.

YN stood in the doorway, watching her two boys with a soft smile. She loved these quiet moments, the way Harry's voice softened as he read to Atlas, the way their son's small body relaxed into sleep. "Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere."

As he closed the book, he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Atlas's forehead. "Goodnight, spidey."

Atlas's lips curled into a sleepy smile, his voice a soft mumble as he drifted off. "G’night, daddy."

With that, Harry quietly stood and tiptoed out of the room, YN slipping her hand into his as they left their little guy to dream of webs and skyscrapers.

The door closed behind them with a soft click before he scooped his wife over his shoulder quietly, trudging toward their bedroom and throwing her onto the bed through her soft protests.

YN laughed as she landed on the bed, playfully swatting at Harry as he crawled over her. "You're ridiculous," she whispered, though her smile said she didn't mind one bit.

Her husband grinned, his eyes twinkling in the dim light of their bedroom. "Well, if I'm not the coolest in the house, l've got to show off my other skills, don't I?"

She rolled her eyes, pulling him down for a kiss. "You're still my favorite," she murmured against his lips.

He smiled into the kiss, his hands resting on her hips as he whispered back, "Good, because I'm not giving up that spot anytime soon."

The house grew quiet, the hum of the evening settling in around them as they lay together.

Outside, the stars were beginning to twinkle in the night sky, and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze was the only sound breaking the silence. Harry reached over to switch off the bedside lamp, wrapping his arms around YN as they snuggled into each other.

It was in those days that Harry realized—he didn't need to be the coolest superhero. Being Atlas's dad, YN's husband, and the maker of the best chocolate chip pancakes in the world was more than enough. It was everything.

[arahdow]

BE CAREFUL WITH YOUR QUILLS !

Pairing. Sonic x reader, Shadow x reader, Silver x reader, Knuckles x reader

Content. fem!reader. fluff, tiny silly argument in shadow’s, cuddling, overall soft stuff.

Word count. 1.6 k

A/N. writing sonic was the hardest thing i’ve ever done aH idk why!! i’ll make sure to write him more often to get used to his personality aH anywaaay, again, not beta read, i’m really sacrificing my sleep hours for this one sjdjs hope y’all like it!!

SONIC

making you run and accidentally crashing with him.

“Come on! You’re being too slow!” Sonic screamed as he kept on running, his feet moving way too fast for her liking. 

Just a few days ago, the blue hedgehog encouraged his partner to go out for a run together, and she knew he was an athletic man, but this? This was torture.

“Sonic… Wait… I can’t” her feet were moving so slow compared to his, especially when she wasn’t used to running this much. 

“One foot in front of the other! Come on!” Sonic said laughing, as he ran backwards, looking at the girl. She huffed with annoyance, the hedgehog still winning even when running like that!

After a while, the blue animal ran faster and almost disappeared from her sight. The girl took a deep breath and started running faster. Somehow, the fear of getting lost in the forest making her move, helping with adrenaline. Suddenly her body was moving faster than before. Way faster! 

Her body, sadly, started to grow tired quickly because of the energy she was using. Her lower limbs suddenly getting wobbly, but somehow kept running. Out of instinct, she thought.

That was until she realized she was about to crash into a stone wall at the end of the road, it was getting dangerously close!

The girl stretched her arms to cushion the blow. A violent ‘Hey!’ was all she could hear as she crashed, not on a stone wall, but rather a soft body. Sonic’s body to be clear.

He used his own body to soften the crash, but something was wrong.

“Ouch! Wha-”

She looked down and saw one of Sonic’s blue quills stuck on her shoulder. “Damn… Ouch.” 

The animal was sprawled upon her, but quickly recovered to take a look at his injured girlfriend. “Oh, I’m sorry darling,” he said with a sheepish smile, helping her stand up, careful not to mess with the quill. “but it’s kinda your fault to run that fast, thought you were about to destroy time and spac- Ouch! Why are you hitting me!” He said with a pained laugh.

“You’re an asshole! Help me get this out!” She complained, annoyed that the man was making fun of her.

“Aw, don’t be all grumpy, I promise not to make you run again.” He said, pushing her slightly to take her to the infirmary. “Hey, maybe next time you can try Shadow’s air shoe-”

“Don’t even finish that thought.”

SHADOW

silly old couple argument

“Move.” The girl didn’t reply, her gaze focused on the tv. “Get up.”

“Git ip.” she mocked.

The black hedgehog grumbled, sitting really close to her, almost on her.

“Hey-”

“This is my side of the couch, you know that.” He said as he crossed his arms. “I don’t like this channel.”

“You don’t like anything, Shadow.” She complained, not giving him the remote.

They’ve been living together for a year, two years being a couple, and they still bickered like an old couple. It became something usual between them, and it got even worse when speaking of the sofa. There was only this purple sofa in the living room, both her and Shadow liked it, but there was just something about the spot on the far left that was perfect. For both of them.

So if they were together in the house, it was usual for them to fight over the sofa spot, like they were doing now.

“I’m feeling hot, you need to get off of me!”

“I’m not on you, you’re the one occupying my place!”

“Shadow!” she pushed the hedgehog with her shoulder, as he pressed even harder on her.

With a huff, she turned and put her hands on him to push him again, when a quill suddenly pinched her hand. 

“Ow!” She exclaimed, looking at the dark quill stuck on her. “You can have your stupid place on the couch!” the girl said as she stuck her tongue and got up to the kitchen, looking for some tweezers to take the quill out.

Not many long after, the man got into the kitchen, following her, taking her arm in his hand. “Hey-”

“I’m sorry.” He said, looking intently at the sensitive red spot on her hand. Pressing his lips, he brought her hand under the faucet to clean the wound. “It wasn’t my intention to hurt you. Please forgive me.” 

The girl snorted. “It’s alright though, I was just messing with you, but you were seriously pressed, huh? Pressed enough to hurt me.” She said with a fake tone of hurt on her voice.

Shadow rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna let this down, are you?”

She gasped and whined, putting on a pouty face, “Ow! It hurts! Please! Why are you so mean to me?”

“Alright alright, you can have the couch for today.” He sighed, shaking his head with humor.

The girl smiled, her face expression going back to normal. Turning happily, the girl kissed his cheek before running to the couch. “Love you, Shads!” 

SILVER

cuddling after a long day but uh oh…

After a tiring day outside, he wanted nothing more than to be at home, eat the food his girl made for him and spend time with her. It was a simple plan, and the cherry on top? Cuddling with her on bed, his face pressed on her stomach as she threaded his quills.

It was a usual occurrence, both of them lying down in silence, sometimes him laying on her lap, sometimes her on his, but they spent most of their time cheek to cheek.

“Silver…” She whispered, afraid of disturbing him. But he didn’t reply, instead, a soft snore broke his silence.

The girl giggled a bit as she kept on caressing his face and quills. It was times like this where she found herself falling once again for her hedgehog lover. She was actually reading a book on her other hand, so her attention was mostly directed to it.

Being immersed on the story, she got really focused on the sentences, suddenly drifting off from her task on her other hand. She unconsciously made her limb move in erratic ways, as she tried to keep on doing both things at the same time.

That was until she felt a slight sting on her hand. Jolting, she yelped as she retreated her hand from his body. The movement was so sudden, Silver opened his sleepy eyes, sensing something wrong.

Leaning back enough so he could see his partner in the eye, he found instead a look of slight pain as she held her hand in front of her face, a silverish quill stuck on her palm.

“Oh chaos, dear, your hand!” He expressed, incorporating as he held her hand for a bit. Using his telekinesis, he brought the aid kit to bed. Doing a careful procedure, he took the quill out from her hand, making her hiss at the feeling.

“I’m sorry…” He said.

“Don’t be, it was my fault, I was completely distracted by the story.” She replied, looking at the book beside her.

Silver took a look, as he kept patching her hand. “Hey! That’s the book I recommended the other day!” 

“It is! And it’s so good! I really loved it when the protagonist saved the kids from the falling building.” 

“That was my favorite part too!” He said. Both of them laughed and kept on talking about the book. He was really happy to have her in his life.

KNUCKLES

It’s shedding season! And your roomie-bf is in the house!

Cleaning after an echidna warrior was difficult, especially when he kept bringing his dirty shoes inside her home, her food taken, and her bed occupied. But she honestly loved Knuckles company, so she carried on with it.

It was starting to get a whole lot colder outside, as the temperature began to cool down. It was that time of the year where the island became a little snowglobe, so the echidna spent more time at her partner’s home than anywhere else.

Today she needed to do the laundry, piles of dirty clothes started to form, and even though Knuckles tried to convince her to stop using clothes like him, that still wasn’t on her plans, at least not on a short term.

Sighing, she started to walk towards the laundry room, a pile of white clothes on her arms, making seeing the floor almost impossible. Knuckles was sleeping in her room, so she let him. She’ll make him fold the clothes afterwards either way. Sure, she’d let him crash whenever he needed it, but it came with a price.

Opening the door of the room, the girl stepped inside. But she wasn't ready to feel an electric pain coursing from the bottom of her feet to her core. A scared scream left her throat as the pile of clothes fell from her hands. Tripping, the girl fell on her butt with a thud. Not a second later, the echidna was already punching the laundry’s room door, breaking it. His breathing agitated as he saw his significant other on the floor.

“What happened?” He asked, worried that someone might have come into her home. 

The girl crawled, starting to search in between the clothes as she stumbled upon a red quill. Taking it in between her fingers, she showed it to the animal, furrowed eyebrows on her face.

Knuckles saw the quill with curious eyes. “You stepped on a quill of mine?” 

She threw the quill at him, half annoyed. “Of course I did! Don’t go around shedding your stuff please. Look! Now my foot hurts because of it.” She said as she looked at her now destroyed door. “And that too!” The mammal listened to her words, and before she could complain for anything else, he got closer to take the girl in his arms, an easy task for him, and brought her to the sofa. Laying her down, he put a gloved hand on his own chest.

“I’ll take care of the laundry to compensate for it.” He oathed, the girl surprised for his serious face, snorting in the process.

“That’d be nice.” She said, as she looked at her foot, not swollen or anything. “I could help you though-”

“No, you stay there.” He demanded as he strided to the laundry room.

A moment later, he came back stomping to the living room again. 

“Uhm… How does the machine that washes clothes works?”

[sun-kissy]

could I request an x reader with fem! X Fred Weasley (if you don’t want to write for him I’m more then fine with whoever else you choose x)

anyway reader is insecure in the relationship (mostly just anxious about physical touch because she’s worried he won’t like it? Idk how to describe but just basically early stages of a relationship)

thanks lovely xx I adore ur work

hi gorgeous! so i decided to do this with remus, i hope it’s okay. thank you for the request! :)

everything you need | r.l.

tw: hurt/comfort, fluff

remus lupin x reader

You couldn’t stop the ache from blooming in your chest even if you tried. There’s a strong feeling of absence as you stare helplessly at Remus, pressed against the other side of the couch with his eyes glued to the television.

It’s always been a desire, to be touched. To be held is to be loved, your mother used to say. You craved the simple feeling of having your hair brushed off your face, the fat of your hip being pinched teasingly, or being held in tight hugs which squeeze all the sad out of you. You can’t remember the last time you were touched like that.

Remus and you had started dating a few weeks ago, and he really was a sweetheart; and everything you ever needed. Always buying you little trinkets whenever he came over, cooking you dinner, and writing you lovely little notes — that was how he showed his love, and you adored him for it.

But you were fraught with the need to feel his touch — for those kisses to last a little longer, those hugs to be a smidge tighter, and soft cuddles to be more frequent.

You didn’t quite know if it was alright for you to ask, though. You had only just started dating, you weren’t even his girlfriend yet. And you knew Remus was the type to show his love in soft, subtle ways, not in overt means like openly touching and holding you. What if he felt like you were going too fast? You couldn’t risk driving him away.

Remus seems to pick up on the cogs turning in your head and the faraway look in your eyes as you ogle at him. He arches an eyebrow and his mouth twists in a frown as he turns his body towards you. “Sweetheart?”

You blink dazedly. “Hm?”

“Are you okay? You looked a little lost there for a second,” he asks, not unkind in the least.

“I’m fine,” you croak, though all you can think about at the moment is brushing that stray curl away from his face. “Was just thinking about work.”

You know he doesn’t buy it, taking a second too long to answer. But being the gentleman he is, he smiles softly and indulges you. “Okay, dove, if you say so. Don’t stress too much about it, yeah?”

He reaches for the television remote beside him and presses the pause button. “I’m gonna go serve us dinner. You want sauce with your fries?”

“Yeah, sure,” you mutter distractedly, not realising how transfixedly you were gazing at his body, resisting the temptation to crawl into his lap and ask for a hug.

Remus stands up, bending down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. You startle, fighting the urge to grab his wrist and pull him back towards you. You want it so badly, but you can’t let him. You can’t let yourself.

He gives you a bemused smile as he makes a beeline into the kitchen. As soon as he’s out of sight, you heave a sigh and slump backwards on the sofa, wrapping your arms tightly around your waist. You wished he were hugging you instead, with his gentle touches and saccharine words.

You let your eyes flutter closed, squeezing yourself as tight as one possibly can. It helps, a little. You rub your arms desperately, teeth roughly biting down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from bursting out in tears.

In a moment, you hear the clinking of cutlery against plates as Remus sets your dishes down on the table. Before you even open your eyes fully, he’s crouching in front of you and needling your arms apart to press his hands to your back. He pulls you towards him, your face pressing against the crook of his neck.

The feel of his skin on yours is almost painful, and you want to pull away. “Remus,” you choke out, desperately trying to keep your voice even.

“Yeah?” It’s nothing more than a soft murmur as he tucks his chin on your shoulder, pressing his palms into your shoulder blades.

You want to ask him why he was hugging you, tell him that everything was fine. But you know he’s already figured you out.

“You don’t have to,” you say instead.

“Why not?” he asks gently, the feel of his breath warm on your skin. “You want this.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“But…” you hate how you’re warbling. “You don’t have to do this, if it’s not what you want. We agreed to go slow.”

“Going slow means I can’t hug you?” he asks softly, but you hear the teasing in his voice.

“No,” you say quickly, feeling the ache in your chest start to worsen. “But I don’t know if you want to touch me, if you want to be touched. I — I know you have different ways of showing your love, and I’ll take any love you can give me —“

“Angel,” Remus breathes, making you stop short. “This isn’t a job offer. I’ll show you love however you want me to.” He tilts his head up to press a kiss to your hair, and the ache starts to soften. “You’re allowed to want this,” he murmurs, like he’s reading your mind.

That pulls a soft sob out of you, as you ball up the fabric of his T-shirt in your hands and cling to it. You wanted this so much, it feels almost ethereal now that you’re getting it.

Remus coos sympathetically, his joints cracking painfully as he kneels down fully. He doesn’t mind in the slightest. He starts to gently knead your scalp, his other hand coasting from one shoulder to the other on your back.

You feel like maybe he doesn’t deserve this, your tears and your demandingness. You feel like you have to explain yourself. “I just —“ you try, his heart squeezing at the unnaturally high pitch.

Remus pulls back slightly, making sure to continue to squeeze the fat at your shoulders kindly. He knows you need the touch. His eyebrows bunch up in worry because of how distraught you look. “I…” you mean to apologise. But all that comes out is a timid, “I just really like hugs.”

His expression softens, and you almost see his lips curve upwards. His heart feels like it’s swelling because of how adorable you look, even with your red, puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Yeah?” he breathes softly.

You nod meekly, sniffling as you train your eyes on the ground. He notes the pink starting to coat your cheeks, and resists the urge to beam and kiss you stupid.

He gently cups your cheek and begins to thumb it, relieved when you melt into his touch instead of pulling away. “I like hugs, too.”

“No, you don’t.”

Remus lets out a soft chuckle at your slightly accusatory tone. “If you want hugs, sweetheart, I’ll give them to you. I really don’t mind. In fact, I’d hold you 24/7 if you wanted.”

“You would?” your eyes light up a bit as you tilt your head up to look at him with a hopeful gaze.

He smiles sympathetically — he can’t believe you were so upset over something he would so easily give you. He wasn’t exactly used to physical touch, but for you, he was willing to try. “I would, dove.”

Remus can’t stop the lovesickness which drips into his voice like honey as he thumbs at your cheeks. He ducks his head to meet your eyes, grinning when you meet his gaze and give him a small smile. “Sweetheart, I wanna be with you for the long haul. So you have to tell me when something’s wrong, okay?”

“Okay,” you mumble, flustered with the attention. You felt yourself melting at the affection in his gaze.

This time, he can’t stop the wide smile from curving his lips as he cups your cheeks and presses a soft kiss to your nose. “I love you, sweet thing. Just say the word, and I’ll give you everything you need.”

[itneverendshere]

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE - rafe cameron (+18) - five

request: "a rafe enemies to lovers 🫣 the reader is jjs sister the whole drama before but then she gets left behind on the ship and rafe ends up comforting her and then yea that’s all I got you can do whatever else the rest 😛"

warnings: angst <3333333 for everyone <33

word count: 7.7k

The ride back to home was a blur. The plane ride, the ferry.

Everything. 

Every mile away from Rafe felt like reopening an old wound, over and over. The cops kept trying to make small talk, but you barely said a word. One-syllable responses if anything. Eventually, they just gave up and let you stare out the window in awkward silence.

By the time you pulled up, even the streets of The Cut didn’t make you feel any better. Home didn’t feel like home anymore. It was weird, almost like you didn’t recognize it. Walking in with the officers behind you just made everything feel more real, like a slap in the face of the life you were stepping back into.

“Your brother and your friends were rescued from a remote island a while ago. He was informed of your whereabouts an hour ago, he’ll be here soon.”

You barely processed what they were saying. It didn't really sink in. You just nodded, like you were on autopilot, but your brain was still stuck in everything that went down two days ago. What kind of sister doesn’t freak out when she hears her little brother’s alive and okay?

You should’ve been losing it with relief, right? But all you felt was this weird emptiness. You were supposed to protect him. You didn't.

Their words barely registered.

You nodded numbly; your mind still stuck between the events that had unfolded just two days ago.

What kind of sister had you turned into? Barely phased over the fact your little brother was thankfully alive and well? You were supposed to protect him. 

They could tell you were checked out, they exchanged this look, like they didn’t know what to do with you, then quietly stepped out onto the porch, leaving you to rot with your thoughts.

You wandered around the house, but every step felt so heavy. Every room was just a reminder of what used to be. The couch where you'd would argue over stupid TV shows while Luke was off doing who-knows-what, the kitchen table where it was just the two of you, eating and sharing stories like nothing was wrong... It all felt so distant, like snapshots from another life you couldn’t touch anymore.

You knew, deep down, things would never go back to how they were.

You ended up in my room, collapsing onto your bed, the sheets still smelling like home. But even that didn’t help the ache in your chest.

It didn’t feel right. Nothing ever did unless your brother was there.

But now, not even the thought of him being back could bring you peace. All you could think about was Rafe. His smile, his touch, his voice—every part of him was still so clear in your head, and it hurt so bad to remember.

That must be your punishment. 

A soft knock on the door jolted you from your thoughts. You sat up, heart racing. Your body was still on high alert, even the tiniest noise made you jump, like you were waiting for something bad to happen.

The sound of gunshots still echoed in your mind. It hadn’t even been three days.

The old wooden door creaked open, and there was JJ, his bright blue eyes wide and full of worry. He rushed to you so fast, you almost lost your breath when he pulled you into this bear hug.

"Holy shit,” he whispered, his voice shaky, "Holy shit."

Tears just started pouring out of you, and you couldn’t stop. You were full-on sobbing while he held you like you used to hold him when he was little, and it killed you. It was all so wrong. It devastated you. It felt so disappointing. He was never supposed to be the one carrying the family burden, you were.

After what felt like forever, you pulled back and wiped your face, your throat tight. JJ sat next to you, searching your face with those big, worried eyes.

“You’re not hurt?”

You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to get a grip. All you could manage was a small “No. You?”

“No,” JJ nodded, lips pursed into a tight line as if he was figuring out what to say next, “They told me about the shooting.”

Your heart sank further at his words. You had hoped to avoid talking about it, at least for a little while. You didn’t want to talk about that. Not yet. But the way he looked at you, like he used to when you'd protect him from everything, you couldn’t just shrug it off.

“I’m fine, I swear.” You reached out and squeezed his hand. "What about you? How did you get off that island?"

JJ let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“It was a mess. We were stuck there for weeks, trying to find a way out. Pope and Kie kept us sane, but it was rough. We finally managed to signal a passing boat, and they rescued us. But the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about you."

You squeezed his hand even tighter, his words hitting you like a truck, and the guilt just kept building. You squeezed his hand tighter, trying to keep it together. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm so sorry, JJ."

He shook his head vehemently. "No, don't apologize. None of this is your fault. I—I should’ve saved you on that ship, okay? It’s on me, not you.”

You felt another wave of tears coming but swallowed them down.

“You did everything you could. We both did. None of this is your fault."

“The one time we changed places, and I couldn’t do it.”

"Jay—"

"I should have been there for you," he cut in, his voice cracking. "I hated not being there. "I hated it."

God, if only he knew. 

If he found out what really happened with Rafe, he’d hate you. It wasn’t his fault—it was yours. You pulled him into another hug, trying to say everything you couldn’t with just your touch. The weight of everything—your guilt, your pain—was too much, but at least you had each other. You could feel his body shaking, and you didn’t even know if it was from exhaustion or emotion.

When you finally let go, you took a deep breath, hoping to find some semblance of strength.

"We’re gonna be okay.”

JJ nodded, though you could see the doubt in his eyes. "I know. It's just... hard."

"I get it. But we're both here, we're alive.”

He gave you this sad little smile, "Yeah, I guess you're right."

You sat there in silence for a bit, and it felt fragile, but at least it was peaceful. Outside, you could hear the waves crashing, like life was still going on, even though yours felt like it was stuck.

"Do you think things will ever go back to normal?" JJ's voice was quiet, almost hesitant, like he didn't want an answer.

Normal? The nightmares of him finding out about Rafe haunted you every night, mocking at your mind. But You couldn’t tell him that. It made you want to scratch your skin raw. 

“Yeah.”

"Yeah," I lied.

You could see how tired he was, like he was just as drained as you felt. You both needed sleep, but honestly, the idea of closing your eyes terrified you. The nightmares were always there, waiting.

"Let's try to get some sleep," You suggested softly, though you weren't sure you could follow your own advice. "We both need it, ‘kay?”

“Let’s try to get some rest,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I could actually follow through. "We both need it."

JJ nodded, even though you could tell he wasn’t convinced. He lay down next to you on the tiny bed, and you barely fit, but it was comforting. Just having him close made you feel a little less broken.

The minutes passed in silence, the only sound being the waves outside. You focused on them, using them to ground myself. Slowly, you felt the tension start to slip away, just a little.

"Do you remember the first time we went out on the boat alone?"JJ’s voice was barely a whisper in the dark, like he was holding onto a memory that felt safe.

A small smile crept onto my lips. "Yeah. You swore you knew how to steer, and we almost crashed into that sandbank."

He chuckled softly. "We were so scared. But you figured it out. You always do."

The memory was bittersweet, a reminder of when things were simpler, back when your biggest problem was not sinking a boat and you weren't a complete fuck up.

Now, you felt like you were drowning every day.

Your eyes started to get heavy, and JJ’s breathing next to you slowed, evening out. You wanted to tell him everything, but you couldn’t. If you did, you'd lose him for good.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was deep and dreamless. Empty, like how you'd been feeling for way too long.

Morning came too fast, sunlight slipping through the curtains and filling the room with a warm glow. You blinked awake, feeling disoriented for a second before everything from the past few days came rushing back. JJ was still asleep next to you, his face finally relaxed, looking so much younger and peaceful.

You carefully slid out of bed, not wanting to wake him. The officer who comforted you after the shooting promised he’d call as soon as there was an update on Rafe. So far? Nothing.

You couldn’t help but wonder if the hospital had already contacted Sarah. She was basically the only family Rafe had left, other than Wheezie, who was just a kid, and Ward… well, a literal wanted criminal now. It made sense for them to reach out to her first.

If you called the hospital yourself, they wouldn’t tell you anything—You weren't family. And asking Sarah? She’d immediately know something was off. There was no way you could risk that.

The kitchen was weirdly quiet, the early light stretching shadows across the walls. You made a cup of coffee, letting the warmth calm the cold ache inside you, but even that didn’t really help. Sitting at the table, you tried to think of some kind of plan. You needed to know if he was okay, but every option felt like a trap.

Suddenly, your new phone buzzed on the table, shaking you out of your thoughts. You grabbed it, heart pounding, seeing an unknown number flash on the screen. Your stomach twisted, but you answered.

“Hello?”

“This is Officer Thompson. I promised I’d keep you updated on Rafe Cameron’s condition.”

You closed your eyes, thanking God for finally giving you some piece of mind, “Yes, thank you.”

“He’s stable,” Officer Thompson continued. “The surgery went well, and he’s in recovery. It’ll be a while before he’s fully back on his feet, but he’s out of immediate danger.”

The knot in your stomach loosened just a little. “Thank you for letting me know.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“I know this is difficult, but you should focus on your own recovery too. There’s a chance the feds will contact you, they’re building their case on Ward. What happened to you is, unfortunately, considered a minor crime compared to everything he’s done, so maybe you’ll get some peace. If not, you might have to testify against him.”

Testify. The thought of standing in a courtroom, reliving everything in front of strangers, made your skin crawl.

“And Rafe? What are his charges?”

"He’s facing several charges, but the severity of his sentence could depend on his cooperation. If he agrees to testify against his father, the authorities might offer him a deal."

A deal. The idea of him getting out that easily should’ve made you angry, but instead, you felt this weird sense of relief. You hated myself for it. You wanted him to pay for everything, for all of it. But now? You were clinging to any slim chance of freedom, even if it wasn’t fair.

You thanked Officer Thompson again and ended the call, setting your phone down with a shaky hand. The coffee had grown cold, but you didn't have the energy to make another cup. You sat there for a long moment, staring into nothing.

The sound of footsteps snapped you out of your thoughts, and you turned to see JJ in the doorway, his hair sticking up in all directions, still half-asleep.

“Who was that?” he asked, his voice groggy.

“Uh—Officer Thompson. He was at the scene the other day and told me he’d keep me updated.”

JJ tilted his head, his messy bed hair making him look like a confused puppy. “Updated on what?”

“Rafe’s condition,” You replied, the words feeling heavy on your tongue. It was a half-lie, but at least you were giving him something. 

He stopped mid-step, “And you care because…?”

“For closure, I guess," You mumbled, trying to brush it off like it was no big deal.

His gaze softened a little, but not by much. He pulled out a chair and sat across from you. “You’re too good, y’know that? Personally, I don’t give a fuck if he dies.”

You winced inwardly. "JJ, you can't just say stuff like that."

He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Why not? After everything he’s done, he deserves whatever he gets."

You couldn’t really argue with that, but something inside you felt the need to defend Rafe, even if you hated that feeling. He had saved your life, and that wasn’t something you could just forget.

“He’s still a human being, okay?”

JJ scoffed, shaking his head like you’d said the dumbest thing ever. "Barely."

You didn’t know why you suddenly felt so angry, so defensive. But it made its way up your body until your lips were moving again, practically spitting the words out.

“He saved my life.”

Your brother stared at you like you were speaking another language, “Saved your life? Are you serious? It’s his fault you were there in the first place!”

“He chose to help me. And I can't just forget that."

JJ ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “This is insane. One good deed doesn’t make up for all the shit he’s done.”

“I know that,” I said, reaching out for him, but he pulled back before I could touch him, your fingers only brushing against his shirt.

“Do you?” His voice was cold, and the way he looked at you—like he didn’t recognize you—cut deep. It was the look you dreaded seeing in your nightmares, and now, it was real, it ten times worse. 

"I’m not saying he’s a good person. I’m just saying… it’s complicated."

He started pacing around the kitchen. "Complicated? Complicated is being stuck on an island, wondering if your sister is even alive. Complicated is dealing with the fact that the guy who screwed us over gets to play hero for one day, and now you’re defending him."

"I'm not defending him," You said, voice rising. "I just… I saw a different side of him. Maybe he can change. Or at least help put Ward away."

You never raised your voice at him.

JJ stopped and spun around to face you, his eyes blazing. "And what if he doesn't? What if this is all part of some twisted game for him? People like Rafe don't just change, okay? They manipulate, they hurt, they destroy."

“JJ—"

“You sound just like her.”

You didn’t have to ask to know what he meant. Suddenly your entire soul felt like it was being drained out and slashed into pieces. A carbon copy of your mother, your punishment. All you life, you’d been told you were like her—just as blind, just as soft.

“Don’t say that.”

“That’s exactly the type of bullshit she would spit out about dad, wasn’t it? And look where it got her.”

"That’s the kind of crap Mom used to say about Dad, remember? And look where it got her."

Memories of mom came rushing back—the excuses she made, the false hope she clung to, and the endless disappointment. You weren't like her, were you? You weren't defending a man who was never going to change. You couldn’t be. You’d spent your entire life trying not to be like her.

It wasn’t fair. You were just trying to find a shred of humanity in someone who had shown you mercy. How could he think you were blind to Rafe’s faults? You knew them all too well. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and fiercely defensive.

“I’m not her,” You finally managed to say, your voice cracking, “I’m not defending him like she did.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to make you feel better?”

Your eyes narrow into slits, “I’m not doing this with you, not right now.” 

You turned away, your fists clenched at your sides as you fought to keep it together.

He followed you hot on your heels, "Don't walk away from me.”

"I'm not defending him," You insisted, your back still to him, “I’m just trying to understand, okay?”

“Understand what? Jesus, Rafe is who he is.”

"And maybe he can change," You fired back, the words spilling out despite the tightening knot in your chest. "Maybe he saved my life because he wants to change."

"He's manipulating you," JJ retorted, his jaw clenched. "Just like he always does. You went through some traumatic shit together, but that doesn't mean you owe him anything."

You stopped dead in your tracks, turning to face him again. Your head was tingling, the headache already forming itself, and you felt hot all-over. The word "traumatic" set you off.

“Some traumatic shit?” You repeated, “Are you fucking serious?”

JJ raised both his hands, tangling them in his hair in frustration, “You almost died, and now you’re standing here, defending the guy who put you in that position in the first place!"

The accusation hurt. You hated fighting with your brother and he wasn’t wrong. You hated that Rafe was coming between you both, but you couldn’t shake what you felt.

He shook his head, disappointment oozing from him, "Good luck with that. Just don't expect me to sit here and act like everything's okay."

You blinked away the dryness in your eyes, "I'm not asking you to. Can't you see that maybe things aren't as black and white as they seem?"

“All I know is what he's done to us, to you."

“And what about what he did for me?” The words tasted bitter as they left your mouth.

“And what did he do exactly?" Your lips parted to speak, but words continued to spill from his mouth, “What did you do?”

You gave no reply, unblinking, short breaths escaping you. You couldn’t let it out. Not yet. Not to him.

Not to JJ, not yet.

"I don't expect you to understand," Your voice was strained,"But I’m not turning my back on him.”

JJ's eyes narrowed; frustration etched on his face. "Why?”

“Because I want to!” The scream ripped from your throat before you could stop it, tears spilling over. "I’m still my own person, and I can make my own decisions."

He opened his mouth to fight back, but the words seemed to evaporate from his tongue. The kitchen was filled with nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing and your instant regret.

“Fine,” he muttered, turning away. “Do what you want.”

You watched him walk out of the kitchen, his back stiff with anger and disappointment. It was the first time you'd ever yelled at him, and you hated every second of it.

Alone again in the kitchen, you sank back into your chair, your energy completely drained. Part of you wanted to run after him, to explain yourself, to make him understand.

But he wouldn’t. How could he?

None of them would.

Because unlike you, they weren’t stupid enough to sympathize with Rafe Cameron.

Sitting there, you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd crossed a line. You stared at your hands, still trembling from the argument, and let out a long, shaky breath. What was it about Rafe that had such a grip on you?

You heard the front door creak open and shut—JJ leaving. Maybe that was for the best. You both needed time to cool off. You got up, poured the coffee down the sink, watching it swirl away. Weirdly, the sound was kind of comforting, like you were washing away the mess clinging to you.

You spent the entire day locked away in your room, ignoring the sun, ignoring everyone. Your phone buzzed again, and for a second, you thought about letting it go, but you couldn’t. You picked it up, expecting another call from Officer Thompson, but the name on the screen made your heart skip a beat.

Sarah.

With a deep breath, you answered. “Hey sweets.”

“Hi,” Sarah’s voice was almost unsure. “JJ and the police called earlier, told us what happened. Are you okay? I’m on the mainland with John B, we’re taking the next ferry back home.” 

You closed your eyes, somewhat relieved that you wouldn’t have to face them yet.

“Yeah, I’m…Managing. I'm okay.”

“Good, that’s good,” There was a pause, and then she asked, “Have you heard anything about...Rafe?”

Had the hospital not called her? How much should you tell her.

“He’s stable. The surgery went well.”

Sarah sighed, “Good. That’s good to hear I guess.”

You bit your lip, unsure if you should ask, but you did anyway. “Sarah, did the hospital call you?”

There was a long silence on the other end before she replied, “Yeah. But I…I don’t know. I just couldn’t bring myself to answer. I knew it was coming after the police called. But—Yeah, it’s just, it’s really hard.”

You didn’t know what to say, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re the only one not giving me shit about still… caring, I guess. He’s my brother, you know? And I want to hate him. I should hate him. But I can’t.”

"I get it, Sarah. He’s your brother. It’s okay to feel conflicted."

"Yeah," She exhaled heavily, "But I don't know how to deal with it. He's done so much harm, and yet. I keep hoping there's still some good left in him. I know there's no hope for my dad, but Rafe..."

She trailed off, and you knew exactly where she was coming from. She’d seen Rafe before Ward broke him down. And you knew she still carried that guilt—the guilt of being the favorite, never standing up for him, even when she saw Ward lose control.

“I get it,” You whispered. You were both tangled up in love and hate when it came to him, the messiness of family making it impossible to separate the two.

 “He was good to me.”

There was a long pause. You expected her to hang up on you, to freak out and call you a list of degrading names, all of which you felt you deserved. She had enough at the hands of her brother— the same brother you had come to care for, despite knowing the full extent of what he’d done. 

But you underestimated her. You'd momentarily forgotten just how compassionate and noble she was. She possessed a goodness smiliar to your own—loyal, forgiving, and endlessly understanding.

Both lovers and fighters.

 "I know, the feds told me about the shooting," Sarah finally said, "And I think that's what makes it so hard. Picturing him as the same monster from before was a lot easier.”

You nodded even though she couldn't see you, feeling a deep ache in your chest. "Yeah."

"I don't know what to do," She confessed, her vulnerability cutting through the distance between you. "Part of me wants to see him, to talk to him. And part of me wants to never look at him again."

"I think... whatever you decide, it's okay," You offered tentatively, not entirely sure if your words were comforting or just empty platitudes.

“John B disagrees.”

“Yeah, so does JJ.”

"I appreciate you telling me about Rafe," Sarah continued, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. "I... I don't think I could have handled hearing it from anyone else."

Guilt prickled at you. “I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. I wish things were different.”

"We all do," she replied softly. "Thank you.”

“Of course," You said, "Take care of yourself.”

"You too. We'll see you soon, okay?"

"Yeah. See you soon."

You hung up and stared at your phone, the screen going dark. It matched how you felt—empty, lifeless.

You spent the next few days in a haze, avoiding JJ and the rest of your friends as much as possible. You’d only seen Sarah. Somehow her presence didn’t make you feel as nervous as you thought. It weirdly calmed you down. You’d always been close, ever since she joined the group, but now you felt like she was the only one who understood your point of view. 

You knew Pope and Kie wouldn’t, and you couldn’t blame them.

Sarah never pushed you to talk, never demanded explanations. Instead, she just sat with you, shared a laugh or two, and let the silence speak for itself.

Your small house felt like a prison. It wasn’t until a week later, as you sat on the beach watching the waves crash against the shore, that your phone buzzed with a message. It was the officer: "Rafe’s awake."

Your heart jumped straight into your throat. You still hadn’t told anyone the full story about what happened between you and Rafe, and honestly, you didn’t even know if you ever could. They knew the basics—he was in the hospital, you both got caught in a shooting, and somehow, he’d saved your life. That’s all anyone knew.

But now, with him awake... you were completely lost.

With shaky hands, you fumbled for the phone, dialing the number the officer had given you. It rang a few times, "Hello, this is St. Michael Hospital. How can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm calling to check on a patient, Rafe Cameron. I was told he’s awake."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, just the faint sound of keys clicking away. "Yes, Mr. Cameron is awake. Are you a family member?" the nurse asked.

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. "No. Uh, a friend, I guess—" You almost started rambling, but instead, you settled for, “Can you tell him Maybank’s calling?”

"Okay, just a minute, please."

You stared at the sand, biting your lip, trying to figure out what you’d even say to him. When the nurse finally came back on, her voice was softer, almost pitiful, and you immediately knew you weren't going to like her answer.

"I’m sorry. Mr. Cameron has requested not to speak with you," she said. "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

Your whole body went numb. You wanted to throw the phone, scream into the void, drown yourself in the ocean and not come up until you didn’t feel anything anymore.

 What the hell? 

You’d spent weeks thinking about him, on edge, worrying if he was gonna make it, praying for him even though you weren’t even sure you believed in any of that. And now...he didn’t want to speak to you? Unbelievabl, like all of it—every single moment you spent worrying, crying, hoping—it was for nothing. You didn't have it in you to put up a fight.

"No, that's all. Thanks," you mumbled before hanging up.

You stared at your phone, trying to process it. Rafe didn’t want to talk to you. It was like someone ripped the ground from under you. Everything you thought you had shared, everything he did for you, saving your life... Had any of it mattered to him?

Had you just imagined it?

You tried to think back—Rafe had kissed you, touched you like you were precious, like he didn’t want to break you. And that moment when he’d saved you—had that meant nothing to him? Maybe you were just fooling yourself. Maybe, to him, you were just a temporary distraction, someone who didn’t mean anything outside of that life-or-death situation. Just a pogue.

You were just sitting there, staring out at the water, trying not to fall apart. The sun felt too bright, the world too loud, everything too much. The anger, the hurt, the confusion—Before you even realized what you were doing, a scream tore out of you, raw and guttural.

It ripped through the air, echoing across the beach as if it could somehow take away everything inside. Tears came next, hot and salty, and you couldn’t stop them even if you wanted to.

Without warning, a scream ripped from your throat, raw and unfiltered. It echoed across the empty beach, a primal release of everything you had been bottling up. You hadn’t cried properly in weeks. 

You screamed until your throat was raw, until you had nothing left to give. The sun cast long shadows on the sand, the beach deserted except for you. Collapsing back onto the sand, you let the tears flow freely. 

There was no one to judge you, no one to see you fall apart. You’d spent a lifetime pulling yourself together, it was only fair you finally got to breathe properly. When the tears subsided, you wiped your face with the back of your hand and took a shuddering breath. The tightness in your chest began to ease, replaced by a hollow ache.

You were many things, but none of them were weak and yet...It was almost unbearable, the way your mind replayed every interaction, every look, every word, searching for signs you might have missed, clues that would have warned you not to get attached.

Footsteps crunched in the sand, and you tensed, knowing who it was even before you turned to look. JJ. Of course, it was him.  You still weren’t ready to face him after the argument. But he sat down next to you without saying a word, just looking out at the water like you were.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry for what I said about Mom,” he continued, sounding just as broken as you felt, “I shouldn’t have compared you to her. That wasn’t fair.”

You swallowed hard, your throat still aching from the scream. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “I get it.”

“I did, and I didn’t,” he admitted. “I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t trust him, and I hate that you’ve been caught up in all this.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

JJ turned to you, frowning, “What do you mean?”

“I called the hospital. They said he’s awake, but he doesn’t want to speak with me.”

You could barely get the words out without choking up.

Your brother frowned, his protective instincts flaring up. “That fucking piece of shit. After everything—”

You shook your head, cutting him off gently. ““Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s for the best.”

JJ sighed, softening as he looked at you. “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A lump formed in your throat, but you nodded, trying to believe his words. “I just... I thought there was more to it. That maybe he could change.”

“People like Rafe... it’s hard to change.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, tears threatening to spill again.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong for wanting to see the good in him.”

He spoke with such gentleness and wisdom. You forgot he wasn’t a kid anymore. That he’d also done his fair share of growing up way too fast. 

You leaned into his touch, “I know.”

“We’ll get through this,” JJ said firmly. “Together. You and me, like always.”

You nodded, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the beach, you and JJ sat there in silence. The waves continued to crash against the shore, a reminder that life moved forward, even when it felt like everything was falling apart.

Maybe things would never go back to the way they were, but you had your brother, your friends, and a resilience you didn't know it was capable of existing until then.

Six months had gone by since that day, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

Life had somewhat gone back to normal, or at least a version of it. The days were getting hotter, like the summer was showing off, making everything sticky and slow. You’d spent the afternoon alone, sprawled out on the couch with a book you weren’t really reading, barely feeling the breeze from the old fan struggling against the heat.

You were in the middle of rereading the same sentence for the third time when loud banging on the door made you jump. The knock was so aggressive it had to be someone with a serious problem, and the sound jolted you upright.

You groaned, rolling off the couch and heading for the door. "What the—"

Before you could even finish, you yanked the door open, annoyance already building up. And then, just like that, it drained out of you.

“Rafe?”

It was him. Standing there. Looking... well, looking alive, which was more than you expected after months of silence.

You froze, staring at him, and instinct kicked in. You tried to slam the door in his face, but he was quick. His hand caught the edge, holding it open. “Seriously?” you hissed, shoving harder. “Get the hell off my porch.”

"Maybank—"

"If you don't get off my property, I swear to fucking God—"

“Wait—Maybank—just listen.”

“Nope. Get lost. Now.”

“Please.” His voice cracked, and his hand shook where it held the door. “Just give me a minute.”

You glared at him, every instinct telling you to push harder, to shut him out. But something in his eyes—fear, desperation, a flicker of the Rafe you once knew—gave you pause.

The last time you saw him, he was bleeding out and terrifyingly pale. It wasn’t the cocky Rafe you remembered. The last time you saw him, he was bleeding out, barely conscious. And now he was just... here. What the hell was he doing here?

The last update you had on him was from Sarah, months ago. He had left the hospital and kept sporadic contact, reaching out to her only every few weeks. You never asked her about his well-being or what he was doing; despite guessing that he was cooperating with the police.

At least you hoped he was. 

You were determined not to care anymore.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking worn out in a way that made you pause for a second too long. “You look good."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. Was he for real?

You were going to slap the lack of common sense out of him. You weren’t about to let him waltz back in like nothing had happened.

You scoffed, not letting your guard down. “What are you doing here?”

He looked down, trying to find the words as he scratched the back of his head, “I... I needed to see you. To talk.”

“Yeah, no. Get back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

You tried to slam the door again, but he held firm. “Please, just let me explain.”

“You had six months to explain.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I was— It’s messed up, okay?" his words coming out rushed and uneven. ”I’m still working with the feds. I was losing it. Still am, probably. But I need to explain. Please, Maybank, just a minute.”

Maybe it was the part of you that used to care, or maybe you just needed answers after everything that had happened. You stepped back, letting the door open just enough for him to walk in.

“Fine. Talk.”

Rafe stepped inside, looking around your small living room as if seeing it for the first time, which you now realized he'd never been in your house. And now that he was standing here, you regretted letting him in.

He turned to face you, his expression earnest. “I didn’t know what to say. I felt—“, He took a deep breath, cheeks puffing, “Ashamed. I don’t know.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, keeping a safe distance between you.

“Ashamed? You’ve done a lot of things to be ashamed of. You can’t just show up after six months and expect everything to be fine.”

“I know,” He admitted, taking a deliberate small step closer to you, “I wasn’t expecting that. I just... I wanted to tell you that I’m trying. I’m in therapy and rehab, trying to get clean. I’ve been going to meetings. It’s been hell, but I’m trying.”

You looked at him, searching for any sign of deceit. His eyes were clear, more focused than you had ever seen them. He wasn't high.

You eyed him skeptically. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because you’re the only person who ever saw anything good in me. And I can’t forget that. I don’t deserve it, but I need you to know that your faith in me wasn’t for nothing.”

The vulnerability in his voice took you by surprise. You had expected anger, arrogance, manipulation—but this was different. Genuine. It felt like you were back in that motel room, in his arms.

You scoffed, turning away from him. “Is that all? That’s why you showed up here out of nowhere?”

“No, it’s not,” he said, sounding more desperate. “I just—Shit. I need to make things right. With you. I don’t know how, but I need to try.”

You took a deep breath.

You didn’t want to talk to me.”

He winced at that, his guilt obvious. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to handle it. I still don’t. But I’m here now, trying to fix what I broke.”

Part of you wanted to believe him, to give him another chance, but the other part of you—the part that had been hurt and abandoned—was screaming not to fall for it again.

“So you shut me out?” You snapped, “You made me feel like I meant nothing.”

“That’s not true,” He snapped back, head whipping up, then immediately softened his tone, taking another step closer. “That’s not true. You mean more to me than you’ll ever know. I was getting better for you."

“Don’t lie to me.”

Rafe looked offended, eyes zeroing in on your lips before his gaze met yours. That's when you felt it again, “I never lied to you, pretty.”

You recoiled at the nickname, taking a step back, needing space. 

“Cameron.”

Another step closer. His eyes pleading with you to understand. 

You were staring up at him now, the look on your face completely unreadable. You were waiting for an answer, but he had a feeling that no matter what answer he gave, it wouldn't make a difference.

"I never lied to you," He repeated, his voice shaking slightly. "I was scared and confused, but I never lied.”

“Scared and confused? That’s your excuse?”

Rafe flinched at your words, but he didn't back down. “I know how it sounds. I handled it all wrong. I’m trying to fix it.”

“You think saying sorry and showing up out of the blue makes it better?"

His hands reached out, his palms open as if he was dealing with a wounded animal. “I’m not asking for forgiveness right away. I just want a chance to make things right.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You spat, your voice trembling with emotion, “How it felt, watching you almost die. I spent days wondering if you were going to be—” 

You stopped yourself, knowing that if you continued your voice would crack and the tears would start pouring down your cheeks.

You already cried enough for him. 

Rafe’s expression softened, and he reached out tentatively, his hand stopping inches from your arm. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You took a step back, putting more distance between you, needing the space to think clearly. “I needed you to be sorry six months ago.”

It’s only then, when your brain cleared slightly that you noticed he looked different. His hair had been buzzed, his skin looked tanner than the last time you’d seen him, he looked healthier. 

Rafe noticed your eyes wandering to his head and ran a hand through his short hair, a hint of a self-conscious smile flickering across his lips.

“Yeah, I uh, made some changes. Trying to start over, I guess.”

“I’m happy for you, but I can’t do this.”

“Pretty—"

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you cut him off, “I feel guilty enough as it is around everyone else.”

“I told Sarah.”

His words hit you like a punch to your gut. 

“What?”

“About us.”

You felt your stomach drop and your vision narrow, the world tilting sideways. “You what?”

“I told her.” 

“You absolute fucking—” You hissed, your voice rising without warning, “Are you serious?!”

“I thought it was the right thing to do,” His tone faltered to one that could’ve fallen on deaf ears if not attentive enough. “I needed someone to talk to, and she’s…my sister.”

You were fuming, pacing the room. “Do you realize what that could do? My life here—everything—could be ruined because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”

Rafe flinched, taking a step back. “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Of course you didn’t,” You nearly growled, pacing the small living room. “You never think about anyone but yourself, do you?”

“Listen— “ He opened his mouth undoubtedly to fire back with another half-assed apology - but you barreled forward, letting the months of bottled resentment continue to burst open.

“You’re so selfish.”

“She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone,” His throat bobbed in an audible gulp, “It’s okay.”

“You really believe that?” You stopped pacing and turned to face him, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “This is too much for her to keep to herself. It’ll eat away at her until she tells someone. And when that happens, my life here is over.”

Rafe looked stricken, “I just—I needed someone to understand what I’m going through.”

For the first time, he took the time to explain what was going on in his head instead of letting his frustrations take over and kissing you.

“And what about what I’m going through?” You demanded. “Did you ever stop to think about that? I’ve been trying to move on, to rebuild my life, and you just waltz back in and blow everything up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

You spotted his sun-kissed freckles. They wouldn’t be noticeable if you hadn’t looked at him so closely before.

“Sorry doesn’t fix this,” Bitterness began to overpower the pit of your heaving chest, “Sorry doesn’t make it go away. You can’t just undo what you’ve done.”

“I know,” One shaky hand scrubbed over his face, refusing to meet your wide-eyed stare., “But I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. I swear.”

“Make it right? You can’t make this right, Rafe.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m trying, pretty. I really am.”

You felt a smidge of sympathy despite your anger.

You could see the pain and desperation in his eyes, the same pain and desperation you had felt for the past six months. But that didn’t change the fact that he left you hanging for so long.

“I need you to leave."

You expected him to put up a fight, to lash out, hide his emotions with empty threats and petty names. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly as he turned to leave. You watched him go in silence.

Part of you wanted to run after him, to give him another chance, to believe that he could change. But another part—the part that had been hurt and left to heal on its own—knew that it wasn’t that simple.

You had to protect yourself, even if it meant shutting him out for good.

Rafe paused in the doorway, his back to you. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried clearly through the thick air. "I don’t regret it," he repeated, his shoulders tensing as he spoke.

You blinked, taken aback. "What?"

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the raw honesty in his eyes. "I don’t regret what happened. Between us. I regret how I handled it, how I hurt you, but I don’t regret feeling something real for once."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the suffocating heat seemed to dissipate, replaced by a cold clarity. You crossed your arms tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto your anger, your resolve. But his words had hit a nerve, bringing back memories you’d tried so hard to bury.

You looked away, unable to look at him, "It doesn’t change anything."

"I know.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving you standing there, your heart in pieces all over again. You pushed away from the door, needing something to distract yourself. 

You picked up your book, but the words blurred on the page. You tossed it aside, your thoughts too chaotic to focus. Instead, you paced the small living room, replaying the conversation in your mind.

You eventually collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. You did the right thing, so why did it hurt so bad? 

You felt like a wound had been reopened, and you hated him for it.

But you hated yourself more for letting him get to you.

The hours dragged on, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting long shadows through the windows. You tried to lose yourself in anything—TV, reading, cleaning—nothing worked.

You only saw Rafe's face, his desperate eyes, his trembling hands.

You remembered the feel of his skin, the sound of his voice when he was vulnerable. The memories were too real, too persistent. You couldn't bring yourself to explain it to yourself. Your eyes begin to itch, warning you to think of something else.

Anything else but Rafe.

Was this heartbreak? No—it couldn't be. Why did it still hurt?

You weren't in love with Rafe Cameron.

At least, you didn't think you were.

You had never allowed yourself to consider it, to dwell on what you felt for him. But now, in the stillness of your small living room…it was different. You never had a good parental figure to teach you these things. All you knew was destruction, violence, and heartbreak. And although you’d done pretty well for yourself, all things considered, this was new to you.

You had tried so hard to suppress your feelings, to deny your connection with him. But this…wasn’t something that could be easily forgotten or ignored. You had been so afraid to admit it, fearing that acknowledging would destroy you. 

You were in love with Rafe Cameron. 

[misspygmypie]

Meet & Greet... and more? Pt. 9

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader Words: 2937 Click here for Part 8

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

The months passed by with Y/N and Lando’s relationship growing deeper steadily. In the 11 months they had been with each other they both had learned to cope with Lando’s busy lifestyle. The next Grand Prix was just around the corner and Lando had always thrived on the adrenaline of racing but today the excitement was dimmed by a heavy feeling of responsibility. Every detail needed his attention and this meant missing Noah’s fifth birthday party, which was less than a week away.

He glanced at the demanding schedule on his desk and felt a pang of guilt. He opened his laptop and called Y/N, hoping to at least share a moment of happiness remotely via video. When her face appeared on the screen the dining table in the background was cluttered with birthday decorations ready to be hung up, of course racing themed.

“Hey baby,” Lando said, trying to sound upbeat. “How’s everything going for the big day?”

“Hi,” Y/N’s smile was warm. “We’re getting everything ready, he’s really excited and he’s been asking about you a lot.”

Lando tried to mask his sadness with a smile. “I’m sorry I can’t make it, things are just incredibly hectic right now.”

“I know,” Y/N replied, her eyes filled with understanding and concern. “He understands and he’s so proud of you! He even drew a picture of you racing and he’s been showing it off to everyone. He’s really looking forward to when you’re back and we can all spend some time together.”

Just then the boy appeared on the screen, holding up the drawing with a beaming smiley face. “Lando, look! I made this for you, it’s you in the car!”

Lando’s heart melted at the sight. “Wow, Noah, that’s fantastic! I’m going to keep it in my suitcase to remind me of you.”

Noah’s face lit up. “Will you win the race for me?”

“I’ll definitely try my best,” Lando said sincerely. “And when I get back, we’ll have a special day together. How about we finally go to a go-kart track and race like I do? You can show me how fast you are.”

“Really? That sounds amazing!” Noah’s eyes sparkled with excitement and Y/N gave Lando a grateful look. “Thank you for making the effort to connect, even if you can’t be here in person.”

‐—-------

In the days following the video call Lando couldn’t shake the guilt of missing Noah’s birthday. He had promised to make it up to them and he was determined to keep that promise. Between the hectic preparations for the Grand Prix and the relentless schedule it seemed nearly impossible but Lando was set on finding a way.

Late one evening he sat in his living room and stared at his calendar. Meetings, strategy sessions and media obligations filled every available slot. But the more he looked, the more he felt that missing Noah’s birthday wasn't just a minor oversight, it was an opportunity lost to be there for someone who meant so much to him.

The idea was simple: create a small window of time to surprise them before the Grand Prix. It would be tight, but with some help he believed it could be done.

“Hey, Oscar, do you have a moment to chat?” Lando spoke into his phone after his team mate had picked up.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I need a huge favor,” Lando said. “Noah’s turning five this week and I’ve been looking forward to celebrating his birthday with him. But with all the media meetings and events I have lined up I’m struggling to figure out how to be in two places at once.”

Oscar listened carefully. “What can I do to help?”

Lando took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you could cover some of my media meetings and sponsor commitments for a few days. Noah and Y/N are my family now and I can’t bear the thought of missing this day.”

“I get it, Lando. Family is everything, I’d be happy to help out.”

“Thank you, Oscar,” Lando felt a surge of relief, “Noah looks up to me and Y/N has been incredibly supportive during our entire relationship. I want to be there for both of them just this once.”

Oscar chuckled softly, finding Lando’s dedication endearing. “You know, it’s kind of cute to see how much you care about them. It’s clear how much they mean to you.”

Lando smiled, a bit embarrassed, grateful that Oscar wasn’t able to see him. “Well, when you find the right people it changes everything. I’m really lucky to have them in my life.”

“Just send me the details and I’ll make sure everything runs smoothly. You focus on having a great time.”

“Thank you so much,” Lando said gratefully. “It means more to me than you know. I’ll get you all the details in a bit.”

“No problem at all,” Oscar assured him. “We’re all part of a team here and we support each other. If there’s anything else you need just let me know.”

With their conversation wrapped up, Lando quickly called his assistant to inform him of the changes and then compiled the necessary details for Oscar, relieved and grateful for his friend’s support.

_________

The day of the surprise arrived and Lando boarded a private jet early in the morning, arriving in Y/N’s city just in time to make the most of his brief visit. He kept his plan a secret, even from Y/N, to ensure it would be a complete surprise.

When Lando arrived at Y/N’s house, he was greeted by colorful birthday decorations and the buzz of children’s laughter. Y/N opened the door, her eyes widening in disbelief when she saw him.

“Lando! What are you doing here?” Y/N gasped and hugged her boyfriend tightly before kissing him for a few seconds.

“Surprise! I couldn’t miss his birthday, so I rearranged my schedule to be here.”

Y/N’s face lit up with happiness. “He’s going to be thrilled. He’s been so excited for today.”

As Noah ran up to the hallway his face brightened when he saw Lando. “You came!”

Lando crouched down and the two of them hugged tightly for a moment, then Lando handed the birthday boy a large box wrapped in orange, his favorite color. “This is for you, happy birthday, buddy.”

Noah eagerly unwrapped the box to find a high-quality remote-controlled race car. His eyes widened. “This is amazing, it’s just like the car you drive!”

“It is,” Lando said with a grin. “And I thought we could have some fun together testing it out.”

Before they could start playing Noah’s friends, who had been watching from a distance, gathered around, their eyes wide with disbelief as they recognized Lando. The kids stared in awe, their excitement growing as Lando greeted them. “Hi everyone,” Lando said with a friendly wave. “I’m glad to finally meet all of Noah’s friends.”

The children took turns asking Lando questions about racing and they all spent the afternoon racing the remote-controlled car around the yard, with Noah’s friends eagerly joining in to cheer them on. The party was a huge success and after seeing the joy on Noah’s face Lando knew he had made the right decision.

—-----

The next evening Lando was preparing to leave for the Grand Prix when Y/N approached him, Noah standing next to her with a small, carefully wrapped package.

“Before you go, Noah has something he made for you,” Y/N said. “He and his class had a project where they crafted gifts for the special people in their lives. He was really excited about this and he wanted to give this to you next time you were here.”

The boy, standing beside Y/N, handed over the gift. “I picked you because you’re my hero.”

“Aw,” Lando responded, visibly touched by the gesture, “thank you so much, I can’t wait to see what you’ve created.”

Lando unwrapped it eagerly but just as carefully and he discovered a handmade notebook. The cover was decorated with stickers, including race cars, stars and an orange glittery “L.” Inside, the pages were filled with Noah’s heartfelt notes and colorful drawings about their adventures at the tracks so far together.

Lando felt himself tear up as he flipped through the pages. Each drawing depicted a different scene, a race car zooming across a track, Lando in his racing suit and Noah himself with a big smile in the garage. But it was the final page that truly got to him.

The last drawing was a vibrant crayon depiction of a family. It showed Lando, Y/N and Noah together, smiling and holding hands, surrounded by stars and hearts. The drawing was labeled with the words: “Our Happy Family.”

Lando could barely keep himself from crying. He turned to Noah, who was watching him with wide, hopeful eyes. “This is the most beautiful drawing I’ve ever seen. It means so much to me that you see us this way.”

“I wanted you to have something special because you’re always so busy and away from us.”

Y/N, seeing Lando’s emotional reaction, added softly, “Noah was so proud of his project. He wanted you to know how much you mean to him.”

Just in that moment Y/N’s phone rang and she stepped away to answer. Lando took the opportunity to grab Noah’s hand and guide him to sit down next to him on the sofa. “Can I tell you something, Noah?”

The boy looked up, curious. “What is it?”

Lando took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I want you to know how much I love both you and your mom. Being with you two has made me happier than I’ve ever been.”

Noah’s eyes widened with interest. “Really?”

“Really,” Lando said, nodding. “And there’s something I’ve been thinking about. I want to ask your mommy to marry me but I wanted to make sure you’re okay with it first.”

“You mean you want to be our family forever?” Noah’s face lit up with excitement and the young man smiled, feeling relieved. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. I want us to be a family, just like in your drawing. What do you think?”

Noah thought for a moment, then asked shyly, “If you’re going to be our family, you kind of would be my dad then?”

Lando’s heart melted. “That would make me very happy. But let’s keep this a secret for now, okay? We’ll surprise your mommy together when the time is right.”

Noah nodded enthusiastically. “Okay, I won’t tell anyone,” he whispered and the both shared a big smile while Noah snuggled up to the man.

_____

Lando had spent the last few weeks juggling the thrill of Formula 1 races with the excitement of planning a surprise that meant more to him than any victory on the track. He had been dating Y/N for well over a year now, a year that had flown by in a blur of love and laughter. Their relationship had grown and Lando knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

There was just one thing missing: the perfect proposal. So, he decided to involve someone very important in his plan, someone who would have a unique perspective and whose opinion mattered a lot to both Y/N and Lando. That someone was Noah.

During his next weekend off Lando gently woke Y/N one morning and informed her about the day’s agenda.

“Good morning, love,” Lando said softly, smiling and kissing her forehead. “I’ve got a little surprise planned for you today.”

Y/N blinked sleepily. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“I’m taking Noah for a boys’ day out. You’re going to have a day to yourself; shopping, pampering, whatever you want, baby. Just relax and enjoy.”

“And what are you two up to?”

Lando gave a mysterious grin. “You’ll find out soon enough. Have fun today!”

With that he placed a loving kiss on her head and quietly tiptoed over to Noah’s room where the boy was already awake, the space a cheerful mess of toys. 

“Good morning, buddy,” Lando greeted, tousling his hair. “Are you ready for a little secret mission?”

Noah’s eyes widened with curiosity. “A mission? What kind of mission?”

Lando knelt down to Noah’s level, a playful grin on his face. “It’s a very important mission. I need your help to plan something really special for your mommy.”

“What is it?” Noah’s face lit up with excitement. 

“Remember when I told you a while ago that I wanted to ask your mom to marry me?” Lando asked. “I need your help to make sure it’s perfect. Can you help me with it?”

Noah’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Yes, I’ll help! What do we need to do?”

Before they were able to head out they had to get ready. First he had to get the boy dressed. Lando picked out a pair of comfy jeans, then held up a colorful, striped shirt and a grey hoodie. 

“Which one?” Lando asked, holding them up for Noah to see.

“This one,” Noah pointed at the hoodie, “so we look like twins because you’re wearing a similar hoodie.”

“Great choice,” Lando laughed, setting the clothes on the bed. “I have to start selling some LN4 merch for kids…” he mumbled to himself, still giggling while helping the kid put on the hoodie, carefully guiding his head through the hole and then assisting him with the jeans.

Next up were the shoes. Noah struggled a bit with the laces, so Lando patiently demonstrated how to tie them with the boy sitting on his lap and intensively watching the man make two bows and soon Noah was proudly showing off his neatly tied sneakers.

“You’re all set, bud” Lando said, giving Noah a playful fist bump.

Noah looked down at himself, beaming with pride. “Thanks, I look great.”

“You sure do,” Lando chuckled and a few minutes later they were on their way.

Lando could hardly contain his own excitement as they headed out, Noah chattering away about superheroes and cars. They made their way to a luxurious jewelry store that Lando had carefully selected and once inside Lando crouched down to Noah’s level. 

“Okay, buddy, here’s the plan. We’re going to pick out the prettiest ring we can find for your mommy. I want it to be perfect and I need your expert opinion. Do you think you can help me with that?”

The boy nodded proudly. They wandered through the store and he would occasionally stop to inspect a ring with intense focus. Lando enjoyed watching Noah’s careful consideration, amazed at just how seriously the little kid took his task.

After a while, Noah stopped in front of a classic, elegant ring with a solitaire diamond. His eyes grew big and he looked up at Lando with a confident grin. “I think this one is the best! It’s so shiny and pretty!”

Lando studied the ring. It was perfect; timeless and beautiful, just like Y/N. He smiled and nodded, clearly impressed. “I think you’re right. This is the one!”

Noah beamed with pride as the ring was carefully packaged. “I can’t wait to see mommy’s face when she sees it!”

With the ring selected they headed to a nearby fast food restaurant where Lando turned to Noah for ideas for the proposal. Over shared chicken nuggets, fries and milkshakes they came up with a perfect plan and after they had finished their meals and bought the rest of the supplies they would need they quickly made their way home knowing that Y/N was still going to be out for another few hours.

Back at the house they worked together to prepare the living room. They created a colorful path by lining the walls with some pictures Noah quickly drew, depicting past memories the three of them had made together and at the end of the trail is where they were going to wait for her.

When Y/N arrived a few hours later she followed the trail of Noah’s drawings, her heart swelling with emotion as she admired each piece, confused about what was happening but curious to find out what was awaiting at the end of the trail. Eventually she saw Noah with the biggest smile on his face, holding a large sign that read “Will You Marry Lando?”

In the center of the room and next to her son stood Lando, surrounded by Y/N’s favorite flowers and big red shiny heart balloons scattered around him and Noah. He took Y/N’s hand, his voice filled with emotion. “Y/N, we’ve been planning something special for you today.”

Noah, proudly holding the sign and not being able to wait any longer, added, “Mommy, Lando and I picked out a ring for you. We wanted it to be perfect!”

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears as she looked back at Lando who dropped to one knee, holding out the beautiful ring. “Y/N, I love you more than words can express and I want nothing more than to be a family with you and Noah. Will you marry me?”

Overwhelmed with emotion Y/N nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Yes, Lando. Of course I will!”

Noah jumped up and down with joy just as Lando slipped the ring onto Y/N’s finger. They embraced each other tightly, with Noah joining in, sharing kisses knowing that the journey of their little family was just starting.

_____

Click here for Part 10! I can't stop writing this series, send help

Tag: @barcelonaloverf1life @remmysthings @poppyflower-22 @vickykazuya @hadids-world @ririyulife @deafeningunknowntyrant @lexiecampos @littlegrapejuice @eloriis @yawn-zi @landossainz @taliya8346282844eliviahdgdajs @casuallyeating @jaydensluv @destinyg237 @il0vereadingstuff @lnchicagosreads @alana4610 @hc-dutch @cherry-piee @wisestarfishbouquet

[klaus-littlestwolf]

Lost Boys Sick!Mate Headcanon

(For whoever requested a Sick Mate Headcanon for the Lost Boys, I hope you enjoy this)

David

•David wants to change you immediately

•He hates seeing you sick, miserable or in any kind of pain and while most people wouldn’t believe David can be sympathetic, for you he very much is

•He has been trying to get you to turn for a long time and while this is a convenient way of convincing you, he really just wants you to get better

•David hasn’t been sick in…several hundred years. He’s the oldest out of the whole pack and so he remembers sickness the least of all of them, the only thing he can relate it to is not feeding for a long amount of time and he knows how painful that gets to be

•He would lay with you in the bed in the cave, whether you live with them in the cave yet or not, that is where you will be staying and you have no choice, he won’t let you be alone while you’re ill

•He often gives you massages whenever your muscles are achy, he knows how good it makes you feel and it makes him feel like he’s able to do something to help you, even if it’s just to relieve a small bit of your discomfort

•He’ll definitely make Marko go out to get you food, though he doesn’t know what kind of food since you keep insisting that you aren’t hungry

•David wants to care for you, he just has no clue how and if you weren’t sick as a dog, it might even be adorable how frazzled he is

Overall Grade of Care: 4/10

Dwayne

•Dwayne would be a major worrier every single time you get sick

•While he doesn’t remember what it’s like to personally be sick, he does remember his younger sister being sick when he was human and dying of a fever, so every time you’re even remotely warm he attempts to put you in an ice bath

•When you are bed ridden he is sure to make you stay in the cave, he’s always by your side and will often sit and read to you until you drift off to sleep

•He tries to keep you fed as much as you’ll allow with your upset stomach and he gives you plenty of water, to the point you wonder if vampires can survive being waterboarded cause you’re ready to kill him

•Dwayne is very much like David, he doesn’t know how to take care of a human that’s sick and he doesn’t understand that sometimes you just need to let an illness run it’s course

•Eventually he would buy some medicine at the store (Marko’s recommendation) and give it to you. He’s completely stunned by how quickly you finally fall asleep with how badly you’ve been coughing but the medicine works

Overall Grade of Care: 5.5/10

Paul

•Paul is chill when you get sick, he knows most of the time it’s just a little cold

•He gives you a few shots of whiskey and smokes a joint with you until you pass out, most of the time you wake up feeling better

•When you don’t however, he becomes frantic

•He will run around like a human having a manic episode. He makes sure you’re as comfortable as you can be, and if you’re not he goes to the store and buys more pillows and softer blankets. Hell get you new pajamas and more boxes of tissues than you’ll ever use

•He cleans the entire area you’re in as best he can in a cave, trying to get rid of germs that could make you sick all over again. It would be funny if you didn’t want to strangle him for moving so supernaturally fast that he makes you even more dizzy which makes your stuffy head hurt more

•He tries not to bother you too much, getting you to sleep as much as he can because apparently humans only heal when they’re sleeping so you need to sleep until you feel better

•He doesn’t quite understand that there’s a limit to how much NyQuil you can take

•Paul means well and he wants to help, he just goes too far with it most of the time

Overall Grade of Care: 7/10

Marko

•Marko is probably the best of the boys to have taking care of you when you’re ill

•He gets you medicine immediately and actually reads the instructions to give you the correct dosage

•He ensures you are comfortable in the bed, making sure to keep the blankets on when you’re cold and removing them if and when your fever gets too high

•When you’re too warm, which seems to be most of the time, he will strip to his boxers and crawl into bed with you, his cold skin making you feel better almost instantly

•He goes to the store and gets you whatever you want but also picks some things for you to make you feel better. He gets you your favorite tea bags to make you hot tea, the Chamomile helping to calm you and be able to sleep better, he also gets you some cans of coke to sip on when your stomach is upset

•He makes you soup everyday to keep you eating, even if you cant hold too much down, it’s not too heavy on your stomach

•Marko will also rent movies (and by rent I mean take them from Max’s store when he’s not looking) to bring back for you two to watch together to keep you entertained

•Marko was a human not too long ago, Paul being the only one younger than him, and he remembers very well how to take care of sick people, he is very good at making sure you get well as quickly as you can

Overall Grade of Care: 9.5/10

Lost Boys Masterlist

[gurugirl]

Not Fair | bfd!harry

best friend's dad!harry x reader | forbidden relationship au

Summary: Harry's been thinking about something that might make your relationship fair but you don’t like what he suggests and it blows up in his face.

Word Count: 6.5k

A/n: You guys asked for this and so here you are. At the beginning of this check-in you'll be getting a glimpse into Harry's married life and his internal thoughts about Y/n and his wife and then it ends with angst.

Warning: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, angst, cheating, age gap

bfd!harry masterlist

Harry rolled over onto his back, looking up at the dark ceiling in his bedroom. The only light coming in was from the window. His chest rose and fell as he caught his breath.

He felt the bed move as his wife got up to go and clean herself up in their bathroom. He could hear her saying something but he wasn’t listening. His thoughts were on you and what you were doing at that moment at work. His mind wandered to what he’d feel or how he’d react if he knew you had just fucked someone else the way he just did his wife. He wouldn’t like that. And he was sure you wouldn’t like that he’d just nutted in his wife. Even if he told you he was thinking of you as he did it. Imagining that he was stuffed inside of you and you were the one sighing and gasping under him. Because that’s how it was lately. It wasn’t his wife that he was with even if she was the one under him.

The guilt he felt became more self-centered. He was less worried about his wife than he was about how he was going to continue with his little façade. He still loved her. They’d been through a lot together over the years. She gave him a daughter. They’d lost family and friends together. Doctor’s visits with scary diagnoses. Fights. Vacations. Two houses. A car accident. Lots of lows and highs. But all he could think about was you.

It didn’t bother him that he wasn’t thinking of his wife when he was fucking her these days. The lights stayed off like they usually had before you, and he would pretend he was sinking into you and that you were the one pulling at his hair and moaning his name. It was easy. His wife has no idea. The frequency of sex with his wife was about once every other week or so. He could keep up with that. He’d prefer to be with you in your little apartment and finding his orgasm inside of you rather than with his wife but that was not always possible.

“Did you hear me, babe?” She called to him from the bathroom.

Harry jumped from the bed and walked naked into the bathroom with his wife so he could clean up his own mess, “What was that?”

Laughing as she flushed the toilet, “I was just saying you were so turned on tonight. Did you watch porn or something before?”

She was mostly teasing but Harry knew why she noticed the way he was acting a bit different. And it wasn’t porn. It was that he got a notification that an item he bought for you had arrived. And you were working so you wouldn’t know what was waiting in the mail room until you got home after your shift.

A sex toy. Something he could control remotely. Just the thought of you using it on yourself had him hard in his sweatpants as he climbed into bed with his wife and initiated sex.

He knew it was wrong. To sleep with one woman and think of another. But as the months drew on with his little secret it became easier and easier to imagine he was with you.

But sometimes he’d get distracted by his wife. She’d screech or make a noise that you wouldn’t. Her scent was totally different too. Neither scent was better than the other, just different.

You got him so worked up and so edged that he always had to fight from coming too fast. You made him leak with precome before he even took that first thrust into your pussy. With his wife, there was hardly any build-up or foreplay so it was usually just a little oral sex and a quickie fuck. Which had all been good until you came around.

Now he was obsessed with his dynamic with you. It was better than any he’d had with any woman. And it wasn’t that you were better in bed or anything. It was that the connection you had was better. You were far more stimulating, teasing, fun.

“Nah… you just looked cute tonight,” he grinned as he washed his hands. That wasn’t a lie. His wife was cute. She was a very attractive woman. In fact, he surprised himself by pursuing anything with you at all because his wife was sort of the whole package. Great body, smart, kind, patient, and a good mother. They’d definitely lost their spark sexually, though he seemed to be the only one to notice it. That was really the only issue. They still had sex but it wasn’t fun anymore. It was simply a means to an end.

And the first day that he went to your apartment he knew in the back of his mind what he was doing was wrong. He wasn’t sure he’d have gotten you into bed but he definitely had imagined it. And when the opportunity suddenly opened up he took it. He couldn’t stop himself. Typical man really, he felt. He always championed himself as a great guy with integrity and a good moral compass. But that all flew out the window the moment he was with you on your couch in your living room and he dared to begin asking personal questions. The way you were squirming and your skin got hot and your words were breathy… he knew all he had to do was to lead you to your room and you’d be putty in his hands. He was right.

At first, he had regrets. He wasn’t going to stop but he did have some guilt. But after the second time you were together he knew he was fucked when he realized you still wanted more. You loved sex with him. You wound up begging or giving in to him after he was already so hard it ached. The way you teased and flirted with him before he finally laid you out and licked your pussy was quite intoxicating. And you were eager to suck him off too. God, it fed his ego to have you drooling over his cock like you did. It’d been years since he’d had that.

But lying in bed trying to get to sleep once his wife was tucked in and softly snoring to his left he did feel a pinch of something that gave him anxiety. It was the fact that you weren’t seeing anyone but him (which he preferred). It meant you got the short end of the stick in the relationship. You were seeing a married man. What did that mean for your future? Was Harry fucking everything up for you? Was he taking you away from having a normal dating life and maybe finding true love with a man you could actually be with openly?

Well, he thought that yes, he was definitely getting in your way. He was too old for you on top of it all. And there would be a divide between you and Fae if she were to ever learn of the affair. Potentially? Harry could ruin some really great things in your life.

He hated that feeling he got when he thought about it rationally. Thought about the damage he was doing to himself, to you, to his wife, to Fae. Thought about what kind of man this made him. And he often imagined the fallout. You’d probably get most of the blame. He’d try and defend you and his wife would leave him and his daughter would hate him for a while but would eventually forgive him.

But Fae would never forgive you. And anyone involved would think you were the seducer. That you must have come on to a happily married man, chipped away at his composure until he reluctantly gave in. They’d call you a home wrecker. Slut maybe. The Eve complex and all.

Sure Harry would come out of it looking like a big prick but he’d fair better. He’d eventually start to get big forgiving pats on the back from male members of his family and co-workers. Telling him they understand how it could happen (of course they could). And his wife would also be partially to blame because she’d been neglecting his physical needs– or that would be the gossip. No one would say it to her face. Maybe not even to Harry. But that would be the assumption. That she should have tried harder to keep her man happy. That it was no wonder Harry had strayed.

But none of that was the reality. And he didn’t know if anyone would believe them when he told them that he was the seducer. That he had come on to you. That he went to your apartment and flirted with you and led you to your bedroom and saw your cute SpongeBob panties and fucked you in your own bed over the period of five hours.

Harry saw his ceiling light up when he got a notification on his phone. Rolling over he quickly grabbed and unplugged it before tiptoeing out of the room, leaving his sleeping wife in the bed by herself.

I just got home. What is this?

Harry grinned as he descended the steps and read your message, quietly making his way to his study and closing the doors behind him.

Hi. It’s a toy for you. I’m gonna video call you.

Harry settled on his leather couch and clicked the video call button, letting it ring until you answered.

“Hi, Harry,” you adjusted the camera so your pretty face was in view as you sat on your own living room couch.

“Hi, pup. How was work?”

Harry heard you sigh and watched your eyes round out as you started talking about your late shift, describing one table that was particularly grating.

“But… what’s this? It says luxury app-controlled, sound-activated egg vibrator for ecstasy-inducing sharable play,” you laughed as you read the side of the box.

“Well, it’s just what it says. We’ll look at it tomorrow and connect to the app so I can have access to it whenever we want to use it. S’just like something for when I’m not there.”

“Tomorrow?” You looked from the box to the phone screen in question.

“Yeah. In the morning. Is that okay? I know you work tomorrow night and I figured I could come over for a few hours before you have to get to the restaurant.”

You nodded with your large grin and bright eyes, “Yes! Of course it is!”

.           .           .

It turned out that all Harry needed to get to sleep was to hear your voice on the phone. When he woke up the following morning his wife was just coming out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth, fresh-faced and soft and cozy looking.

That stab of anxiety he’d been stuck on the night before came rushing back, icing his veins and dampening the excitement he normally would have felt knowing he was going to see his lover.

It felt like a warning. He needed to talk to you.

When he left his house he’d told his wife he was going into the office. Which he would, after he left your apartment. The nice thing about his job title was that he could come and go from the office as he pleased. He could tell everyone he’d been in a lunch meeting or a golf outing with a potential buyer. He could tell his wife he was going to work.

Knocking at your front door he felt a bit of dread. He wanted to see you and kiss you but he needed to sort out what had been weighing on him before you parted ways for the day.

You opened your door in just a pair of panties and pulled him inside quickly so no one saw your state of undress.

You nearly climbed up his frame, jumping into his arms as he placed his hands under your thighs to hold you up, you wrapped your legs around his waist and kissed him as your soft tits pressed into his button-up shirt.

He brought you to your bedroom, keeping an eye open so he didn’t trip on the way. You were insatiable.

When he dropped you onto your bed he climbed over your body and smoothed his hands up your torso letting his palms squish your breasts, “What’s going on, puppy? Couldn’t wait to get me in your bed?”

You laughed against his lips and nodded, “You’re the one who brought me in here. I was just saying hello.”

Harry shook his head and sat back between your legs, “You greeted me wearing only panties and then jumped on me like you were some kind of wild barbarian. I think you wanted me in your bed.” He pinched your nipples between his fingers and you gasped.

“Just…” you decided to give in far too fast. You did miss him. You woke up from a dream about him and it left you needy and hot and horny. And normally you’d have taken care of it but you knew Harry was coming so you waited. And now you were on edge. “Just fuck me.”

Harry raised a brow and grinned, “Just fuck you? What a potty mouth. Where are your manners, dear?”

You groaned and pulled at his collar to bring him down over you, “Please. God… please sir. I need you.”

Harry smiled against your lips as he quickly began to undo his pants, “There we go. There’s my sweet girl. Needs me so badly today. Fuck, honey…” he moaned when he felt how slick you were already, a finger along the side of your panties.

Pressing your thighs into your chest he hooked his fingers into the crotch of your panties, pulling it to the side, and attached his lips to your pussy, making you whine loudly. He sucked and licked and moaned into you until you couldn’t take it anymore.

You wanted something else, “Give me your cock. Please, sir. Want your come so bad.”

Harry kissed your labia and closed his eyes. You loved his come. Ever since that night, you begged him to breed you it had been more of a thing. In fact, you rarely let him come anywhere other than inside of your cunt. Even if you were gagging on his cock and he was beginning to release you’d drag him down and beg him to give it to you in your pussy where it belonged (your words). And he didn’t like denying you.

Though the last morning he saw you he came on your tits and you pouted about the waste.

“Want me to fill your little pussy full so you can go wait tables with my come packed inside of you?”

Nodding your head you moaned and yanked at his collar again. Harry laughed, “Careful. Gonna tear it, baby.”

“Please take it off, Harry.” You fidgeted under him and began to pluck at his buttons.

Harry grinned at you and sat up again so he could unbutton his shirt. But first, he swatted at your bare thigh before moving your fingers away from his shirt, “You don’t think I’m gonna take care of you? What’s got you so riled up, pup?”

You didn’t know how much more you could take. You weren’t in the mood for any teasing and you were running short on time before he needed to leave. You needed to feel that connection with him. To feel him inside of you.

“Dreamed of you and woke up needing you so bad. Please…” You reached for him again as Harry was undoing his buttons. He leaned back away from your grasp and stood up to disrobe himself before pulling your panties down your legs.

“A dream?” He asked as he shoved you into the bed so your head landed on your pillows and he settled in between your legs, pushing at your soft thighs, “Tell me about it. What happened in your dream?”

You groaned and pouted, “Please… please fuck me, Harry!”

Harry held your wrists down as you attempted to grab at him again, “Ah, ah, ah… tell me what your dream was and then I’ll fuck you.”

You huffed and let out a grunt of disappointment before looking at him directly to tell him quickly what he wanted to know. You just needed him to hurry up and put himself inside of you, “You were fucking me. Really hard and I woke up before I could come.”

“Mmm… yeah? And what position were in you? How was I fucking you, puppy?”

“At first you were soft and on top of me but then you flipped me to my tummy and spanked me and entered me while my tummy was flat on the bed and you held me down and just… it was really hard and fast and my face was stuffed into the blankets and then I woke up.”

“That sounds yummy. Should we reenact that?” Harry slid his cockhead through your labia, the wetness coating him.

You nodded, “Anything. Just… please.”

Thrusting in shallowly, you moaned and bucked your hips upward to push him in deeper. You were getting impatient. Needed to be filled to the brim right then.

“Woah, there. Slow down, pup. I know you want me to just fuck you til your dumb with no thoughts in that little head of yours but I want to savor this. Love feeling the way you open for me,” Harry spoke softly but with a bit of a condescending bite, his fingers grasping onto your thighs, “Feel me, honey. Just feel the way my cock pushes into you,” he began to push in deeper, “Feel how hard you make me and how your muscles expand around me. How good it is, baby.”

You put an arm over your eyes and did just that. Let him slowly push his way into you, his thick crown intruding and pushing your insides apart. Stretching. He always did it the way he wanted. Which meant teasing and edging and going in slow at first.

But what you wanted wasn’t exactly something slow and teasing. You let out a sob and jutted your bottom lip out, arm still over your eyes.

You heard Harry chuckle as he grasped your wrist and moved your arm away from your face, “Let me see your face, puppy. Those pretty eyes of yours keep me going when I’m not with you. Need to see them so I can think of you later just like this.”

You loved it. Loved the way he talked to you and how he made you feel. When he was with you, you felt like you were his number one. Of course, when he wasn’t with you, you had your doubts. But in that moment you believed him and looked into his eyes so he could have what he wanted.

“Good girl. Fuck… That feels fucking incredible, doesn’t it? Made for me.” Harry rocked into you with one final plunge, dipping his tip into your cervix and making you squeal like he loved.

“See? Gonna give you what you want. Always do.”

You cooed in relief once he began to drive into you in long, wet strokes. His pubic hair was gradually getting wetter as he bottomed out over and over again.

He started off slow. Just like your dream. The way he rolled his hips into you and dipped into you so deep it ached and made you suck in sharp breaths at each poke.

“Feel good, puppy? This what you needed?”

You softly moaned and nodded, “More too. Want more. Please…”

Harry’s cock was certainly feeling that delicious squeeze you gave him. Goosebumps covered his thighs as he thrusted deep and he keened at the slick warmth of your cunt.

“Please!” You yelped when he suddenly rutted into you in one swift drive, knocking into you with a harsh thud.

He smiled as he pulled himself out and gripped onto your hips, flipping you onto your tummy and giving you a handful of healthy swats to your butt cheeks, leaving bruising marks behind before he tilted your hips so he could press himself right back into you. But this time he didn’t go slow. He was going to fuck you the way you dreamt.

He began fucking into you fast and deep and hard. His hips slapped into your bottom and you yelped and whimpered loudly into the blankets. He held your cheeks apart to watch himself driving into you before leaning over your back and holding you down by the back of your neck.

Your bed squeaked and creaked loudly as he plunged into you in punishing strokes. His own gasps and moans getting increasingly louder.

You loved hearing him moan. Harry wasn’t quiet when he fucked you. He often spoke dirty to you but he also gasped and panted and whimpered right along with you. You absolutely loved it.

“Fuck! Fuck!” He groaned loudly as he worked himself into you as quickly as his strong muscles allowed. And Harry was strong. There was never a single question about that. From the first time you slept with him, you realized just how fit and incredibly solid, and powerful he was.

You were rendered completely silent with your mouth wide open and your blankets stuffed into your mouth, your face smushed into the bed as he railed you hard. Your body smacked up and up and up each time his hips struck against your ass. Loud smacks and wet thuds sounded in the room as he split you in two with his big cock.

It was methodical the way he fucked into you. His thighs bulged and began to burn at the way he was working them. But it wasn’t his muscles that couldn’t keep going. His body was strong and he had great stamina. He could continue sinking into you over and over again in this way for hours. No. What was making it hard to continue was that his balls were tightening and he began to feel the climb of his orgasm so he stopped as he caught his breath, his hand still wrapped around the back of your neck as his chest rose and fell.

You felt him stuff your blankets into a ball underneath you, “Rub your clit on this so you can come for me. Then I’m gonna fill you up like you need.”

You felt the stimulation immediately against your wet clit as he started to drive into you again. This time his words were closer as he spoke into your ear and his lips grazed over your neck, “Come f’me puppy. Want you to feel so good when I pour myself into you.”

You whined and gasped as he slicked into you deep. This time his strokes weren’t as fast but they were achingly deep and every time he bottomed out, your hips drove down into the balled-up fabric of the blankets under you, pressing and rubbing your clit into the material.

Divine and complete. That’s how it felt. His dirty words in your ears. His cock in your cunt. Your heart pounding in your chest.

You squeaked as you began to see stars and writhe your hips into the blankets for more friction. You tried to speak but your mouth was covered by your blankets as you began to pulse around him, the heat covered your back and your bum as you gushed onto the fabric of your blankets.

Harry coughed a loud groan and slid into you slowly as he felt you coming. He gasped when he finally began to come and leak into you, “Gonna put a baby in there, yeah? Fuck! Pussy needs to be bred…” he groaned his words and then stilled his hips, keeping them flush against your bottom as he drained himself into you, throbbing and pumping and twitching so hard you could feel every delicious spurt.

You sighed as you felt your whole body tingle. Harry was shivering with the way your pussy milked him like no one else could and when he collapsed over your back you felt him stuff his arms under your torso and hold you tight. His breath fell over your neck, hot and sticky.

You loved it. Loved every bit of what he gave you. Loved having him connected to you, keeping himself tucked inside of you until you both calmed and could breathe again.

When you felt his lips warm over your skin and down to your shoulder you turned your head so your mouth was clear of your blankets, “You always fuck me so good.” Was all you could get out of your mouth.

Harry chuckled and you felt him move off of you and then roll you to your side as he plopped down next to you, his hands on your hip, “S’that what you needed?”

You grinned and nodded at him, sliding your palm up his chest and relishing the feel of his warm skin and hair under your palm.

It was always soft and sweet after sex. He took care of you. Cuddled with you. Told you how good you were and how you were his favorite girl and how pretty and sweet and smart you were. You were spoiled with the way he cleaned you up and kissed your hot skin and brushed his fingers over your curves and looked into your eyes with that gentle longing that you knew meant his words were real. And that his feelings went beyond those words.

“I wanted to talk to you about something that’s been on my mind a bit.” He said as he buttoned up his shirt and you slid on a pair of shorts.

“Okay. What about?” You didn’t like his sudden serious tone. The change of subject. It sounded serious.

“Come sit down with me.”

You gulped nervously and felt lightheaded. You couldn’t imagine what he’d want to talk about with you that warranted a sit-down.

You sat next to him on your couch and fiddled with the bottom hem of your shirt as you kept your eyes on his.

He appeared nervous too. Or uncomfortable at the very least. Part of you thought maybe he’d want to connect your little toy to his phone but that hadn’t come up yet.

“I feel like what we’re doing is really great, for me and you. When we’re together it’s amazing. I really like you a lot. And I don’t want you to start resenting me or feeling upset that this isn’t a traditional relationship,” he paused and watched you for a moment before continuing. “And thought it might be good if you wanted to like,” he reached behind himself and scratched the back of his neck before breaking eye contact with you, “date someone else.”

You sat in stunned silence. Date someone else? It felt like a slap in the face after that shag you’d just had.

“What? Harry, are you breaking up with me?” He still wasn’t looking at you in the eyes.

“No. Of course not,” then he turned his gaze back to you finally, “I just think it’s not fair, our situation. I’m married and you’re… well…” he inhaled deeply and licked his lips, “You should see other people. Don’t you think?”

You shook your head and stood up from the couch to pace. You were beginning to feel angry, “So what about us? If I start to see someone else that’s it? No more of this?”

Harry stood up and stepped in front of you and took your hands in his, “I would hope you and I could continue seeing each other like this. But I just want you to feel like your life is going in the right direction. That you can date and be with someone else. I want this to be an equal relationship. Does that make sense?” You shook your head again, “Why would I want to see anyone else, Harry? I don’t want anyone else. Just you.” You tried to fight the tears that were filling your eyes and making your sight blurry but you knew the moment you blinked there would be salty wets streak down your cheeks.

“I know puppy, but I’m married and it’s not fair for you. I think it would be good, you know?”

You scoffed, pulling your hands from his and crossing your arms over your chest, “Don’t call me puppy. That’s not fair.”

He sighed and nodded, “Sorry, Y/n.”

You looked back into his eyes and all you could see was a man you wanted all to yourself. But you knew that wasn’t going to ever happen. But that didn’t mean you wanted to fuck anyone else.

“You’re right. Our relationship has never been even. You have a wife and a happy life. I get your leftovers. But fuck you for thinking that me dating someone else will make you feel better or something. I’m too far gone for that, Harry.”

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like it’s for my benefit. I just want you–“

“Oh I heard you. So you want me to fuck other guys? Go on dates and find happiness with someone that I can actually be with? Meanwhile I’m still fucking you in secret so then not only would you be lying and cheating, I would be too. Then we’d be even right? You wouldn’t have as much guilt.”

Harry shook his head and ran his hands over his face, “No, pup­–“

“Don’t!” You pointed at him as your felt the tears drip off your chin, “Don’t call me puppy. Not now. I know what this is. I’m not dumb you fucker.”

You turned to walk toward your kitchen. You need a glass of water. Something to cool you off and get your head level. This news was not something you ever wanted to hear from him. It just meant what you already knew. That he was never going to be yours to have. That this was always only a secret affair. A dirty thing to hide from everyone.

Harry followed you into your kitchen and sighed as he watched you get a glass down from your cupboard with shaky hands. You were trembling so hard he was worried you were going to drop the glass. He hadn’t meant to upset you. He thought it would a way for you to have a life outside of just him. Not that he wanted that. Fuck no he didn’t want anyone else near you. Wanted you to himself but he figured that wasn’t fair of him. He intended for it to be a kind gesture of selflessness but listening to your response had him rethinking that notion.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was right behind you as he helped you grasp your glass and bring it down to the counter. You felt his hand on the back of your hip and his chest press into your back, “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that at all. It was not my intention to hurt you, Y/n. I just don’t want to be selfish with you. Hate the thought of anyone else touching you but that’s not fair of me.”

His arms wrapped around your front and he squeezed. You closed your eyes and sniffed, keeping your hands down on the countertop. You were still angry at him.

“Do you understand how I feel about you? I don’t think you do?” He spoke quietly into your ear.

You shook your head in response.

Harry moved and turned you around to face him as he tilted your chin up, “Please look at me.”

Reluctantly you opened your teary eyes and did as he said.

“You’re so so special to me. I know what we’re doing is wrong but it’s not just sex with you. Not for me. I’m not just using you because your cute and fun. I like you a lot, Y/n. More than I should. You’re all I think about these days. I just don’t want you to ever regret our time together. Want you to live a normal life outside of this,” he gestured between you two. “I don’t want to lose what we have but I want you to explore something else. Ya know? Because while I’m at home at night with my wife you’re here alone and I don’t want you to feel like you resent me for keeping you all to myself. If you don’t want to see anyone else that’s your choice. I just want you to know I’ll still feel the same way about you if you do. It’s an option.”

His thumb moved along your jaw in the most tender way and you couldn’t stop the tears from pouring. You didn’t want anyone but him. And you didn’t want him to have anyone but you. If you could you’d have the whole world burn to ash except for a small island in the middle of the ocean where you and Harry could live together forever without anyone else. That’s how bad you had it for him. To invite another person into that felt like a rip to your heart. It would shred your soul in half if you kissed anyone else.

“Harry… I don’t know how to tell you how I feel about us without sounding like I’m,” you hiccupped and wiped your face, “obsessed or crazy… but I just can’t. I can’t be with anyone else. That would tear me apart. I can’t do that.”

Harry pulled you into his chest and held you tight, “You don’t have to, Y/n. I just want you to know you can. If you ever met someone. I don’t want you to but I can’t be selfish with you the way I have been.”

You understood it. But you hated it. And you were still angry. Maybe you weren’t angry at him. Maybe you were, you couldn’t tell. But you were upset and you knew that you’d never wind up happy with him like you fantasized about.

You pushed yourself back and looked up at him, “Okay. I get it. Fine.”

Harry looked sad. Defeated at your words as he blinked his own tears away.

“Are we okay, Y/n?”

You shook your head and scoffed a laugh, “I guess we’re never gonna be okay are we, Harry?”

Harry furrowed his brows. He was upset. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you and I… we don’t get to be together. Not really. Because that’s all this is. It’s just a lie. So I should see someone else. Find myself a man I can be with openly. Like you want.”

He gulped hard and opened his mouth but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to say. How to respond. He knew you were hurt. You needed time to calm down and come to terms with it all.

And you wanted him to take it back. Wanted him to change his mind and tell you that he didn’t want you with anyone and he was dumb for suggesting it and that you were only allowed to be his. But he didn’t. Instead, he just looked sad.

“Well, I need to start getting ready for work. I’ve got some things to do. You should go.”

Harry backed away from you as he blinked his eyes. He really really hadn’t meant for it to go this way.

“Should we look at that toy before I go?” He cringed, immediately regretting saying it. Bringing it up. God, he was such a fucking dumbass at times. He was so thrown off by the way you responded and his whole day was going to be spent regretting this entire visit. He should have had the talk before you two had sex. Or maybe he should have never said it to begin with. He thought what he was doing by telling you was a good thing. Maybe it hadn’t been.

You laughed loudly and walked out of your kitchen quickly. Harry followed close behind you as you went into your bedroom and plucked the box up from the floor next to your bed. You shoved it into his chest, “It’s yours. You can take it back or use it on your wife or something. Don’t waste it on your side piece.”

“Hey, Y/n. Come on. Don’t do this…” he followed you into your living room where you picked up his cell phone, wallet, and keys handing them to him, “Do you need a bag? Probably don’t want to walk outside carrying a remote sex toy do you.”

He watched you, stunned as you went into your kitchen and dug out a plastic shopping bag for him, “There. Now you can go.”

“Y/n. Baby…”

“Don’t fucking call me baby or puppy or anything. Leave. Please. I need to be alone.”

You wanted to break down so bad. Needed him gone so you could just unravel and crumble in peace. 

Harry stuck the box into the plastic bag and you watched as tears fell from his lash line down his cheeks. You didn’t want to make him cry. It sucked that you still wanted him happy above all else even in your own misery. But you needed to cry and scream and break something so you needed him gone.

You opened your door and looked down at the knob as you waited for him to leave. He paused next to you and placed a hand on your shoulder, “Y/n, I’m sorry. Please…”

Shaking your head you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You began to sob and suck in sharp breaths, “Just Go, Harry.”

It was the worst moment of your life maybe. Probably. You pushed the man you were smitten with, the one you were sure you’d fallen completely head over heels for, out your door as his own heart broke right in front of you and tears welled in his eyes.

But you couldn’t watch it. Couldn’t bear to see him breaking down or crying. Because you knew he was already hurting. You saw the look on his face. You knew he was suggesting something with only the best intentions for you but it hurt. There was no good thing that could come from you and Harry being together. That was clear.

Months of having fun with him and getting to know him in a way you never thought you would. Learning what real intimacy looks and feels like. Finding yourself drawn to him. You’d formed a bond, the two of you. Trust and respect and comfort. But it was all a lie.

Now you needed to grow up and stop playing around. If you didn’t put an end to it now the hurt you’d feel later down the line would completely destroy you if it hadn’t already.

It wasn’t fair. But perhaps Harry was right.

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[jeonggukieverse]

Number One Fan - Teaser

Pairing: Writer Y/N x Yandere Jungkook 

Genre: Yandere/Horror Fic 

Warnings: This is gonna be a pretty dark one, so I’m going to put content warnings and disclaimers each chapter. There aren’t any in this one :)

Word count: 1.5k

Synopsis - After a serious car crash, novelist Y/N is rescued by former nurse Jeon Jungkook, who claims to be her biggest fan. Jungkook brings her to his remote cabin to recover, where his obsession takes a dark turn when he discovers Y/N is killing off his favourite character from her novels. As Y/N devises plans for escape, Jungkook grows increasingly controlling.

- Ryeon <3

Teaser

Your feet were aching. The torn-up flesh on the souls of your bare feet pound on the mossy patches of the forest floor. The foul mixture of half melted snow and mud seeped into your wounds. It hurts. But you don’t care. 

Your lungs feel as though they would shrivel up at any moment. Each inhale feels like fie and acid pooling in your chest. Your poor heart is doing all that it can to keep going. As are you. 

Your skin was damp with sweat. The once warm perspiration that seeped out of you now clung to your clothes, making you cold. You felt as though you had been running for hours.

But you couldn’t stop. You mustn’t stop running. You had to get away from him. 

You only had one chance to escape and this was it. 

You knew that if he caught you, that would be the end of the game. And you will have lost.  

A game. 

That’s what this was. 

That’s what everything in your life was and always had been. 

And you’d always lost. Cause you never paid attention. 

Even now, as your life is in peril, you couldn’t help but think back to a moment in your past. Where distraction had gotten you in trouble. 

You couldn’t have been any older than thirteen. 

You must have been. Because your teacher was Mr. Kim. The teacher whose breath smelled like coffee and Newport cigarettes. A vile combination. 

You remembered so distinctly because in this particular instance, this breath blew into your face as his was about 10 centimeters away from yours.

He was scolding you, pretty severely, because you had been caught jotting down stories while in his math class. 

You were always doing that. Always doing the wrong thing at the wrong times. Always going left when everyone else was going right. And it almost always got you in trouble, but this time was different. This time was worse. 

Mr. Kim was adamant that you had done this one too many times. You remember he had said: 

“Y/N get your nose out of your book. Writing these silly little stories is going to get you nowhere. You need to learn to pay attention, young lady. Since you aren’t taking my warnings seriously, it may be time to escalate the matter”.

Your palms began to clam up, as you knew what this meant.

“I’ll need to contact your mother” 

At that moment everything seemed to move in slow motion. Panic began to set in as you knew a phone call to mother would be a step beyond a death sentence. 

“Take this note to the principal’s office, I shall be in shortly so we can organize a discussion with your mother” 

Your mother was not a nice woman. Not nice at all.

Nothing good would come of this and you knew what fate awaited you in the grim future. 

So, you did the only thing you knew how to do. You ran. You ran as fast as your little legs could carry you. 

Mr. Kim handed you the note and as soon as the door closed, you were off. 

You ran to the only place you knew solace. A woodland area behind your school. 

Your school was built in 1898. The old girl had seen some things. Horrific things. 

Back in the 1900s these woods were used as a hunting grounds. The older students would come out here and hunt deer and rabbits. Now, it was just a place where the older girls would come out here and smoke cigarettes at lunchtimes. The ones that were brave enough, that is. 

There was something dark about these woods. There was nothing about the woodlands that looked outwardly abnormal, there was just too much of it. Like a smile with too many teeth. Not to you though, to you it was freedom. Solace. Peace. 

Maybe you were just drawn to dark things. 

You ran deep into the coppices. Past the brook and beyond the abandoned mill. You perched yourself under the large oak tree. Inhaling and exhaling hard as the running mixed with the panic had your heartrate going a million miles per hour. But now you could rest at lease for a while. 

It’s funny really. Even when your life was in danger your mind wondered away. You guess Mr. Kim had every right to be concerned. 

“Y/N! Why Are you running, baby?!” 

Fuck. His voice sounded so close. Too close. 

His footsteps hammering on the same crushed, now blood-soaked, snow, leaves and moss-covered ground. 

“You know I’m going to catch up with you. Why are you doing this?! I thought you were happy with me!”

Christ. Why was he doing this?

“Look Y/N. I’m sorry if you weren’t comfortable, we can make changes baby just please come back.”

Through the trees you can make out a light ahead of you. Not much further to go. 

“Baby, we don’t have to tie you to the bed anymore! Please, Y/N, you’re still injured! It’s not safe for you to be running when your feet haven’t healed properly”

‘Because of you, you sick fuck’ you screamed inside your head. You wanted to scream at him but all your focus needed to be on running. 

“Just stop now and your punishment won’t be too bad” 

Oh god. He sounded just like her.

The earth and muck beneath your feet had changed to concrete. A road! You’ve don’t it, you reached the road. 

You try to take another step onto the cold wet asphalt but your feet fail you. True to his word, your feet hadn’t heeled yet and the adrenaline keeping your pain at bay had worn off. 

You collapsed on the floor, the dull pain in your ankles paralyzing you. 

You hear his footsteps and his heavy panting behind. In horror, you drag yourself further onto the road. You can’t give up; this can’t be the end. 

“I will say Y/N, I admire your spirit” his slightly exasperated voice still sounded sickly sweet. 

“I’ve always admired that about you. You never give up on anything. But yet you gave up on us. I don’t think that’s very fair, do you, my love?” he walks towards you, at a petrifyingly slow pace.  

This is it. You’ve lost. Certain this was your last moments; you close your eyes. A tear, you hadn’t released had been at bay rolled down your cheek. 

You listed to the birds in the distance and the soft patter of rain and you couldn’t help but think back again. You couldn’t help but think back to how you got here. How it came to be that you would die like this. 

At the hands of Jeon Jungkook. Your number one fan. 

This is gonna be a wild ride! Im so happy to be back writing again~ Hope you all enjoy!

This fic is loosely based on one of my favourite movies: ‘Misery’

Let me know if you want to be added to a tag list 🤍

[natsaffection]

Hi hi I know this is a random request but I just watched smile and I was terrified so I was wondering if you could do like a wandanat x reader where the reader watches a scary movie on their own coz they was bored and wandanat were working and reader gets super scared and runs to them and they just laugh at her because she is so scared but explain it’s just a movie then they watch the movie with her instead and it leads to ya know lol

Sorry if this is a weird request ignore it if it is sorry :)

Comfort. | WandaNat

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Threesome, fingering, slight begging

Word Count: 1,1k

A/N: Again something Cuteeee. When I wrote it, my Tv suddenly turned off and it scared the shit out of me (it was midnight when I wrote it) That’s a sign..

The rain pattered gently against the windows of the cozy apartment, a soothing backdrop to the evening’s activities. Natasha and Wanda were both deeply engrossed in their work, papers and laptops spread across the dining table. Their focus was intense, each woman lost in the tasks at hand.

In the living room, you curled up on the couch with a blanket, deciding to pass the time with a horror movie. The movie was one you had seen recommended, but the eerie soundtrack and sudden jump scares quickly proved to be more unsettling than you had anticipated. With each creak and shadow on the screen, your anxiety grew, until a particularly terrifying scene caused you to yelp and scramble off the couch.

Heart pounding, you bolted from the living room, seeking the comfort of your partners. Natasha and Wanda looked up in surprise as you burst into the room, your wide eyes and trembling hands betraying your fear.

“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked, her voice laced with concern. You hesitated, feeling a bit silly for your reaction. “I..was watching a horror movie, and it just…it really scared me. I wanted to see you both.“

Natasha and Wanda exchanged amused glances. Wanda couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, you got scared by a movie?”

You nodded, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Yeah… I know it’s just a movie, but..” Natasha chuckled, standing up and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s take a break, shall we?”

Together, they guided you back to the living room. Natasha grabbed the remote and paused the movie, examining the screen with a raised eyebrow. “This is the culprit, huh?”

You nodded again, feeling more embarrassed by the second. “Yeah.” Wanda sat down on the couch, patting the space beside her. “Come here. We’ll watch it together.”

Natasha settled on your other side, sandwiching you between them. With a teasing grin, Natasha pressed play. The movie resumed, and Natasha and Wanda’s amused expressions helped to ease your nerves.

As the movie played on, Natasha made playful comments about the unrealistic plot points, exaggerating her reactions to the scares. “Really? Who runs into the basement?” she quipped, making you giggle.

Wanda, meanwhile, conjured a small red glow in her hand, creating comforting patterns in the air to distract you from the scarier scenes. “Remember, it’s all just special effects,” she said, smiling.

Your fear gradually ebbed away, replaced by a sense of security and warmth. Natasha’s arm around you and Wanda’s playful magic made it easier to endure the scary scenes.

When the movie reached a particularly steamy scene, you felt yourself blush deeply. You glanced at Natasha and Wanda, expecting them to fast-forward, but Natasha simply raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “Well, this movie just got interesting.” Natasha murmured, her voice low and teasing.

Wanda giggled, her fingers tracing light patterns on your arm. “Looks like we chose quite the film, didn’t we?” You felt a mix of embarrassment and excitement, your heart racing for a different reason now. Natasha’s hand began to move slowly, her fingers brushing lightly against your thigh, while Wanda leaned in closer, her breath warm against your ear. “Feeling better now?” Wanda whispered, her voice sultry. You nodded, your breath hitching. “Y-yes, much better..”

Natasha’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned in to kiss you softly, her touch both tender and possessive. Wanda’s hand joined in, caressing your other thigh, their combined warmth making you feel cherished and desired.

As the movie continued in the background, forgotten for the moment, Natasha and Wanda exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with affection and a hint of mischief. Natasha’s hand slid up your thigh, her touch light and teasing. “You know,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear, “we could make this evening even more interesting.”

Wanda’s hand mirrored Natasha’s movements, her fingers trailing up your other thigh. “I think that’s a wonderful idea..“ she murmured, her voice low and inviting.

Your breath quickened, your body responding to the gentle, teasing touches. “What do you have in mind..?” you asked, your voice trembling with anticipation.

Natasha’s smile widened as she leaned in to kiss you deeply, her hand sliding under the hem of your shirt. “Just relax and let us take care of you. Let you forget the creepy scenes.” she whispered against your lips.

Wanda’s lips found the sensitive spot on your neck, her kisses soft and tantalizing. “We want to make you feel good.” she breathed, her hands roaming over your body.

Natasha’s hands moved with expert precision, peeling away your clothes with a mix of tenderness and urgency. Wanda’s touch was equally skilled, her fingers dancing across your skin, igniting a trail of warmth and desire.

As Natasha’s lips traveled down your body, her kisses growing more intense, Wanda’s hands continued their exploration, each touch sending shivers of pleasure through you. Natasha’s tongue flicked out to taste your skin, her movements deliberate and sensual.

Wanda’s fingers found their way between your thighs, her touch light and teasing. “You’re so beautiful..” she whispered, her voice filled with admiration and desire. Your breath hitched, your body arching towards Wanda’s touch. “Please..” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Natasha’s eyes met Wanda’s, a silent exchange of affection and understanding passing between them. With a nod, Wanda’s fingers moved with more purpose, finding your most sensitive spot. Natasha’s lips and tongue followed suit, their combined efforts sending waves of pleasure crashing over you.

The intensity of their touch increased, each caress, kiss, and stroke designed to bring you closer to the edge. Natasha’s mouth worked in perfect harmony with Wanda’s fingers, their movements synchronized and relentless.

Your moans filled the room, your body trembling with the overwhelming sensations. “I’m so c-close..” you gasped, your fingers gripping the couch cushions.

Natasha’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she increased the pressure of her tongue, while Wanda’s fingers moved faster, their rhythm perfect. “Let go,” Natasha urged, her voice husky and commanding. “Let us take you there.”

With a final, shuddering breath, your body tensed, and you cried out in ecstasy. The climax washed over you in powerful waves, leaving you breathless and spent. Natasha and Wanda held you tightly, their touches gentle and reassuring as they guided you through the aftermath of your release.

As your breathing steadied, Natasha pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You did so well, Detka..” she murmured, her voice filled with love and pride.

Wanda smiled, her eyes glowing with affection. “We love you so much.” You nestled between them, feeling more loved and cherished than ever before. “I love you both..” you whispered, your heart full.

The three of you stayed intertwined, the movie long forgotten, the rain outside continuing to fall softly against the windows.

[romcomxdd]

AU where Mav n Ice managed to convince Bradley not to join the Navy.

(stick with me there’s hangster in here i promise-)

Instead of pulling Bradley’s papers, Mav and Ice sat down with Bradley and explained his mother’s wishes and their concerns. Really, they just had an adult conversation about it. Of course, Bradley was pissed, but more so at his mum than Maverick or Ice. Eventually he agreed, much to the older men’s relief, though Mav did feel a bit guilty about it. He knew Goose would have loved to see his son take after him.

Bradley took a few weeks to explore some other career options, he knew he still wanted to fly in some capacity. With his dads all being pilots, he’d had plenty of off the book lessons from them and all his honorary uncles. He had a knack for it. And he knew he wanted to help people. He had volunteered at his local fire-station for a few years and had acquired his basic first aid qualifications through that. But beyond that, he was lost.

Until he heard about Wilderness EMT’s. It was at at a careers expo Ice had dragged him along to after school and he really didn’t want to be there.

They wandered the expo for a while, until the first responders area caught his eye. Bradley looked through the police and fire rescue stalls first, took some pamphlets and asked a few questions, but nothing really struck him.

As Ice wandered off to look at the Navy section out of curiosity, Bradley lined up to look at the Paramedics stall. As he talked to the lady at the front for a bit, they got onto the topic of the specifics of her career. Before she had taken a job in recruitment, she had been a Wilderness EMT, basically a branch on paramedics where she was trained in search and rescue, providing medical aid to remote areas. This immediately sparked Bradley’s interest, it had the adrenaline he had been looking for, all whilst making a real difference for real people.

By the time Ice had returned, he had quizzed the lady for almost an hour and to say that he was excited was an understatement. The teen was practically bouncing out of his seat on the drive home.

‘I just need to get my general EMT certification, then do a wilderness specific training course as the basics.’ Bradley was grinning ear from ear. ‘Then from there I can do swift water, high angle rescue training and disaster response training. And a bunch of other short courses- but I can do those quickly- And that’s not even the best part!’

Ice bit his lip and kept quiet. He was happy for Bradley, of course, it was nice to see him so excited about something, but this sounded dangerous. It wasn’t the Navy, but still.

‘She said I can finish getting my pilots license and use that for search and rescue. And if I can get my helicopter license I can still fly!’ He grinned. ‘And it’s not gonna be dangerous like your job, but it’s still so cool.’

Ice nodded, still worried, but Bradley seemed serious about this. They’d already stopped him from one career opportunity, if they told him he couldn’t do this, Bradley may never talk to them again.

And as it turned out, he was dead serious about it. Within three years, Bradley had flown through his Paramedics degree, and got a job as a regular EMT. Whilst he worked, he continued with his helicopter license, and began ticking off the required courses. Another two years later, he was a fully qualified Wilderness EMT.

It had taken a while for Mav to get on board with the idea, but after seeing the fufillment in Bradley’s face when he came home after saving a life, he could help the pride that flowed through him. Goose would have been over the moon.

Bradley quickly excelled at his job, showing just how disciplined he was, both in the field and with the patients. His bedside manner was impeccable and had an incredibly cool head under pressure. He progressed fast, becoming a team leader in no time. There wasn’t as much room for advancement as there was in the Navy, but Bradley did what he could.

He loved his job and though it had one of the highest burnout rates in the country, he couldn’t see himself quitting anytime soon. He lived for the adrenaline of his work. Every day was different, he could be providing help to flooded communities, or hiking mountains in search of a missing person. It could be anything from pulling someone from an avalanche, or airlifting someone who’d twisted an ankle and didn’t feel like walking out.

And the sense of satisfaction he got after saving a life. Made him feel like he was in control. Like he could make a meaningful difference in someone’s life by getting them home safe.

Of course there were hard days. When someone died in transit, or they just couldn’t get them out in time. When their missing person just didn’t turn up. It could be traumatising, but he made sure to talk with Ice and Mav about it, or his work friends, there were so many people around him who knew how to cope. He figured it out pretty fast.

One day Bradley’s team got called to a pretty notable rescue. An F18 had gone into a flatspin during training somewhere over a mountain and the pilot had ejected. A pilot by the name of Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin. Hangman had ejected safely, but the descent through the trees had fucked up his ankle, and he couldn’t walk.

The Navy’s equipment hadn’t been advanced enough, so they had called on the WEMT’s, whom for this kinda mission was their bread and butter. (shush i’m taking creative liberties)

They found him quickly and Bradley was the one to cut him out of his parachute and bring him up to the helicopter. Just imagine Jake being half unconscious as a handsome moustachioed angel leans over him and tells him everything’s gonna be alright.

The ride back included an ever exasperated Bradley and a lovestruck delirious Hangman who had decidedly not injured his mouth and would not shut up. As they reached the hospital, Jake asked him out. Bradley surprised even himself by agreeing to it, he hadn’t been in a serious relationship in years, it could be nice to get back out there.

They grew close, fast. Though Bradley never explained why he knew so much about Jake’s job. Not until Jake was finally invited around to ‘meet the parents’. Just imagine his surprise when he walks into the Admiral Kazansky’s home, who is apparently married to his instructor. Bradley thought the look on his face was hilarious and he would bring up the moment at any opportunity for the next few years.

[jamespottersdaisy]

Dulcet

Peter Parker x fem!reader

in which it's a game

part1| part2| part3| part4| part 5| 11.1 k

a/n: let me know if there are mistakes, more notes at the end &lt;3

Shallow breaths echo around the forlorn silence. He keeps a distance. You endure pain.

He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t want to. He brings you water when you ask and carries you from one room to another. He ensures your pillow is high enough while you eat,and your TV show is amusing enough while you lie. But he doesn’t talk.

You can’t speak, either. You don’t dare. Besides the meek requests and whispered gratitude, your lips fail at words. You want to ask him if he is angry with you and if he hates you as he attends to your wounds. You want to know if he counts the minutes until he leaves you to bed and if he’s been sleeping enough because his eyes are red most of the time. But you can’t speak.

Peter’s hands are shaking as he pressures your wound, his vision blurry, his ears ringing. Mark is dead. Soon, you will be, too, if he doesn’t find a way out of this. 

He needs to think. Fast. He needs to stop crying your name and calm down. He has to get it together, he has to stop trembling, and he has to calm down, and he has to–

He can't breathe, so he takes off his mask. He hates the garment on his hands that prevents his touch. They are shaking as he moves your shirt up to see the wound. Curses echo in your ears.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I told you not to–” he moves around, estimating the safest way to hold you. “Why didn’t you listen? Why don’t you listen?!”

Your mind is foggy, the ability to move your limbs lost on you. You hear Peter’s complaints and pleas, feel his firm grip on your weak body. 

“Peter…”

“Why? Why?! I told you! I told you to- Why don’t you never listen?!” he holds your hands and brings them on his. “Pressure the wound. Don’t move your hand, you hear me? Just, just- just hold them tight–”

So you do. You put all your strength left into your wound, feeling your hand get wet and red, all while Peter gently places his arms around you, careful not to move you too much. He elevates your legs while carrying you. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do.

He doesn’t know where to take you.

You listen to the faucet running as your nails dig into your palm. It is lamentable how the only sound ringing in your ears is either water splashing or footsteps thudding when he is around. Heavy words have soared akin to a mountain between you two, one that is painful to climb. The high walls of unspoken cries refuse to crack now that neither of you dares to speak. 

He exits your bathroom, head down, hands wet. You know the routine; he’ll dry his hands with his shirt, pad to your kitchen, and make you a sandwich. He’ll ensure you eat it and then leave to come back late at night to attend to your injury again.

He stops midway to the kitchen and turns around. You watch him enter your room and avoid eye contact with you. He frowns and moves his eyes from one corner of the room to another.

“What is it?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“It’s time for the,” he gesticulates carelessly, and then he nods to your desk as if he found what he was looking for. “the thing that you always watch at five.”

He grabs the remote from your desk and places it next to you. You wish he hadn’t moved his hand so fast before you could touch it. “Thank you.”

He glances at you for the first time in that hour and quickly averts his eyes.

You let him walk away. What can you even say?

“Peter, it hurts.”

“I know, I know, I know, just hold on, trouble, come on,” he prattles, all while holding you in his arms. He doesn’t know if he can swing you in this position, but it is the only solution.

Where was the nearest hospital? He swings around the sky all the time; why did he never pay attention? What was he thinking dragging you into this? Why does his heart sting as your whines pierce his mind?

He shakes his head. 

Standing still is no help to you. He needs to move. Thus, he shoots one web after another, flying with you in his arms, searching for a place that will keep you safe. Safe from danger, safe from hurt, safe from him.

You are clinging to him the hardest you can, eyes closed, face in a frown. He wonders if you feel sick or dizzy. If you do, it is his fault. 

All of this is his fault.

You are bleeding on him, and it is his fault. It should have been him. It should have been him staining your shirt red, not the other way around. This is not how it goes. You are not the one crying from agony. You are not the one in need of saving. You are not the one whom he gets worried over; you are the one that does the worrying.

If not, then it’s his fault.

He thinks of the possible replies to doctors' questions.

You would think the female lead would understand that the boyfriend is lying and that the right person for her is her best friend, but for some reason, she keeps ignoring the poor guy’s pure love. You would also think that Peter would have the same opinion as you.

“He is not stupid. He is in love.”

“Which made him stupid,” he murmurs as his eyes trace the bloody scar on your torso. It’s one of the few sentences he has given you that day. “Sit straight.”

“How is wanting to be near the girl you lo–” 

You sit straight after Peter shoots you a harsh look. He places a pillow behind your back, and you let him slowly take care of your wound. 

“As I was saying,” you start again. This is a mere attempt to have him talk to you more than usual, one that is very uncomfortable for you. “He just wants the girl he loves to be happy.”

“He should leave her alone then,” Peter glances at you when you hiss at the burning sensation of the antiseptic. 

“Why?! She loves him, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

He doesn’t reply, and you know no more words will leave his lips until he is done with his work. Thus, you talk no more, letting silence dawn per usual.

If only one of you broached the subject that’s growing heavier day by day, this could have been easier.

He lays you down on your bed, careful not to wake you up. When you whimper as he does, he curses under his nose. Stepping back, he stares at you for a moment.

He thought he was late.

He thought all the flying in the air had made things worse. He thought your wound would not close, your bleeding would not stop. He thought he’d have to–

Peter feels faint. His limbs are weak, and he remembers he hasn’t eaten all day long. He also hasn’t drank any water, which explains the headache. His body is sore, rightfully so. After getting you to the hospital, he has flown back to his house, changed into something he now realises is wrinkled, and ran back to you as Peter instead of Spiderman.

He drinks your water and nibbles on your bread. He falls to his place by the window and stares at the carpet. 

He knew this day would come. He knew he’d have to wait by your bed, count the seconds, and listen to your heavy breaths. He knew he wouldn’t be able to protect you from harm.

Nothing is new.

Moonlight shines and glazes as Peter watches you sleep.

He has no idea what and how to say when you wake up. He doesn’t know how to act. All he knows is that he will take care of you until you are strong enough to slap him when he leaves.

"I can do it myself," you protest.

"The hell you can," Peter grumbles, face in a grumpy scowl as he grabs your arms. You refuse to lean to him, determined to carry yourself around with as much grace as possible.

By around, I mean the toilet.

It is embarrassing enough that Peter helps you shower; you don’t need him to know your bowel movements.

“How am I supposed to heal if you keep coddling me?” you murmur.

Peter stops in his place, snaps his head towards you. He doesn’t say anything, and yet the look in his eyes is enough words to your heart.

You know you strike a chord each time you mention anything regarding your wound, healing, hurt and pain, but he needs to grow up. He needs to handle this without his emotions, ones that he refuses to communicate. 

You seize the opportunity and enter the bathroom yourself. 

“Call if you need help!” you hear Peter yell behind the closed door. 

“Don’t spy, you creep!”

You hear him step away from the door; he must have really pushed his whole body to hear your movements. 

“It’s not spying,” he calls back. “I was just making sure–”

“Peter!”

“Sorry!” he says, steps fading away. 

It takes time, but you manage to leave the bathroom without a call for help. Bittersweet, that is. A few days ago, you would groan and whine with each movement, trying to stifle yourself so that Peter wouldn’t hear you. As of now, you are slowly gaining your strength back, and the only reminder of the unfortunate incident is the occasional sting and Peter’s distant mannerisms.

“I think I want to make my own sandwich today,” Peter’s back greets you when you enter the kitchen; he’s been going through your fridge in the hopes of ingredients.

"I was gonna make you pasta," he turns around, and you suppress the urge to smile.

He wanted to cook for you.

But again, he's been doing that for some time now.

"Are you hungry?"

When he nods, you slowly walk up to your shelves. Another thing you have noticed is that since Peter has been living in your apartment part-time, your fridge and shelves are full of groceries.

"You shouldn't be walking around," he opens the shelf next to yours.

"I'm sick of lying in bed," you shrug, stretching your hand to take the pasta. 

The sting strikes, almost knocking you over; you shouldn’t have pulled your arm that swiftly. 

Peter hisses your name, “Mule,” he utters before taking down the pasta himself as his other hand rests on your bicep. 

You scowl at him while recovering, “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” Peter bends over to find your pan. He’s looking at the wrong places.

“I can handle myself, you know.”

“And I’m Spiderman.”

“You are Spiderman,” you hand him the pan, which he takes without glancing at you.

You notice the subtle curl of his lips and the effort he wasted to hide it. You are doing the exact same; bickering with him has always been fun, even if he is distant and you are injured.

“How about you make yourself useful and sit on a chair?” 

“How’s that any useful?”

“It helps the worrying.”

“I see no reason for worrying.”

“That’s because you are slow,” he turns around once he has put the pasta to cook. You feel his arms around your limbs, firm but gentle not to push your body to its limits, and let him lead you to the chair behind the table.

“You look pretty without being a hindrance,” he says when you sit down.

You don’t think you look pretty at the moment at all. “Mind you, you are the one in my apartment.”

“Preparing you a meal,” he nods and starts making the sauce.  

“One that I’m perfectly capable of making.”

Peter scoffs. “Uh-huh. You as in you who whines every time she moves her arm.”

He finds it amusing that you are willing to banter even in a state like this.

“Oh, I wonder why.”

“Probably because you are so intent on hurting.”

“I am just strong enough to handle it,” you shrug playfully, pretending not to feel his burning stare piercing through your forehead.

You know what he is thinking; you can almost hear his thoughts. You haven't forgotten the fights roaming in your room, his harsh looks and raised voice against your aching body and breathless words. 

He doesn’t remember when the silver hues of the moon abandoned their place for the golden light of the sun to take over. His mind has fled from the grasp of time, running amok with the perilous thoughts between its palm. 

Its games have been played. Deceptions toward self, fear and rage dangling from the ropes it clutched have triumphed in gaining  power over his heart. 

The sound of his heart has been drowned, its echoes only blurring the clarity of the past, staining the white flames of apathy. 

He has made up his mind.

A low whine averts his darkened eyes from his bruised knuckles to your frame on the bed. He slowly rises from the floor, staring at you, gaining consciousness back as the sore muscles and agony of your injury kick in.

It takes time for you to fully focus. 

You are confused, in pain, and uncomfortable. 

Memories of red, blue and black flashing like pictures in your mind, sounds echoing around, but none of them makes sense. Not yet.

You can’t move around. Your eyes look for water and find Peter instead. Maybe he can bring you water.

He’s standing a bit far away.

“Peter,” you say, but your voice doesn’t seem to reach him. Or you. 

You clear your throat as he steps forward, hovering over you beside your bed. “Good. You’re awake,” he nods.

His voice is far, or maybe that’s just the ringing in your head.

“What happened?” you manage to ask. “I need water.”

He turns around and leaves, coming back with a glass of water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, attempting to rise from bed. He helps you.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. 

Now, they all make sense. The cure and your running. Peter and Mark, the excruciating pain in your bones, Peter’s distressed calls. You remember now.

“Hurt. What happened? Did you cure Mark? What about the–”

“Mark is dead.”

You look up to him, your face in a grimace and your breathing shallow. His face has no indication of feeling. His eyes are shrouded. “You couldn’t cure him?”

“I had to kill him.”

It means the same thing; you know it does. But it doesn’t feel the same.

“What happened after,” you look for the right words. “You know, after I–”

“Almost bled to death?”

He is angry. Not the screaming and yelling one. The silent one. 

“Peter, look,” you try to move up, but the pain arises. “I’m sorry, alright? I know what you said, and I know what I did, and I’m truly sorry. It won’t happen again–”

“No, it won’t.”

His tone is curt, and so are his eyes.

You put the water glass away. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t say anything at first. 

“Nothing, really,” he shrugs. “It just won't happen again.”

You don't like how that sounds.

“Peter–”

“You should lay down,” he cuts you off. “Don't tire yourself out.”

This is not right. This is not how you left things. You are too weak to play games.

“What the hell is wrong with you? If you're mad at me, just say so–”

“If I'm mad at you,” his eyebrows shoot up as he scoffs. “If I'm mad at you?”

“That's what I said, yes.”

Your eyes watch him pace around, his face changing with every thought his mind produces.

“You could've died,” he says, mostly to himself.

“I–”

“You could've died there. In my arms, from a wound that I caused,” he turns to you. 

You finally see it.

The anger. Fear. Desperation and exhaustion. All have painted his countenance into something unrecognisable to you. Something strange. Distant.

“You didn't cause anything,” you decide to reason.

“Oh, I did. I did, and I won't ever again because this,” he gestures the distance between you two. “Is not happening again.”

Your heart drops. You don't try to hide the feeling. 

“What are you even saying?”

“What I'm saying is after I make sure you are okay, that you can walk and talk without groaning from pain, I'm not seeing you again.”

No. 

You shake your head, albeit it makes you dizzy. You want to reach out to him, but you are not sure you can stretch your arm without hurting.

“That's not fair,” is all you can say between the pain and hurt. “That's not fair, you can't punish me like this–”

“I'm not punishing you, I'm protecting you because clearly, you can't do that yourself when I'm around.”

You abhor the way he composes himself.

“No, you're punishing me, you're punishing me with your absence, you know damn well it was an accident–”

“Accident or not!” he raises his voice this time. “Accident or not, you could’ve died, alright?! I’m not betting on that again.”

“It is not up to you, Peter! I can die walking on the sidewalk, too!” you match your tone to his regardless of how much it’s agonising. “You can’t protect me all the time!”

“I can try.”

He is not thinking properly. This is not right. You need to make him understand that this is not right. 

“Peter, please, listen to me–”

He shakes his head and takes the glass you’ve put aside. “No, don’t. Don’t, okay? You need to rest. Rest and heal, exhausting yourself won’t do any good.”

Maybe it is not so nice for you to start healing. To start not needing Peter as much as you used to do. 

He can see it. He can see that you are getting back on your feet, and it absolutely terrifies you that he will leave.

You don’t think he’s changed his mind. 

Otherwise, he would talk to you. Not talk to you as if you are a civilian he is responsible for taking care of, but as if you are his friend. Yet, he refuses to. 

“How are you feeling?” He enters the room with bags in his hands. The flex of his biceps under the shirt distracts you, and you wonder if he chose the shirt on purpose, as the weather is far from welcoming this kind of attire.

It’s late; you figure he must’ve come back from nightly patrols, which means he’ll leave to sleep in an hour or so.

That makes one visit a day.

You avert your eyes from him to the laptop screen. “Is that pizza?”

You hope it is; you’ve been too lazy to prepare yourself a proper meal.

“Have you eaten today?” 

He knows you haven’t; he knows you too well after caring for you all this time.

“Coffee?”

He nods with an ‘ah’ to your sheepiness. “No wonder you have a headache.”

You do not want to miss this, him worrying over you in a teasing way. You don’t want to miss him.

“And I’m–”

“And you’re cold, yes, I know,” he puts the pizzas next to you. “Plates?”

“Nah, we can eat without.”

“All right, loafer,” he nods but still heads towards the kitchen.

“I’m sure I said no plates.”

“How many glasses of water have you had today?” his voice echoes from the kitchen, and you start to count in your head.

“Two?”

“So, two glasses of water and coffee, am I right?” he returns with a bottle of water, aiming it at you. 

Your eyes widen at the ominous possibility, your hands already in the air to shield yourself. “Yes, but– hey, DON’T THROW IT!”

He does and you fail at catching it.

“Yeah, you’re a hopeless case,” he nods before taking a slice of the pizza. 

“You need to stop throwing things at me,” you take the bottle from the ground, noticing the absence of pain. You are indeed healing.

“Someone has to train those reflexes, you can’t catch a ball to save your life,” you watch him pick the mushrooms on the pizza and eat them separately.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Not always.”

“I don’t understand!” no matter how hard you’ve tried not to raise your tone, there you are, getting irritated by your own voice.

“What is there to not understand? We’ve been over this for a hundred times by now,” he says calmly. 

He is not wrong. 

No other words have been heard in the last twenty-four hours.

“It’s bullshit. Leaving me for my own good. If you don’t want to see me anymore–”

“Nope. No, absolutely not,” he abruptly stands up from the chair, shaking his head. “I’m not playing that game.”

“You can’t make a decision on my behalf!”

Your name leaves his lips in a whisper. 

“I’m tired of this, trouble,” he leans to the counter with a disappointed look on his face. “You know why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

You know. You do know, and yet knowing does not make it any less painful.

“You are a selfish jerk, Parker.”

Your heart beats in your ears as you try not to make it obvious that Peter’s every touch sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ll ever feel his touch again after this, ponder what to say, how to behave to not break the already strained thin string between you.

“It’s healed,” he reclines, dropping his hand to his knees.

It takes all the vigour in you to keep your face still, to not let him know how much you are devastated to hear the words. 

“Thanks to you,” is all you can say, and he leaves it unanswered.

Peter doesn’t think he deserves thanks for anything he has ever done. He watches your dismal eyes and knows he doesn’t even deserve a smile anymore. Especially not from you.

He’s been acting distant to the best of his abilities, breaking your heart into a million pieces, readying you for his decision. 

He hates himself for that.

He absolutely abhors himself for being the reason for your gloomy countenance, broken laugh, and moments spent ruminating on the things he renders no control from you. 

They falter him, placing doubts in his mind, pushing his mind against its limits and his heart down its cliffs. He often finds himself contemplating if this is the right choice. If cutting ties with you will indeed save you from future disasters. If speaking how he actually feels towards you will put you in further danger.

Sometimes, the words push against his lips. They threaten to spill over, to relinquish every hold he has over his heart to you, to divulge all his soul’s secrets to yours.

Then, he remembers.

He remembers the red in his hands. He remembers the echo of your whines in his ears. He remembers the unconscious moans haunting him all night long.

“I better get going,” he stands up, dusting himself off, attempting to remove the image from his mind. 

“Where?” you ask, eyes following him around. 

He doesn’t know how to answer. He can lie and tell that he has things to do. He can avoid any reply.

“Home.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches your smile waver, sees your exertions to hold everything together. 

“This soon?”

“Yeah.” he nods, not noticing his tone lower to match yours.  

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

There it is.

There goes the hope you’ve been holding onto, and he is about to strip you off from it. 

Peter whispers your name and the light in your eyes ebbs. The sofa you’ve been sitting on shrinks, suddenly unable to hold you. You rise from your seat, hoping to be close to him as if it would help.

“Peter, come on, you know this is ridiculous,” you try to reason once more. “Don’t toss this away just because you’re afraid.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” he stares into your eyes. “This has put you into danger so many times that I’ve lost count.”

“Peter–”

“Sweetheart,” he takes a big step towards you, holding you by the arms. “Don't make this any harder than it already is.”

Peter feels a lump in his throat as you shake your head and squirm away from his hold. 

“You have no right, no right to do this,” you say, this time firmer than before. “You can’t decorate your own decision as ‘protecting me’, Peter.”

“My decision is to protect you!” He steps forward, hovering his hands close to your body. 

“I don’t want that!”

Peter tries to calm himself. He knows exploding won’t do any good. He reminds himself that this is a lot more agonising for you than it is for him– he is the one making the decision while you are not allowed any control over it.

“It is not about what you want–”

“Peter, do you even hear yourself?!” your tone raises, and he can feel the anger burning in your veins. Anger from being desperate, from failing to change things, from not being able to have a say in this. “Do you even fucking hear yourself?!”

He knows this is his cue to leave. He can not stay any longer. 

“That’s it, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he looks around to find his jacket. He doesn’t see you run a hand through your hair or hear you mutter curses under your nose. 

You don’t try to persuade him any longer. He is not sure if he is grateful or resentful for that, but he knows you won’t lose further dignity to get a boy to stay.

He takes his jacket, throwing it around his shoulders, and striding to the door. The door creaks open, and he, despite all the protests of his mind, spares you one last look. 

“Take care, trouble.”

“You are a coward, Peter Parker,” you shake your head and dash to your own room, shutting its door. 

He knows you are right.

x

You’ve become bitter. Easily irritated and grumpy. Tired most of the time from overthinking.

You brush your teeth and think this is taking too long. You’ve never noticed how much time you've been putting aside for this.

You sit to study and find your thoughts fled to him. You believe your attention span has declined since the last time you studied. Either that or he has become the only thing you can think of.

You walk to campus and expect to run into him. You never do, and yet, you wait for it. 

In the class, you notice you don’t take notes any more. Instead, you doodle so you don’t stare his way. 

You return home with him in your mind, leave the room with him in your mind, and eat and drink with him in your mind.

And when you get in bed, that’s when the real nightmare begins.

That’s when not only your mind but your heart wreaks havoc as well. 

Your feelings stain the sober thoughts, fogging your brain, deeming you unable to probe the facts. 

Most of the time, it’s rage.

It’s the rage of being deprived of a say. It’s the rage of having all the ropes clutched off your palm. It’s the rage of being tossed aside in the name of love. 

It burns in you. 

It consumes you whole, blinds your senses. Its poison reigns in your veins, conquering your heart over his image. You rally no longer, welcoming the safety it provides.

Sometimes, however, it’s the heartbreak simmering under it. 

It’s whys and ifs haunting your nights. The questions you want to ask him meddle in your mind no matter how well you know their answers will make no change.

You detest the sorrow of it– of losing someone you loved. Someone you love.

You struggle to tolerate it. The moment the tears prickle your eyes, you remind yourself of the rage, sheltering under its wings.

You run, and run, and run to escape the heartbreak’s crushing heft. Some days, you prevail. Some nights, the tears do.

You miss him.��

You miss the evenings that dimmed into nights with him by your side. You miss his weight on your bed when you’ve just washed your sheets. You miss the light things around your home being thrown at you because he wants to train your reflexes. You miss the food he makes you eat.

You miss his laugh echoing around your heart.

You hate him for that. 

You want to slap him across the face for keeping your favourite person away from you. You want to kick him in the stomach for marking every inch of your room with his memory. You want to hit him in the chest for rendering your body yearn for his touch.

You want to make him regret your absence, and you want to drive him crazy while doing it.

You simply don’t know how.

It’s midnight, and he’s not swinging in your room any more. He hasn’t been for a week. You shouldn’t wait.

Just close the damn window.

In the end, Peter is not visiting, and your room is cold.

x

Dusks turn into dawns, each hour a torment inflicted upon you. A day becomes one of the many others, yet he doesn’t become one of the others. 

He is still there, alive and well. 

And away.

Stolen glances are each a sharp knife in your heart. Clandestine yearning pulls you down, drowning you in his memory. 

Nothing happens, but your heart beats as if it intends to abandon your ribcage.

You don’t talk, you don’t banter, you don’t even acknowledge each other.

He passes through you like the wind when you encounter. You don’t look him in the eye when you have a professor putting you two through a painful exercise together. He hides his wounds from you, and you don’t ask about them when you catch a glimpse of the bruises.

People pick on quickly. 

They feel the loss of dynamic between you two in the class. Whispers arise behind your back, as well as the questions before your face. All of them get left without a reply.

“Please drop it, Ash,” you shake your head, sighing in annoyance. Not only in annoyance, but you can’t dwell on the other feelings in public. “Or ask him, not me. I’m tired today.”

“Okay, sorry, honey,” the redhead smiles, helping you with your drinks as you carry the meal to your table. “It’s just he also acts a bit off, you know?”

“He does?” you can’t help but ask as you two sit. 

“Yep, it’s as if he’s not there. It’s not really productive for the project.”

“He must have a lot on his mind,” you say, playing with your food. You should eat it before it gets cold, as the weather is not forgiving these days. Or you simply shouldn't have chosen to sit outside. “Anyways, how’s the project going? We’re struggling a bit.”

“We can do better if Parker gets his shit together,” Ashley frowns, taking a bite from his burger. “Other than that, just the same old–”

A scream soars in the distance. Not a long time passes before it gets accompanied by the gunshot, wicked echoes of instructions. You see the silhouette of the people running around in the hopes of hiding.

You definitely shouldn’t have chosen to sit outside.

You don’t think; holding hands with Ashley, the first thing you do is to leave the table and flee to the inside, and if you are lucky, hide inside the bathroom.

Inside of the building is crowded to its limits, but there’s no turning back. You have to hide; that’s the only thing your mind instructs you to do.

“Ash, quick,” you drag her to the left, running the length of the corridor. If you remember correctly, which hopefully you do, there needs to be stairs.

Your heart beats in your ear, silencing every scream and yell echoing around the building. You don’t feel the push and pull of each person bumping into you, all of them rushing into some other place their mind decided. 

Apparently, most of them indeed trust the building’s bathrooms enough to run there, blocking the stairs. 

“Holy shit!” 

“It’s okay, we can–” You look around to find something and fail to see anything. 

“What about the classrooms?” Ashley asks, and you shake your head frantically.

“Too out in the open.”

“We are out in the open here too!” 

You feel your body shaking in terror, mind operating too swiftly to regulate your breathing. “The other stairs! If we can circle the building–”

“You go,” she lets go of your hand. When you see what she’s doing, you find her boyfriend stretching out his hand towards her. It turns out he has a place for one next to him. “You go and, and, and text me when you get to safety, alright?”

When she leaves, you feel the sheer panic run down your spine. You waver between the two decisions. You wouldn’t think of leaving if only…

If only you weren’t the last person in the crowd pushing each other at the stairs. If they make it to this point, you’ll be the first one to get hurt.

Maybe it’s better if you run and circle the building. You turn around to take off, charge to the other side. 

Instead, a taller figure crashes onto you, holding you by the arms as firmly as possible.

“Stay here! Don’t you dare move!” Peter orders with a stern expression. “You hear me? Stay here!”

He doesn’t give you much of a chance before taking off. Next thing you know, while you try to make your place between the frenzied crowd, a loud crash before the building hurts your ears.

You see Spiderman swinging around, and that is the only thing you see.

He blocked the main entrance by wrecking the billboard against the door.

Which gained you enough time to hide.

Your mind reflects his image only while your body runs for safety. If you look back to those moments, you wouldn’t remember a thing–how you pushed through the crowd in enough time to hide, how the shooting blarings got only closer and closer, how Spiderman’s fight only echoed in the place as descriptions from the girl close to the door.

You hoped he wouldn’t get injured in the process. You wondered if he’d visit in case of an injury or if he already had someone to ask for help. You scolded yourself for creating jealousy in your head in vain when he can be in pain out there.

You don’t know how the time passed.

All you remember is the shake in your legs as you followed the crowd outside after the announcement, according to whom criminals have been disarmed and neutralised. Only then you notice your phone being gone, left forgotten on the table you were dining at an hour ago.

You need your phone back.

If the announcement is true, there shouldn’t be any problem with you going back to the yard.

Checking your surroundings, you decide to make a turn and head in the opposite direction once you’re sure no one has their eyes on you.

You hope no one has touched your purse. Not only your phone but also your wallet and ID card are in there. It would be a big headache if you were to lose them all at once for a bunch of criminals–

“Where you going? Everyone is going that way.”

Your heart skips a beat at first, thinking one of the professors caught you, and then takes the pace after recognising the voice.

You don’t turn back.

“My purse is out there, I’m not letting it get stolen,” you continue walking, hearing Peter’s footsteps following you. “That is if it’s not already stolen.”

His hand grabs your arm and turns you around. “I’ll go get it, you get back to the others.”

“I can get my own purse, Parker, it’s not like there are any other bad guys running around–”

“There is one I haven’t caught yet, they just didn’t mention it in the announcement. Now, will you please get back to the others?”

You frown, forgetting the history with the guy before you. 

“Then why the hell would they want us to expose ourselves? Are they crazy?”

Peter scoffs, letting you go. “They didn’t expose you, they asked for you to gather in the Hall, did you even listen?”

“I must’ve missed that part,” you murmur. “Anyhow, I need my purse. Take care, Parker.”

“No, absolutely not,” he grabs you by the arm once more when you turn around. “You go to the Hall, I’ll find it and bring it to you.”

“Such a gentleman,” you pull your arm from his hold, and walk to catch up to the crowd. 

As you enter the Hall, your eyes look for Ashley or her boyfriend, and it doesn’t take much as there are only a handful of redheads around.

“I thought I told you to text!” she hugs you for a short moment, and you smile at her.

“You had the chance to take your phone?”

“Oh, honey, my phone is always with me.”

Looking around, you focus on people’s faces–distraught, confused, worried, and angry ones. For some, it still doesn’t feel real, for others it was shaking to the core. You still don’t know how you feel; you’ve been through worse. 

Still, it doesn’t mean the worse doesn’t show up in your dreams. It does. It wakes you up in a cold sweat and obliges you to turn the lights on for a few moments. It gets better with time, but again, you’d wish there was nothing to get better in time.

“There you go,” Peter interrupts your thoughts, your belongings in his hand. “Nothing was stolen.”

You take them from him, relief washing over you. “Thanks.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wandering around your body, checking for an injury. You miss the feeling of his hands on you. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“I didn’t,” you say. “I’m fine.”

He averts his eyes up to yours, and at last, the feeling hits you in the gut. 

Who would’ve thought a pair of brown eyes could drown you to your death? You would laugh at yourself once if I told you your heart would cripple under his brown eyes, your breath would hitch, and your core burns in yearning for him.

And yet, now, there you stand.

Ready to ignite under his touch.

“Right,” he drops his hands. “Nice.”

He nods, like he always does, biting his lips. “Just follow the crowd, alright? Don’t- don’t change the route or something.”

With that, he turns around to leave. 

The feeling sinks back.

He finally acknowledged you when he thought you were in danger. This was the first time after that day that he actually held a conversation with you. 

Suddenly, a lamp lights in your brain. 

You know how to drive him crazy.

x

Peter narrows his eyes, trying to decipher your intention. This is the third time this week– not to mention it’s been ten days he’s been babysitting you from the air– yet you are determined to die.

At least, that’s how it looks from the roof of a skyscraper.

Yes, he is following you. No, he is not stalking you. 

In his defence, you are proving to be more of a challenge than any other criminal he has ever fought; he needs to keep an eye on you.

It was rather confusing at first; how all the bad luck seemed to greet you only. However, later on, the realisation has hit him like  lightning, shedding light on your clandestine intentions.

In the beginning, it started with small clumsiness.

Peter felt the ache hammer his temples as if thorns were prickling against his eyes. He needed to sleep. Three hours were simply not enough for every day of the week.

He would sleep if only the haughty professor giving the lecture would stop scrutinising him the moment his head hit the desk. Thus, there he is, attempting at his best to force his eyes open. 

He stares at the board. Takes in the numbers and denoted letters, notices how none of them mean anything to him. He must’ve stopped listening a long while ago.

He glares at the lecturer. Notes how he glares back and that the green of his eye is extremely vibrant. Wonders if he is indeed human.

He focuses on the lecturer’s lips. Thinks the professor might not be the cleanest person on earth because of the beards surrounding his lips. Decides he is too sleep-deprived for this. 

He looks around. Doesn’t understand how and why his eyes land on you. You look bored as well. And dismal. He’d know; he has looked at you more than anyone else. 

He wonders if you are upset because of him or if something happened in your life that he is not allowed to know any longer. He’d hate to drag you back into the same hell of a place as he did before everything went south. To have your sleep poisoned, your smile broken, and your heart shattered.

He wishes he never agreed to your help; it ended the same way regardless– him without you on his side.

He wonders whether your hair still smells like heaven, whether your phone screen is still cracked, and whether you bought a new kettle for your home. 

He doesn't see the yearning in the brown of his eyes, but he can feel it in his heart. The crave to reach out and touch you. Feel your skin aflame under his touch. He has always, always, felt it, felt you melting under him. It filled his heart with something greater than he was willing to admit.

Losing it– losing you– was the hardest decision he has ever had to make.

He averts his eyes before yours can find them. 

He closes them for a moment– just for a moment– and lays his head on his arms. He will raise it back in a few minutes. He will.

When he does, he realises the lecture has ended, everyone has left, and his spider senses are tingling. 

Almost everyone except you. 

You are on your tiptoes, reaching for a globe almost your own size, dragging it by your fingertips. The black plastic base makes a low screeching sound, and Peter grimaces.

“Stop that, what are you doing?” he asks, standing up and shoving his backpack to his shoulders. 

“I need that,” is all you murmur as you drag the base closer, not minding the fact that the heavier part of the globe is facing you. 

“Let me,” he says as he advances, but before he can approach you, you shoot a nasty glare in his way. 

“I can do it myself,” you say and drag the base swiftly.

The globe falls with your force, aiming at your pretty head, threatening to break it in two. You are too late to protect your skull from it. Peter is not.

A silver web of Spiderman sticks to the sphere and pulls it away from you, right beside your feet. 

You flinch at the sound of the impact, and Peter frowns. “Where’s your head at? Did you really think you could carry that around?”

“I hoped. Is it broken?”

Peter scoffs, almost laughing genuinely, but stops. “Would be surprised if it wasn’t.”

He doesn’t wait for any reply, moving past you to the door. 

Peter didn’t denote any meaning to it. It was an unlucky accident and a lucky coincidence that he was there. He had to admit, he did panic when he saw your frightened face, trying to cover yourself from the blow, but that is how he always felt when something happened to you.

Thus, by the next day, he had forgotten about it. That is until he took notice of the bandage around your dominant hand.

His eyes were narrowed, trying to figure out how you’d managed to harm yourself. There was no way for it to be broken, and yet it was a mystery to him how you managed a gash that deep to be bandaged. 

It was none of his business.

Yes, of course. None of his business. He shouldn’t wonder, as there is absolutely no reason for him to worry. He shouldn’t give in to the urge to walk up to you and question you. Or get mad at you for not being careful like he used to do.

He put distance between you for a reason. 

Albeit you are indeed with an injury, it could have been worse with him around. Or he could have prevented it. You could have been captured, or tormented, or gotten into another accident trying to save him, and even though your hand must have bled again, you are better off, right? You could’ve been—

“What happened to your hand?”

You look up, eyes nonchalant grey and countenance indifferent towards him. He glances at the papers before you, deducing that he must have intervened with your studies. You shouldn’t have studied in the canteen anyway.

“Nothing serious,” you wave off your bandaged hand, which only makes Peter more uneasy. He doesn’t enjoy seeing you injured– no matter how small and insignificant it is.

“You cut it?” his brown eyes never leave yours, and he feels heartburn inside his chest at the sight of you. This might not be the best idea. 

“Yeah.”

You are cold. Distant and indifferent. Unlike the first days, when he’d drown in your sorrow, cursing himself for your every shed tear, and burn to ashes at the sight of you, you now have a nonchalance painting your visage shadowed with a confidence he is not sure where you’re getting from.

“Knife?” he nods. 

Your eyebrows raise, and Peter feels strange in his own skin. What is he doing? He has no right to this.

“Worried much, Parker?”

“Just want to make sure it’s nothing–”

“Nothing serious, that was the first thing I said,” you cut him off. 

Peter feels himself falter. “Alright, that’s-that’s good.”

You nod, lowering your gaze back to the letters and numbers before you.  Peter takes the cue and turns around to leave.

He looks back and sees you smile to yourself.

Going back, all of many things made sense, except that one. He didn’t think you’d be crazy enough to inflict pain upon yourself. 

Peter shakes his head, jumping to another roof to have you in his vision. You are walking out of a coffee shop with a boiling hot one in your hand. He wonders if you’ll somehow manage to spill it and burn yourself again. 

He watches your hair get wet in the rain and knows you deliberately didn’t take an umbrella with you. It is absolutely frustrating.

You are absolutely frustrating.

The birds that are chirping at this time of the year must be a simulation, Peter thinks. Or robots. He remembers the game that had android birds. Although he never understood their purpose, he supposed it was one of the ways to signal the player that twenty years later, androids will–

“Parker!”

Ashley’s call startles him and he turns around. Oh, she has dyed her hair purple. And you are there with her.

“Hey, Ash, what’s up?” he cracks a subtle smile after failing to catch your gaze. You are staring at the hot coffee before you. He thinks it is hot– who would want an iced coffee in winter? Maybe you, he’s not sure.

“Wanna sit with us?”

No, he doesn’t. Not with Ashley around. “Uh, actually, I was just about to leave.”

He wasn’t. He was going to think of the game and its complicated flowchart. Maybe guess how other choices may lead to totally different endings.

“Didn’t you just come?” She raises a brow.

Five minutes doesn’t count as just. “Yeah, for a change of air.”

Peter smiles and gets up from his seat to approach yours. “You ladies need me to bring you something?”

You don’t cast him a glance, toying with your coffee cup. He’d tell you to stop doing that unless you want to burn yourself, but he bites his tongue. It’s not his business.

“You’re gonna burn yourself.”

“No, I won’t. Thanks for the warning, though, Parker,” you continue to do it nonetheless.

Ashley is talking, and yet Peter can’t hear; his eyes are on the cup and the steam that hovers over it. Another blow that is a bit stronger than the one before, you’ll spill it and burn yourself–

Peter sees you hit the cup harder, and in a swift moment, he pushes the cup towards himself in the hope of not burning you. The dark liquid spills over, its steams soaring slowly.

“You alright?” his eyes check for anything wrong like they always do and rest on you when they don’t find any.

“Did you just spill her drink?” Ashley laughs. 

“No–”

“He totally did,” you nod, determinant in your movements.

Peter scowls in confusion, staring into your eyes. You tilt your head in response. You still are so pretty, he realises. He thinks it is not the right time to miss the taste of your lips against his. He never got to kiss you the second time, did he? If the first one even counted as a kiss.

“You owe me a cup of coffee, Parker.”

He watches you leave in perplexity.

As he follows you from the air, the irritating regret fills him for not kissing you the second time, but he shuns the thoughts away. He doesn’t know what this game will result in, how hard the limits will get pushed into the verge of the break, and he certainly doesn't want any new ideas to get to his head now that he sees you frequently.

What goes through your head with your each escapade is still a mystery that he has yet to solve. How you dare to face the most ridiculous circumstances without even a tremble in your hands is a wonder to him. 

How much more any of you is willing to go…that’s another story that Peter can complain about for hours.

His shoulders sulk with his idle steps. Gray stains the weather and his heart. He thinks of Mark. How he had to kill him. How the rage had blinded him, numbing his senses. What worries him sometimes is the fact that he does not regret Mark’s death, unlike all the other criminals who had to die in the battle against him. 

All he could think was you when he was face to face with that man.

He wonders if that makes him a bad one as well. 

He only wants to get back home and sleep. 

He looks around the campus, finding the best route out of all the busy chatterbox students and couples who are about to have sex out in public. 

He recognises your frame a few steps ahead from your backpack. He notices your limping state, frowns, and, without a second, thought approaches you. 

“Why are you limping?”

“I sprained my ankle,” you don’t seem surprised to see him as the reply flows smoothly from your lips. 

“Where?”

“The stairs.”

Peter’s heart stings with every one of your winces as you step on your feet. “Don’t you have a ride home?”

“I sprained my ankle after I turned down the ride.”

He checks his surroundings. “Let me take you to a doctor.”

You shake your head while Peter practically drags your backpack from your shoulders and carries it on his own. “It’s just a sprain.”

“Maybe, but you are walking on it, at least let me swing you home,” he keeps his tone as reserved as possible, not wanting to give away how this situation annoys him.

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

How would he know? He is not a doctor. “I don’t know, but I do know it’s not good to walk on it. Don’t insist, come on–”

“Peter,” this is the first time you’re calling him by his first name after everything. “If you weren’t around, I would still walk on my sprained ankle.”

“Yeah, but now that I’m around, let me help you,” his tone changes to irritation, and surprisingly, he knows you enjoy it.

“Oh, no,” you frantically shake your head before wincing again. And yet, a smile climbs up to your lips. Not a happy or a genuine one. One that resembles a smirk. “See, you being around has a big possibility that I’ll end up hurt.”

Peter’s frown deepens as his heart skips a beat. His mind runs amok with many interpretations of your words. “Is this what this is about?”

When you don’t answer, time fills in the gaps. He finally makes sense of every little bad luck. Pieces merge together like a puzzle. 

You’ve been putting yourself in trouble on purpose. 

He doesn’t plan to confront you about it yet. He has some thinking to do. 

“What?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“Don’t torture yourself, let me carry you home,” he ignores the question altogether. 

“I said no.”

He could not change your mind that day, just like you could not change his once. Yet, he did not have the heart to leave you alone unattended. 

Thus, he followed you home from a distance.

From that day on, he's made sure to keep an eye on you. 

Of course, there was no way of always being around you, and yet when he was, he’d have to prevent a disaster, whether from happening or from hurting you.

It was flattering, truly. To know you have placed enough trust in him to put yourself in ridiculous situations. It even drives him to actually not help you once, but his heart just won’t let him.

His night was mostly done; all he needed and wanted to do was idly check around the neighbourhood and make sure everyone was safe. He had a nice night– no big fights, just a few pickpockets and drunk potential dangers. 

On his way home, he decides to pass through your street for the last time just to make sure you are indeed safe.

To his luck, you are not.

At first, he struggles to recognize you from the tiny silhouette and almost passes through you swinging in the air. Something, however, stops him in mid-air. 

His eyes squint under the white cloth of the mask, and he jumps to the ground.

“It’s three in the morning, trouble,” his tone is indifferent, but what he feels is far from indifferent. 

“Didn’t ask for time, Spider,” you don’t cast him a glance, shrinking to your coat instead. He turns around, walking backwards. 

“Only homeless people and criminals wander around alone at this time. Which are you?” 

“Just a girl,” you disregard. “You should leave me alone.”

“It’s not safe,” he shakes his head. “You gotta stop this, sweetheart.”

He can feel the shift in the air around you. Your confident walk wavers only for a second, and yet he notices. 

“Stop what?” you ask, pretending that the name had no effect on you.

“Whatever game it is that you are playing,” Peter stops in his tracks; so do you. “Cut it out. It’s not safe.”

You look at him and shrug. “I can’t take you seriously with that mask.”

He takes it off with a quick movement, tousling his hair in the process. He would pay a heavy sum to know what you were feeling in the moment. He catches the change in your gaze and the quick glimpse at his lips. 

He murmurs your name, “I know why you are doing this.”

“Pray tell.”

“You are trying to prove that you can get hurt without having a Spiderman in your life–”

“You said it, not me.”

“By jumping at every damned opportunity to get hurt,” he finishes the sentence ignoring your interruption. 

When you don’t say anything more, Peter feels the frustration slowly climb up his core. He is tired from worrying about you every day. For a few days, he exhausted his own mind for a glimpse at yours to understand the logic behind all this. 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

“How long do you plan on keeping this up?”

To his surprise, you finally look him in the eye. His heart skips a beat. He forces himself not to dwell on how much he misses you. 

“Until you stop the ‘for your own good’ bullshit.”

“Trouble, it was for your own good,” his tone has changed, growing tender now that your eyes rest on him. 

They remind him of the glow he's been admiring for the past months. The laughter echoing in his heart, the light shining in his soul. The heat and desire and lust burning to ashes in his veins.

Maybe it is late. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.

“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Parker,” you stride forward, and Peter hurries after you. He can’t leave this conversation like this.

He has to show you how insane it is to hurt yourself deliberately for his attention.

“Are you seriously that mad? That crazy enough to cut your own hand?” he demands when he catches up to you. 

“When the hell did I cut my own hand?”

You sound truly confused, and he is only a step left to madness. 

“The bandage!”

“Oh, no, it had nothing under it. But it did work, didn’t it?” you laugh, and Peter’s body ignites in so many colours. “Did you really think I would hurt myself for someone?”

“You burned yourself and dropped a globe!”

“No, I didn’t,” you laugh again, and not only Peter feels the desperation mingle with anger, but he also feels the self control slowly slipping between his palms. Ah, that laugh.

“You did–”

“You prevented any of that happening, remember?”

“And you bet on that chance?!”

When you giggle again, Peter’s eyes fall to your lips. He drowns the urge. It is neither the time nor the place. 

“Yeah, I did. You should try the same thing sometimes instead of running like a coward.”

He has no idea what you said. The only thing he can hear is the dulcet tone and the lips singing the tune. Would you slap him if he slammed his lips to yours?

You’d have a right to.

“Trouble–”

“Stop calling me that, Parker,” you beckon with your hand. “And goodnight.”

Peter does not think he is a coward. Not when it comes to being the hero. When it comes to his heart, however, he is not so sure.

All he knows is that the obligation to keep you safe is growing heavy on him. 

Its stress is straining his nerves thin, his feelings elevating the unease further. He can’t handle this any longer, and yet here he is, wanting to make sure you cross the road safely.

Watching you from afar proves to be more difficult than he had guessed initially. 

To have you in sight all the time and yet not be able to hear you, talk to you, or touch you is pushing him to the verge of madness. Your memories start to haunt him, your smile before his eyes, your touch on his skin, and, oh sweet Lord, your lips hovering over his lips.

He curses every interruption ever hindering your lips away. 

The feelings he has buried deep dig their way up to the surface with every strand of your hair wavering in the wind. Every laugh that is not presented to his ears taunts him. Every touch lingers on a skin that isn’t his burdens his chest. 

He feels like he’s going crazy.

Lost in thought, he misses how you don’t check the road before walking. How the cars won’t stop for your sake.

He was afraid that you’d spill your hot coffee and burn yourself. No, you’re going to kill yourself in a car crash.

His heartbeat picks up as he stands up in a second, sticking a web to the roof after jumping off it. The cold breeze would not usually hurt him; thus, he is sure it is the adrenaline that spills cold water down his spine. 

When you enter his vision, so close to a car that’s speeding as if it’s going to fly, he opens his arms and grabs you by the waist.

Your coffee spills on him, burning his skin, yet he clenches his jaw at the pain. 

Swinging over the cars, his ears sting from your screech. He carries himself up by the web and lands on the rooftop.

Leaving your waist empty, he takes off his mask in rage.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he yells. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Your nose is red from the bone-shattering weather, but your smile radiates sunlight enough to warm hearts. “Oh, hey, Parker.”

“No! Don’t ‘hey, Parker’ me, you hear me?! Just-just stop this madness!”

Peter is frantic, which amuses you more. His face is red, and you are certain it is not from the weather. The vein in his neck bulges, but it does nothing to scare you.

“What madness?”

“Stop trying to kill yourself to prove a point, trouble, or you’ll actually die one of these days!”

Your smile widens. Your plan worked. It took a terrifying amount of fear to implement it and much more trust in him to act on it, but in the end, it worked, and you are so close to what you want now.

“I can die any time of any day.”

“Yes, but no,– fuck!” Peter curses roughly. 

You know you just have to push him a little bit more. Make him face his fears. Just a little bit more, and he’ll break. 

“I can jump from this roof, you know, you are practically encouraging me.”

He lets out a frustrated groan. "Alright! Alright! Fine, fine! Stop this! You win," he screams, hands in the air, eyes wide with fear and defeat. "Hell, you're gonna be the death of me!"

“I win?” you ask, eyebrows raised. "So, you’ll stop the 'for your own good' bullshit?"

Peter stays silent for a moment, the only indicator of his distress being his swiftly heaving chest.

Your shoulders sulk at his hesitation. 

If you’ve gone through all the trouble and still failed to change his mind, then maybe it is not worth it. Maybe it was easier for him to endure your absence than it was for you to endure his. Maybe he has already accepted the situation, unlike you, who was simply tolerating it for a change to betide.

Defeat and desperation grow heavy on your shoulders. It carries to your eyes as well. 

You shake your head and turn to leave.

Peter’s hand grabs your wrist before pulling you into his chest. His thumb raises your chin, and before you can react, his lips crash with yours.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. The last breath leaves your lungs as Peter’s hand travels to your waist and lower. This time, you don’t hesitate; you don’t let the shock confuse you.

You kiss him back. 

You welcome his lips over yours, letting your hand touch his soft skin. 

God, you’ve missed it.

It is soft and tender. The reminder of the affection you once had, of the tension you never lost.

It is not enough, and yet, nothing ever made you feel this at peace. 

You draw a sharp breath when he slowly breaks the kiss.

"You owed me one,” he whispers against your lips. You flutter your eyes open, gazing at the brown you’ve missed. 

He parts his lips to talk, "And yes, I will... stop the- the thi–”

You don’t let him. You know what he’s going to say anyway.

You don’t want to hear it. Why would you wish to hear it when you can feel it, taste it?

This time, the kiss is sloppy, hungry, filled with a yearn radiating from your lips to your hearts. It is rough and firm, just like his hands around your waist. You didn’t know there was any distance left between you two, and yet he managed to pull you closer by his hand on your lower back. 

His other hand climbs up your neck, cupping your cheek. 

It was cold outside, and now you are sweating under your coat.

You play with the hair behind his neck and let his tongue between your lips. The deepening kiss feels wrong out in the air, but his body against yours numbs any morals.

You forget frost, the traffic, the spilled coffee.

He forgets the mask, the roof, rain falling onto you.

There is nothing and everything, and both of them are you.

x

“How about you tidy up your place from time to time?”

You step on Peter’s shirt on your way to his bed. 

“This is the tidied-up version,” he lays next to you, a cookie plate in his bed.

“You sure you’re okay with the crumbs?” you involuntarily smile and take one, but instead of biting it, you divide it in half.

“Yeah, it’s seen worse,” Peter watches the crumbs fall to his bed and averts his eye back to you. You look disgusted.

Instead of denying it, he smirks.

“Ew, Peter!”

“Ew yourself, missy. My bed is cleaner than your room.”

“There is a sock,” you point to the corner of his bed. 

“Does it smell?”

“No, but it has a gap,” you laugh and don’t notice Peter staring at your lips. “Can you wear it?”

“Later,” he murmurs before moving you by the chin to face him. You smile against his lips as he kisses you.

Your days have turned into soft touches with him by your side and your nights into lustful kisses with you on his bed. 

You don’t complain. He still drives you mad, pushes your limits with every study you two ever have to do, but he also encourages you, loves you, and on nights like this where it is only you, the serene darkness and him, kisses you like it’s the first time every time.

A slow, almost non-existent moan escapes from you, and he smiles his mocking smile. You let him guide you to your back as he props himself up by his elbow over you. His hand roams your body and reaches the hem of your shirt to travel under it–

“You guys want anything else?” the door cracks open.

“Oh, come on, May!”

okay, this is the final! i'm so so so sorry that it took almost three months, and thank you to every one of you who patiently waited for me &lt;33

i loved writing dulcet, and i hope you loved reading it with me, please let me know what you think of the series and the final.

if you want, buy me a coffee

tags✿ : @starsval @taylorann2013 @miwagila @just-henny @pepsicolacoochie @teddtheweeb @1ts-izzy @simp-sentral @naok-iyuu @hearttjason @itsfloorcry @olivezgalore @wildestestdreams @patis643 @lovelyweepingrebel @thedavax @qwintlimon7 @delwrites @daddyjackfrost @eddieslooneymoonie @msstillinskimorgan @lilmaymayy @tarzinnia @warrenposts @thehappygrungelife @peridotermine @ihearttities @hitoshislut @sassyrizznerd @aheadfullofsteverogers @booksandfairytales-mainblog @marmie-noir @thelonerlover @ttulipwritezz @unicornforscale @gorillaglue23 @inkthgoat @dinovickydzillarex @simp-sentral @miwagila @adiaz-25 @void21 @pingpongfingfong @just-levyy @mommymortuary @kindlover @turningtoclown @xreaderbooksreads @anuncalledbridge @ezzynf @birdsinmywalls @somethingsmart123 @dreamsarecloserwithyou @sincericida @hollandweather

[mvltisstuff]

could you please write ANYTHING for steven! no one writes for him and i love your writing!

would love a friends to lovers story but im working with crumbs so anything will do

you are in love - s.c

summary: request

steven conklin x reader

a/n: he looks so cute in this gif i’m crying 🩷 i hope you enjoy this, one of my fav tropes :))

the years had passed by so fast, each one leaving lost confessions in the dust. y/n would always regret it, but then new years came around and she promised herself she would say something. then year one passed, and year two.

she didn’t say anything to steven. she only gave small hints and signs, but he never really saw any of them. little did y/n know was that he was doing the same, sending her little messages with his mind and he broke every time she didn’t notice. it was pure oblivion, neither of them seeing the pure love they had for each other.

they lived as friends for too long. the runs on the beach, the bakery trips, the boardwalk dates were still friendly engagements. it was the complete opposite of what they wanted.

y/n had no idea how steven was missing it, even being valedictorian. he was the first to stand up at her sport games, or any of her activities that she did good at. he’d always have the most loving beam on his face when she showed him a good grade she got on a test. and she was the first one on her feet at his graduation.

she helped him practice his speech all the time, over the phone and even some long weekends in person. y/n was always there for steven, through the good times and the bad. when he achieved his goal, or when he lost susannah. she held him while he cried, listened to every agonizing word that left his mouth. he has no clue how to thank her for any of that, as she was the only consistent support system in his life, the constant source of love that he could never be derived of.

she drove hours to his school, sitting right in the audience with his family as he walked up to the podium. each word of his speech left with such grace, being delivered with his class in a mature way. the moment the last word in the paper left his mouth, she was on her feet, clapping her hands together and getting his attention first. his eyes wandered to her, the most alluring smile illuminating the room he was in. he was surrounded by classmates and their families, but suddenly, he and y/n became the only people there. he stepped down, accepting his diploma and making his way out after the graduation ceremony.

y/n pushed through the crowd of people in their blue gowns and caps, trying to find the only one who mattered to her. as she twisted and turned around the people, seeing no one that was remotely close to steven. he noticed her from far away, pulling away from an embrace with his mother and sister, seeing y/n trying to shuffle through the crowds.

his feet started moving toward her before he could even think straight. he just saw her gorgeous face, the one he just wants to love out of the silence. she finally landed her eyes on him, seeing the diploma being handed off to laurel. she started stepping quicker toward him, but it still felt like slow motion.

her heels clicked on the ground outside, trying to contain the wide smile she had on her lips. she was preparing to be there for steven after his graduation, but only as a friend. she so badly wanted more, but she pushed through their friendship with what seemed like ease.

when they finally reached, he pulled her into his arms, lifting her legs off the ground and her knees bent. y/n wrapped her arms around him, softly squealing in his ear about how proud she was, and that his speech was perfect. she started to blabber on about how amazing he is, moments away from spilling her whole heart out on the floor.

he giggles at her words flying out of her mouth at an insane speed, placing his hands on her shoulder and stealing her from her own mind.

“steven, you don’t even understand how good that was!” she rants in the most adorable way. “i don’t know how else to say how proud of you i am!”

“y/n, listen,” he grins, lifting her chin up to look at him, who stands tall over her.

“i’m sorry! i just needed you to know how amazing you are.”

he can only manage to smile back, tilting his head a bit at her. “can i talk now?” he asks, jokingly, as she quiets down to let him talk.

“i just wanted to say, that i’m leaving the stupid steven in high school,” he begins, leaving y/n’s brows and nose to scrunch up.

“huh?”

he places his two fingers back on the tip of her chin, lifting it closer to his face and planting his lips on hers. it felt so natural, as if they could’ve been doing it for years. y/n simply let it happen, the moment she’d been praying for finally happening.

his soft, warm lips touched against her own, the faint taste of mint gum on lips and the strength of his cologne. a weight was lifted off stevens shoulders as he deepened the kiss, the same load being swiped off y/n’s.

when they finally fell back down to earth, y/n smiled against stevens lips, the sweet grin only making him further infatuated with her.

“you’re the only one i want, y/n,” he says. “i can’t hide it anymore.”

“don’t ever hide it again,” y/n replies, reaching up on her toes to peck his lips again. the firework had finally been ignited, and burst beautifully in the brightest colors in the sky.

[sehtoast]

Forget Me Not (Homelander x Reader)

1.4k words | gender neutral reader

Ask Prompt: HL x gn reader. Where hl loses his memory and runs away to another state where he meets the reader 🙏

You were totally prepared to swing first and ask questions later. Of course, that was before you saw him. Standing there drinking from your milk carton at three in the morning, fridge light illuminating him against the darkness of your kitchen, was The Homelander himself

You hide the baseball bat before he turns to you, a droplet of milk dribbling down his chin. 

“You should really invest in whole milk,” he says, sloshing what little was left inside the carton. “Tastes way better.”

You could hardly believe the night had been real when you woke up the next morning.  But, sure enough, he was still there.

“So, how did I end up with The Homelander of all people in my house,” you’d asked nervously. Reality had finally set in and you both sat at the table to talk.

He looked at you like you had seven heads.

“What’s a ‘Homelander?’”

Yeah… That really did happen. If not for the fact he looked entirely serious with such a genuine curiosity in his tone, you’d have thought he was bullshitting you.

Somehow, some way, he’d lost his memory.  Ran away from wherever he was, showed up at your house out of all possible others.  He said it seemed more inviting, but he couldn’t quite explain why.  

You’d tried to explain to him how to find his way back to New York, how to find Vought Tower so that he could go home and get some help, but he seemed too afraid to leave.

“What if I get lost?”  He’d asked, eyes twinkling with nervous energy.  “You said it’s north-east, but aren't there a lot of things north-east? What if I get the wrong place?”

You don’t know what possessed you, but you decided to let him stay.  Let him borrow some spare clothes that made him look much less… well, like a superhero.  You’re sure Vought would come looking for him eventually, so you might as well keep him safe and sound, right?

After helping him out of that suit, you can’t help but wonder if all super suits are total death traps.  If most heroes are padded up to look larger than life, but are really just plain as can be underneath.

Before he falls asleep in your spare room, he tells you the one thing he can remember.

“My name’s John…”

The next day, he follows you around everywhere.  You work remotely from home, and he sits next to you on the couch while you do.  The TV plays in the background while you cycle through tasks and emails, but his attention seems fixed on you entirely.  The clickety-clack of your keyboard fascinates him and he ends up curious as to how you type so fast, what you’re doing, what your code inputs mean.

He’s an interesting fella, curious by nature to the point he’s a total snoop.  You catch him in your bedroom on the third day, fingers trailing over your blankets as his gaze pans around the whole room.  It seems innocent enough, and he’s given you no reason to feel he’s out to hurt you.

When you ask him what he’s up to, he just shrugs, saying something… interesting.

“I wish I would've had a nice room when I was little…”

It conflicts with what you know to be true about him, but also makes you wonder if he’s starting to remember things.  You ask him to elaborate, but he can’t.  He presses his palm to his forehead as if he’s in pain and just shakes his head.  

“I don’t know. I just know I didn’t…”  He trails off, and you’re there to press a soothing touch to his shoulder.

You tell him not to worry too much.

You take him out grocery shopping one day.  He’s like a fish out of water.

He doesn’t know the first thing about navigating a store and doesn’t do much more than follow you like a lost puppy.  Hell, at the end, he doesn’t even know how to help the cashier with bagging.

He is, however, incredibly helpful when it comes to bringing everything in.  He is quite literally the one trip wonder, dangling every single bag from his arms and walking in as though they weigh nothing.

You could get used to that.

You cook a proper dinner that night and he helps.  Well, ‘help’ is a strong word.  More like he watches and hands you the occasional ingredient.

You’re fascinated by him.  He seems oblivious to normal living skills, but a part of him seems to genuinely want to learn them.  More than that, he seems so… peaceful.  You recall his recent erratic behaviors in the public eye, his meltdown on his birthday, his snippiness with interviewers…

But he seems so much less tense now.  Maybe it was the memory loss.  Maybe he just likes the quiet.  Who knows?

What you do know is, by the second week, you hope he never leaves.  You’re almost praying that his memory never returns despite knowing that's selfish.

It’s nice to share your space with someone.  It’s nice to have him around.

He’s sweet despite his dramatics.  Helpful and eager.  He’s company, and it’s been… a very long time since you’ve felt like you weren’t alone.  You didn’t quite live in bumfuck nowhere, but it was close enough that he was a blessing.

Your heart sinks on the day he comes downstairs wearing his suit.

He looks at you with those big blue eyes, but within them is a sadness. 

There is recognition floating around in there, swirling with that determined fire that you’ve seen on so many screens before. Yet he still looks so melancholy.

You offer him his morning coffee, a shared routine between you both for the past two months, and he sips at it quietly.

He used to hate it, but now..?

“Are you going back?” You ask after some time, not daring to meet his eyes.

Your heart sinks when he tells you he is.

“I’ll miss you…”

He struggles to reciprocate the words properly, but… he leaves you with a tight hug before his departure.

You don’t know why you cry so hard when he goes.  No, no…

That’s a lie.  You do know.

You miss him terribly.  

You miss him for days, for weeks.  

You watch the celebrations for his return.  You touch the screen of your laptop, wishing he was still at your side, still peering over your shoulder, still riding alongside you in your car.

But he isn’t.

And you don’t think he ever will be again.

You learn to breathe again after some time.  You feel good enough to crawl out of bed, collected enough to clean up the house a little.  You fall into your hobbies again, but nothing feels right.

It’s all just… dull.

And you hate that you know why.

You hate that you pray every night to hear your fridge door shutting, to hear the clinking of glass in your cabinets, to hear him step on that creaky floorboard on the steps.

But you don’t.

You don’t hear any of it.

Eventually you just stop listening.

Which means you don’t hear what slips through your window.  There are no footsteps, no creaks or cracks.  You don’t hear his nervous breaths.

You only feel when he lowers himself onto the other side of your bed.  You about jump out of your skin, ready to reach for the bat by your nightstand until you realize just who has come to see you.

You throw yourself at him entirely, hugging him tight, arms and legs wrapping around him to squeeze and squeeze and never let go.  He holds you close, nuzzling into your neck.

He tells you how much he’s missed you.  That he misses the quiet of your life together, that it was the nicest thing to happen to him in… well, his whole life, really.  He thanks you for taking care of him, tells you he wants to do the same for you.

Over the next few days, you have a visitor every night.

Within a few weeks, he kisses you for the first time.

After six months, you are a resident of Vought Tower, living with him in his penthouse.

He is different in this environment.  More demanding, more intense, but not to you. 

No.

When he comes back, when he comes home, he falls into your arms much like you did the night he came back to you.  He leaves his burdens at the door, safe and sound with you.

The peace didn’t necessarily come from losing his memory. It didn’t come from the solitude of your old home, nor the routine of domesticity.

It came from you.

He found his peace with you.