#i've been thinking a lot about this as you can tell

[harrysfolklore]

but daddy i love him, part one - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc: 17k

folkie radio: HERE. IT. IS. FINALLY !!!!!!!! as i've stated before i'm absolutely terrified of posting this, this is my longest fic ever and different from what i've done before. i know it's a long read but i'm really proud of it and i think it's worth it. IN THIS FIC MORE THAN ANY OTHER. I ENCOURAGE YOU TO LEAVE FEEDBACK.

DISCLAIMER: as stated in the title THIS IS PART ONE!!! part two is ready in my drafts and will be posted shortly (in a week tops). i'll stop talking now. BUCKLE UP AND ENJOY (and please leave feedback okay)

Melbourne, 2015

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour - that strange liminal space between late night and early morning when most reasonable people are asleep. But you've never been great at reasonable, and jet lag has your body clock completely scrambled.

That's how you end up in the hotel's deserted coffee shop at 1 AM, nursing a hot chocolate and trying to calm your nerves about tomorrow.

You're so lost in thought you don't notice someone else enter until they speak.

"They're still open?"

You look up and your heart skips. Of course you recognize him immediately - Max Verstappen, the 17-year-old prodigy your father hasn't stopped talking about for months. "The next big thing," Papa had said, watching testing footage. "He's going to shake up the whole paddock, just watch."

"Sort of," you gesture to your drink, trying to keep your voice casual. "The barista took pity on me. Said she'd make one last drink before closing."

He glances at the now-dark counter and sighs. Up close, he looks even younger than in the photos you've seen, but there's something in his eyes - a fierce determination that makes you understand why everyone's been talking about him.

"Here," you push your barely-touched hot chocolate towards him. "I'm not really drinking it anyway."

He hesitates. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Probably shouldn't have caffeine at this hour anyway."

He sits across from you, taking a careful sip. "Thanks. I'm Max."

I know, you think. Everyone knows. The youngest F1 driver in history, Jos Verstappen's son, the rookie everyone's watching.

"You're not from around here," you note his accent, playing along with the pretense that you don't know exactly who he is.

"Neither are you," he grins, and something warm flutters in your stomach. His smile transforms his whole face, makes him look his age.

"Fair point. Here for the Grand Prix?"

"You could say that." He studies you, and you wonder if he can hear your heart racing. "You?"

"Something like that." You're enjoying this little game more than you probably should.

"Cryptic."

You laugh. "Says the equally cryptic stranger."

"Okay, okay." He takes another sip. "I'm one of the new drivers. Toro Rosso."

You try to hide your smile. You've watched every clip of his testing sessions, heard every conversation your father has had about his potential. "Ah. The youngest F1 driver in history. That must be a lot of pressure."

He shrugs, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of expectations already heavy on him. You know that weight - you've carried your own version of it your whole life.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Scared?"

"No," he answers too quickly, then sighs. "Maybe a little. You won't tell anyone I said that, right?"

There's something vulnerable in his admission that makes your heart ache. Behind all the hype and headlines, he's just a boy on the verge of something enormous.

"Your secret's safe with me." You lean back. "For what it's worth, I think you'll do great."

"You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me."

If only he knew how many hours you'd spent watching his karting videos. How many times you'd heard your father say "That Verstappen boy is going to change everything."

"Let's call it intuition."

He laughs - a genuine, unguarded sound that makes your pulse quicken. "You're different."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Just… different." He finishes the hot chocolate. "Most people, when they find out who I am, they either get weird about it or start asking about Jos."

"Your father?"

He nods, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes - the same shadow you sometimes get when people mention Toto.

"Well, I know a thing or two about father-related pressure, so…"

"Yeah?" He looks interested. "What does your father do?"

You check your watch, knowing it's time to end this little charade. "Oh wow, is that the time? I should probably head up."

"Wait," he stands as you do. "I didn't catch your name."

You pause at the door, turning back with a small smile, savoring what you know will be his reaction. "I'm YN Wolff."

His eyes widen. "Wolff? As in…"

"See you in the paddock, Max Verstappen."

You leave him standing there, but not before catching his surprised laugh. Your heart is racing as you walk away - from the deception, from his smile, from the way his eyes had lit up when he laughed.

The next morning, you spot him in the paddock. He does a double-take when he sees you with the Mercedes team, then grins and shakes his head. You're wearing your team kit now, no more pretending to be just another girl in a hotel coffee shop.

"Cryptic stranger," he mouths at you as he passes.

You just smile, trying to ignore how your stomach flips when he winks at you.

Neither of you could have known then - in that quiet hotel coffee shop at 1 AM - that this was the beginning of something that would change your lives.

Singapore, 2015

The paddock is eerily quiet now, the usual chaos of race day reduced to a whisper of distant maintenance and soft lighting. You're sitting on one of the team benches, the night air cool against your skin. Max is close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the line between friendship and something more feels increasingly blurred.

It wasn't a sudden thing, this connection with Max. It had been a slow burn, a gradual unraveling that began that night in the hotel coffee shop and grew through stolen moments between races, brief conversations in crowded paddocks, and late-night messages that became increasingly frequent.

At first, it was simple curiosity. You'd catch each other's eye across the paddock, exchange a knowing smile. Then came the texts - random observations about races, inside jokes about team dynamics, comments that walked the line between friendly and flirtatious. Max had a way of making you laugh like no one else could, his wit sharp and unexpected.

He nudges you playfully. "So, daughter of the most powerful team principal in Formula 1. Must be interesting."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. "Not as glamorous as you might think."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Try me."

You pause, considering. The weight of your father's reputation is something you've carried your entire life - a constant backdrop to every interaction, every moment.

"Imagine," you say slowly, "having every conversation potentially recorded, every interaction analyzed. One wrong move and it's not just about you, but about your family's reputation."

Max's expression shifts. There's understanding there - he knows something about familial expectations, about the pressure of carrying a name.

"My father," he says quietly, "Jos Verstappen. Not exactly a walk in the park."

The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. These moments have become more frequent - brief windows where the polished racing personas fall away, revealing something raw and real.

"Tell me," you prompt softly.

He takes a deep breath. "Constant pressure. Every race, every test, every moment - it's like I'm living not just for myself, but for some expectation he's created. Sound familiar?"

You laugh, but it's a sound tinged with something harder. Sadness. Recognition. "Absolutely."

Your conversations have been like this lately - layers peeling back, revealing something raw and real beneath the polished exterior of Formula 1.

"Sometimes," Max continues, "I wonder if I'm racing for myself or for the legacy everyone else wants me to create."

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the night. "Little Wolff?"

Lewis approaches, his team kit still impeccable despite the late hour. His eyes narrow when he sees Max, taking in your proximity.

Lewis had been a constant in your life long before Max entered the picture. Since joining Mercedes, he'd taken on a role that was part mentor, part protective older brother. It wasn't an official designation, but in the Mercedes family, it might as well have been law.

Lewis knew everything about you - your hopes, your fears and everything in between. He was more than just your father's driver. He was family.

"Oh," Lewis says, a mix of surprise and something else - protection, wariness. "Verstappen."

Max stands immediately. "I was just leaving," he says quickly, a touch of nervousness breaking through his usual confidence. "See you around."

As Max walks away, Lewis turns to you, his protective big brother persona fully activated. "What," he says slowly, "was that about?"

You start walking together, the paddock lights casting long shadows. Lewis' stride is purposeful, matching yours.

"Nothing," you say, but the word sounds unconvincing even to your own ears, "He's my friend."

"Friend," he says, uncertainty in his voice, "Just be careful, okay? Things are never that simple in this paddock" he'd said, and you knew he meant more than just about Max.

You said nothing. But you heard him. You always did.

Barcelona, 2016

The champagne sparkles in the late afternoon sun as you watch from a secluded corner of the paddock. You smile as you watch Max on that podium - the youngest winner in Formula 1 history. Your smile is wide, uncontrolled, and you're grateful for the relative privacy of your spot. If anyone noticed that your eyes never left Max, that your smile was meant only for him, they didn't say.

You remember the first time you saw him race, really race - not just in videos or testing. The raw talent, the fearlessness that made your breath catch. Over the past year, you'd watched him grow from that confident teenager in the Melbourne coffee shop into someone who commanded respect on track. And somewhere along the way, between stolen moments in the paddock and late-night conversations, he'd become so much more than just another driver.

The past year had been a dance of almost-moments and careful distances. Shared glances across crowded rooms, text messages that made you smile at 3 AM, touches that lingered just a second too long. You'd both known the complications, the impossibility of it all - the Mercedes team principal's daughter and Red Bull's rising star. It was like a modern Romeo and Juliet, except instead of warring families, it was competing Formula 1 teams.

Later that evening, you stand in your father's office doorway, heart hammering but determined. Toto is absorbed in post-race papers, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the formidable team principal even hours after the race.

"Papa?"

He looks up, his expression softening slightly at the sight of you. "Yes, Schatz?"

"I'm going out," you say, trying to keep your voice casual while mentally rehearsing your prepared explanation.

Toto's eyebrows rise slightly. "Out?"

"With some friends," you elaborate, grateful for years of practice at maintaining your composure under his scrutiny. "To celebrate the race."

He sets his papers down, removing his glasses. "Friends from the team?"

Your heart skips. "Just… friends from the paddock," you say carefully. "Daniel invited me."

"Ricciardo?" His tone sharpens slightly.

"He's always been nice to me," you reason, which isn't a lie. Daniel has been a friend since his early days, always treating you like a friend rather than just the boss' daughter.

Toto studies you for a long moment, and you force yourself to meet his gaze steadily, even as your pulse races. You've always been close to your father - he's been your hero, your guide, your biggest supporter. The weight of potentially disappointing him sits heavy in your chest.

"Be careful," he finally says, though his tone suggests he's not entirely convinced. "You know how complicated things can be in this world."

"I know, Papa," you say softly. "I'll be careful. Promise."

Getting into the Red Bull celebration is easier than expected, thanks to Daniel's help. He meets you at a side entrance, his trademark grin wider than usual.

"Looking good, Wolff," he winks, pulling you into a quick hug. "Though I'm pretty sure your dad would kill me if he knew I was helping you sneak in."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," you say, trying to ignore the guilt that accompanies the words.

"Just…" Daniel's expression turns serious for a moment. "Be careful, yeah? With Max. He's my teammate and you're like my sister, and I don't want either of you getting hurt."

You're saved from responding by the noise of the party as he leads you inside. The atmosphere is electric - the joy of Max's first win filling the air along with music and laughter.

When Max spots you, his eyes widen, champagne glass freezing halfway to his lips. The surprise on his face quickly melts into something softer, more private. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over, that familiar smirk playing on his lips - the one that never fails to make your heart skip.

"Should I be worried about Mercedes spies in our midst?" he teases, but his eyes are soft, drinking you in.

"You know me," you counter, matching his playful tone while trying to ignore how good he looks in his race winner's shirt, "I live for trouble."

"That you do, Wolff." He steps closer, just slightly, but enough to make your breath catch. "I didn't think you'd come."

"And miss your first win celebration? Never." You mean it to sound light, teasing, but your voice comes out softer, more sincere than intended.

"Still can't believe it," he says, shaking his head with a boyish grin that makes him look his age for once. "My first win."

"I can," you reply, taking a sip of champagne. "I've seen how you drive. It was only a matter of time."

He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. "You've been watching me drive, then?"

"Someone has to keep an eye on the competition," you tease, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"Is that what I am? Competition?" He moves closer, and suddenly the music seems far away.

"Among other things." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.

The conversation flows easily between you, as it always has. You talk about the race, about his incredible overtakes, about the moment he realized he was going to win. His eyes light up when he describes the feeling of crossing the finish line, and you find yourself caught between admiring his passion and getting lost in the way his hands move as he talks.

As the night progresses, the party gets louder, more crowded. Max notices you glancing around at the growing crowd.

"Want to get some air?" he asks, nodding toward a door that leads to a quieter area.

You follow him to a private terrace overlooking the city. The music is muffled here, and the night air is cool on your skin. You lean against the railing, city lights twinkling below.

"Better?" he asks, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Much." You turn to face him, drawn in by the way the lights play across his features. "Though I have to say, you throw quite a party for a rookie winner."

He laughs, the sound low and warm. "Rookie? I've been racing since before I could walk."

"Oh right, I forgot - Max Verstappen, born in a go-kart," you tease, making him smile wider.

"You're impossible, you know that?" He shakes his head, but his eyes are fond.

"Part of my charm," you counter, feeling bold in the privacy of the moment.

"Is that what you call it?" He's even closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"Would you rather I was predictable?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging.

"Never." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down your spine. "Predictable is boring. And you, YN Wolff, are anything but boring."

The tension between you is electric, years of carefully maintained distance crumbling in this quiet moment. Your heart is racing so fast you wonder if he can hear it.

"Well," you say, stepping into his space until there's barely a breath between you, "I think the winner deserves a reward."

Before you can second-guess yourself, you're kissing him. It's everything and nothing like you imagined - soft at first, tentative, like you're both afraid of breaking something precious. Then his hand comes up to cup your face, and the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. You can taste champagne on his lips, feel the solid warmth of him against you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world spins around you.

It's a perfect moment, suspended in time, until he pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

"You're trouble, Wolff," he murmurs against your lips, but he's smiling that smile that makes your heart flip. "Beautiful trouble."

"Scared?" you challenge softly, echoing your first conversation in Melbourne.

"Terrified," he admits, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "But in a good way."

You stay at the party longer than you should, caught in Max's orbit. Every smile, every touch, every shared look feels charged with possibility. But reality crashes back hours later when you return.

Your dad is waiting, his expression thunderous in a way you've rarely seen directed at you. Your stomach drops as soon as you see him, the lingering warmth from Max's kisses turning to ice in your veins.

"Would you like to explain," he says slowly, each word precise and controlled, "why did I receive a call informing me that my daughter was at a Red Bull celebration?"

"Papa, I-" you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture.

"Don't." His voice is hard. "Don't try to fool me. I've seen you with Max Verstappen."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. You want to defend yourself, explain that Max isn't just the Red Bull driver he sees, that there's more to him.

"Do you have any idea," he continues, "what position this puts me in? Puts the team in?"

"It's not about the teams," you say quietly, finding your voice. "It's just-"

"Just what?" he challenges. "Just you and him? Nothing is ever just anything in Formula 1, YN. Every action has consequences. Every relationship has implications."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "This sport isn't about fair. It's about winning. About loyalty. About trust." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "How can I trust you to put the team first when you're sneaking around with our biggest rival?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I would never betray the team," you whisper, hurt that he could even think that.

"Maybe not intentionally," he says, his voice softening slightly. "But this… whatever this is with Max Verstappen… it can't continue. I won't tell you again. Stay away from him."

You want to argue more, to make him understand. But you recognize the finality in your father's tone, the immovable force that has made him such a successful team principal. In this world of racing and rivalry, some lines aren't meant to be crossed.

As you leave, you touch your lips, still feeling the ghost of Max's kiss. Your phone buzzes - a message from Max: "Worth the trouble?"

You stare at the screen, tears threatening to fall. Sometimes the biggest crashes in Formula 1 aren't on the track at all. Sometimes they're in the space between what your heart wants and what the sport demands.

Germany, 2016

The German summer air is thick with tension. You can feel it crackling through the paddock like electricity before a storm. Nico and Lewis' rivalry has turned the Mercedes garage into a pressure cooker, and your father's stress is palpable. Being around him feels like walking on eggshells, which makes your secret meetings with Max even more dangerous.

You've gotten good at this dance over the past few months - stolen moments between practice sessions, hidden corners of the paddock, coded messages about "casual meetings" that are anything but casual. Every stolen kiss feels like a victory and a risk all at once.

The sun is setting over Hockenheim when you slip behind the Red Bull motorhome, your heart racing with the familiar mix of excitement and fear. Max is already there, leaning against the wall with that cocky smile that still makes your stomach flip.

"Cutting it close, Wolff," he murmurs as you approach. "Your father's been prowling the paddock all day."

"Worried?" you tease, even as you glance around to ensure you're alone.

His answer is to pull you against him, one hand sliding to your waist while the other cups your face. "About your father? Always. About this? Never."

The kiss is heated from the start - months of practice have taught you both exactly how to make each other breathless. His thumb traces your jawline as he deepens the kiss, and you press closer, fingers curling into his team shirt. You love how solid he feels against you, how his breath catches when you bite gently at his lower lip.

"You're going to get me in trouble," he whispers against your mouth, but his smile suggests he doesn't mind at all.

"You love trouble," you remind him, trailing kisses along his jaw.

His hands tighten on your waist. "I love-" he starts, but cuts himself off, choosing instead to capture your lips again in a kiss that makes you forget everything else.

You lose track of time, lost in the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he whispers your name like a prayer. It's dangerous and perfect and everything you shouldn't want but can't resist.

A sound makes you both freeze. You pull apart quickly, straightening your clothes, but it's too late.

Jos Verstappen stands at the corner of the motorhome, his expression dark and unreadable. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him.

"I… I should go," you manage, your voice shaky. Max's hand brushes yours briefly - a small comfort - before you hurry past his father, avoiding his stern gaze.

Behind you, you can hear Jos' voice, low and harsh in Dutch, but you don't stop to listen. Your heart is pounding as you make your way back to the paddock, wondering if this is the moment everything falls apart.

Max stands his ground as his father's disapproval fills the space between them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jos demands in Dutch, his voice controlled but sharp. "The Wolff girl? Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not what you think-" Max starts, but Jos cuts him off.

"It's exactly what I think. You're letting yourself get distracted. By a Mercedes girl, no less. Toto Wolff's daughter?" Jos steps closer, his presence intimidating despite Max now being taller than him. "You're just starting to prove yourself in Formula 1. This is when you need to focus more than ever."

"I am focused," Max argues. "My results prove that."

"For now." Jos' voice turns cold. "But girls like that, from families like that - they're nothing but distractions. She'll get in your head, make you soft. And then what? You think Toto Wolff wants his daughter with a Red Bull driver? You think this ends well?"

Max clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to defend you, to explain that you're different, that you understand the sport as well as he does. But he knows his father won't listen.

"Stay away from her," Jos says finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Focus on what matters. On winning and being champion. That's what we've worked for all these years. Don't throw it away for some girl."

The words hit harder than Max wants to admit, echoing his own doubts, his own fears about what this thing with you means. But he can't forget the way you look at him like you see past the racer, past the name, to who he really is.

Jos leaves him there in the growing darkness, with only the weight of expectations and the lingering taste of your kiss on his lips.

Monaco, May 2017

Another year, another dance of stolen moments and secret smiles. If anything, the warnings and opposition have only made whatever this is between you and Max more intense. Like a forbidden drug, each stolen moment leaves you craving more, even as the risks grow higher.

"This is a terrible idea," Max whispers as you pull him through your back door, "Your dad is literally upstairs."

"He's dead asleep," you assure him, carefully closing the door. "He took sleeping pills for his flight tomorrow. Besides, he sleeps like the dead anyway."

Max still looks like he's ready to bolt at any second. "YN, if he catches me here-"

"He won't." You tug him closer by his shirt. "Unless you keep talking so loud."

He glances nervously at the stairs. "Your room is up there? Past his?"

"Scared, Verstappen?"

"Terrified, actually." But he follows you anyway, both of you carefully avoiding the creaky third step you'd mapped out years ago during teenage sneaking attempts.

You're almost at your door when Max freezes. "Was that-"

"Just the house settling," you whisper, but your heart is racing too. "Come on, we're almost-"

A door opens down the hall.

Max actually whimpers. You shove him into your room just as Toto's voice calls out, "YN? Is that you?"

"Just getting water, Papa!" you call back, praying your voice sounds normal. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine! Those pills should be kicking in, right?"

A yawn. "Ja, starting to feel them. Goodnight, Schatz."

"Night, Papa!"

You wait until you hear his door close before slipping into your room. You find Max standing perfectly still in the middle of the floor, looking absolutely terrified.

"I think I'm having a heart attack," he announces in a whisper. "I'm actually having a heart attack. I can see the headlines now: 'F1 Driver Dies of Fear in Team Principal's House.'"

You try not to laugh. "You're being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" His voice rises slightly before he catches himself. "YN, your father was ten feet away from me. Ten feet! Do you know what he would do to me if he found me here?"

"Well, first he'd probably have a heart attack himself-"

"Not helping!"

"Then probably murder you-"

"Still not helping!"

"And Lewis would hide the body-"

"Why did I agree to this?" He runs his hands through his hair. "I'm a professional athlete. I have championships to win. I can't die in Toto Wolff's house because his daughter is too pretty to say no to."

You wrap your arms around his neck, grinning. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're trying to kill me." But his hands settle on your waist automatically. "If your father walks in right now-"

"He won't."

"But if he does-"

"Max." You kiss him softly. "Stop talking about my father when you're in my bedroom."

"Missed you," he murmurs against your mouth, hands already sliding under your shirt. "Watching you in the paddock all day, not being able to touch you…"

You smile against his lips. "Poor baby. Must be so hard being professional."

He responds by lifting you up, making you laugh as he carries you toward your bed. "You have no idea."

Hours later, you're tangled in your sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. The city's lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older than his twenty years.

"We should sleep," you say, even as you press closer to him. "You have meetings tomorrow."

"Meetings are overrated," he mumbles into your hair, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Says the guy who's already breaking records." Your fingers trail down his chest. "Future world champion can't skip meetings."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Future world champion can do whatever he wants."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. But morning comes too soon, sunlight streaming through your windows and your alarm blaring way too early.

Max groans, burying his face in your neck. "Five more minutes."

"You said that twenty minutes ago," you remind him, even as you run your fingers through his hair. "You're already going to be late, and my father is still next room, remember?"

He lifts his head, giving you that boyish grin that still makes your heart skip. "Worth it."

But reality can't be held at bay forever. Max rushes to get dressed, stealing kisses between looking for his scattered clothes. You watch from your bed, sheet wrapped around you, trying to memorize how he looks in the morning light.

"Tonight?" he asks, pausing at your bedroom door.

"Text me," you say, and he gives you one last smile before he's gone.

Max is still smiling when he arrives at the Red Bull office, nearly an hour late for his morning meeting. The smile dies on his lips when he sees his father waiting outside, arms crossed and expression thunderous.

"You were with that girl weren't you? Nothing's changed" Jos demands without preamble, switching to Dutch.

"I was just-"

"Don't lie to me." Jos' voice is low, dangerous. "Are you trying to destroy everything we've worked for?"

"I'm not destroying anything," Max argues, frustration creeping into his voice. "My results-"

"Your results could be better," Jos cuts him off. "You could be focused on becoming champion instead of sneaking around with Toto Wolff's daughter. Do you think this is a game?"

"It's not a game-"

"Then what is it?" Jos steps closer, his presence still intimidating despite Max being taller now. "Love?" He spits the word like it's poison. "You think love wins championships? You think that girl is worth throwing away everything we've sacrificed for?"

Max clenches his jaw, the weight of years of his father's expectations pressing down on him. "I can handle both-"

"No." Jos' voice is final, absolute. "You can't. And you won't. This ends now. Cut her off."

"Or what?" The words slip out before Max can stop them, a rare challenge to his father's authority.

Jos' eyes turn cold. "Or I'll make sure Toto knows exactly what his precious daughter has been up to. How do you think that ends for her? For her relationship with her father? For her position in the paddock?"

The threat hangs in the air between them. Max feels his stomach turn to ice, knowing his father well enough to know this isn't an empty threat.

"Your choice, Max," Jos says, already turning away. "But make it soon. This distraction ends now, or there will be consequences. For everyone."

Max stands there long after his father leaves, the taste of your kisses still on his lips, now bitter with the weight of choices.

Monza, 2017

The Italian late summer heat feels suffocating as you finally corner Max behind the Ferrari motorhome - neutral territory. He's been dodging you since Hungary, responding to texts with one-word answers before stopping altogether. You've seen that look in his eyes when he spots you in the paddock - the way he quickly turns away, finds somewhere else to be.

"Hey stranger," you say, aiming for casual despite your racing heart. "Been a while."

He looks everywhere but at you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "YN…" There's a warning in his voice that you choose to ignore.

"I've missed you," you continue, taking a step closer. "We haven't talked since-"

"We can't do this anymore." His words cut through the air like a knife.

You freeze, the practiced speech you'd prepared dying in your throat. "What?"

"This." He gestures vaguely between you, still not meeting your eyes. "Whatever this is. It has to stop."

"Just like that?" Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "After everything?"

"I need to focus on racing." He sounds like he's reciting a rehearsed speech. "Just racing. No distractions."

The word 'distraction' hits you like a physical blow. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"

Finally, he looks at you, and for a moment you see something crack in his carefully constructed facade - pain, regret, something more. But then it's gone, replaced by a coldness you've never seen directed at you before.

"This was never going to work," he says flatly. "We both knew that. It'll only cause trouble - for you, for me, for our families. It's better to end it now."

You think about all the stolen moments, the late-night conversations, the way he'd look at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. All reduced to 'trouble'.

"Fine." You straighten your spine, channeling every ounce of Wolff pride you possess. "See you around, Max Verstappen."

You turn and walk away before he can respond, each step measured and controlled despite feeling like your world is crumbling. You make it all the way to the Mercedes motorhome before the tears start to fall.

You duck into what you think is an empty corner, trying to get yourself under control, when a familiar voice makes you jump.

"Little Wolff?"

Lewis stands there, concern etched across his features. He's known you since you were a kid, has watched you grow up in the paddock. In many ways, he's your brother.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, wiping at your eyes. "Just… allergies."

"Right," he says softly, not believing you for a second. "Because Monza is famous for its allergies."

A sob escapes before you can stop it, and suddenly Lewis is pulling you into a hug. You break down against his chest, all your carefully maintained composure crumbling.

"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing your back. "What happened? Who do I need to beat up?"

You laugh wetly against his shoulder. "Nobody. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

"You're one of the smartest people I know," he counters. "So whatever it is, it's not stupid."

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. "I just… I thought…" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly I was wrong."

Understanding dawns in Lewis's eyes. He's not blind - he's probably noticed more than most about your relationship with Max, even if he's never mentioned it.

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people make choices out of fear rather than what they really want. Especially in this world."

"He said I was a distraction," you whisper, the words still burning.

Lewis's expression hardens slightly. "He's young. And scared. And probably being pulled in a hundred different directions." He pauses. "Doesn't make it hurt any less though, does it?"

You shake your head, fresh tears threatening to fall.

"Come here." He pulls you into another hug. "For what it's worth, I think he's an idiot. But maybe this is for the best, he's not good for you."

You stay there for a while, letting Lewis comfort you, grateful for his presence and his wisdom. But you can't shake the image of Max's face, that moment when his mask slipped, and you'd seen the pain in his eyes. You wonder if Lewis is right - if this is really about fear rather than feeling.

But in the end, you suppose it doesn't matter. A choice is still a choice, even if it's made for the wrong reasons.

Monaco, Summer 2018

The bass thrums through your body as you down another shot, Lando cheering beside you. The club is packed - all of Monaco's elite young crowd mixed with racing's next generation. Your father would have an aneurysm if he saw you here, but that's half the fun.

"Another!" Lando shouts over the music, already signaling the bartender. He's technically too young to be here, but money and fame open most doors in Monaco.

"You're a bad influence, Norris," you laugh, but you don't stop him.

"Me?" He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm an angel. You're the one corrupting the youth."

"You're literally younger than me."

"Details, details." He hands you another shot. "To being young and irresponsible!"

You clink glasses with him, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down. This is what you needed - no paddock politics, no disappointed looks from your father, no thoughts of…

"Oh shit," Lando says suddenly, following your gaze. "We can move to another section if you want."

Max has just walked in with a group of friends. He looks good - he always looks good - in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. Your stomach does that familiar flip before you forcefully squash it down.

"Why should we move?" you say, perhaps a bit too loudly. "We were here first."

Lando gives you that knowing look he's perfected over the past year of friendship. "YN…"

"Don't start," you warn him. "I'm fine. It's fine. Ancient history."

"Right," he drawls. "That's why you drunk-called me crying about him last month."

"I did not!"

"'Lando,'" he mimics in a high voice, "'why doesn't he want meeeee?'"

You shove him playfully. "I hate you."

"You love me." He grins. "I'm your favorite driver now."

"You're not even in F1 yet."

"Yet!" He wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Next year though. Then I'll be beating your ex's ass on track."

"He's not my ex," you mutter. "We were never actually together, remember?"

"Right, just sneaking around making out for like a year and a half. Totally casual."

You're about to retort when movement catches your eye. Max is at the bar now, and there's a girl with him. Tall, blonde, model-beautiful. She's touching his arm, laughing at something he's saying, and he's leaning in close to hear her over the music.

"YN…" Lando's voice has that warning tone.

"I need another drink," you announce, turning back to the bar.

Three shots later, you're on the dance floor with Lando, trying to forget the scene playing out at the bar. But your eyes keep drifting over, watching as Max gets closer to the blonde, his hand now on her waist.

"Stop torturing yourself," Lando says in your ear.

"I'm not-" you start, but the words die in your throat as you watch Max lean down and kiss the girl.

Something inside you snaps. You scan the crowd, spotting a guy who's been eyeing you all night. He's good-looking enough - dark hair, nice smile, probably a trust fund kid like half the people here.

"YN," Lando tries to grab your arm, but you're already moving.

You approach the guy with purpose, channeling every ounce of confidence the alcohol has given you. "Want to dance?"

He looks surprised but pleased. "Absolutely."

You let him pull you close, perhaps closer than necessary. You can feel eyes on you - Lando's concerned ones, and maybe, just maybe, someone else's too.

The guy - you think he said his name was Alex or Alec - is a good dancer. His hands are respectful but firm on your hips as you move to the music. When he leans down to kiss you, you let him.

It's not a bad kiss. He knows what he's doing. But he doesn't taste right, doesn't feel right. His hands aren't calloused from racing. He doesn't smell like motor oil and expensive cologne. He's not… him

But you kiss him anyway. When you finally pull back from the kiss, Lando is at your elbow.

"I think we should head out," he says, glancing meaningfully at your nearly empty glass.

"I'm having fun," you protest, even as the room spins slightly. Alex-or-Alec's hands are still on your waist.

"YN." Lando's voice is firmer now. "Come on."

You turn back to Alex-or-Alec, pulling him down for another kiss. It's messy and desperate and you can taste the expensive whiskey on his breath. You're proving something, you think, though you're not sure what or to whom anymore.

Through the haze of alcohol and bass-heavy music, you hear a familiar voice.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Max is standing there, his face tight with anger. The blonde from earlier is nowhere to be seen, but there's another girl hovering behind him - brunette this time.

"Having fun," you say sweetly, pressing closer to Alex-or-Alec. "You should try it. Oh wait, you already are."

"You don't even know this guy," Max snaps.

"His name is Alex." You pause. "Or Alec."

"It's Adrian," the guy supplies helpfully.

"Whatever." Max steps forward. "You're drunk. You need to go home."

"And you need to mind your own business." You turn to Adrian with an exaggerated smile. "Want to get out of here?"

"YN," Lando pleads. "Don't."

"Sure," Adrian grins, clearly oblivious to the tension. "My place isn't far."

Max moves so fast you barely register it, suddenly between you and Adrian. "She's not going anywhere with you."

"Excuse me?" You push at his chest. "You don't get to decide that. You lost that right when you-" You cut yourself off, aware you're saying too much.

"When I what?" Max challenges, his eyes dark. "When I did exactly what you're doing right now?"

"No," you laugh, but it comes out bitter. "When you decided that sneaking around was fine until it wasn't. When you started showing up to every event with a new girl on your arm. When you-"

"YN," Lando tugs at your arm. "Not here."

You shake him off. "Go back to your girlfriend, Max. Or girlfriends. I lost count tonight."

"You're being ridiculous."

"And you're being a hypocrite." You grab Adrian's hand. "Let's go."

Max's hand closes around your wrist. "You're not leaving with him."

"Get your hands off me." Your voice is ice cold. "You don't get to play protective boyfriend when it suits you. Go find another model to add to your collection."

Something flashes in his eyes - hurt maybe, or anger. "Fine. Do what you want. You always do anyway."

"Exactly. I do what I want." You turn to Adrian. "Sorry, but I've changed my mind. Turns out I have standards."

You shake off Max's grip and push past him, heading for the exit. Lando hurries after you, already calling for a car.

"YN, wait-" Max calls after you.

"Go to hell, Verstappen."

Outside, the Monaco air is cool against your flushed skin. Lando wraps his jacket around your shoulders as tears start to fall.

"I hate him," you whisper.

"No, you don't." Lando pulls you into a hug. "That's the problem."

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows feels like actual daggers in your skull. You're nursing your third cup of coffee, wearing sunglasses indoors like the walking cliché you are, when your father's voice cuts through your hangover haze.

"Would you care to explain these?"

Toto slides his phone across the breakfast table. Your stomach drops as you see the photos - you dancing with Adrian, Max confronting you, your tearful exit with Lando. The Monaco nightlife paparazzi are relentless, and you were too drunk to notice them.

"Papa, I-"

"No." His voice is quiet but firm. That's worse than yelling. "This stops now, YN. This... rebellion phase of yours. It stops."

Lewis and Valtteri are suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates. Susie, your stepmother, places a gentle hand on your father's arm, but doesn't contradict him.

"It wasn't-"

"Wasn't what?" Toto's accent gets thicker when he's angry. "Wasn't you, drunk in a club, making headlines again? Wasn't you creating another PR nightmare for the team?"

Your head throbs. "I'm not part of the team."

"No? Then why does every tabloid headline read 'Mercedes Boss's Daughter in Club Drama with Red Bull Star'?"

You wince. Both at his words and at the volume.

"The drinking, the parties, the public scenes - it needs to stop." He leans forward. "You're not just any teenager, liebling. Everything you do reflects on this family, on this team."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair." He softens slightly. "I know this past year has been... difficult."

You feel Lewis shift beside you. He knows - of course he knows. He's probably the only one at this table who knows the full story of you and Max.

"But this self-destructive behavior cannot continue." Your father's voice is final. "You're grounded."

"I'm twenty one!"

"And living on my yacht, in my house, representing my name." He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer to go back to boarding school?"

The threat lands. You sink lower in your chair.

"No, sir."

"Good." He turns to his own coffee. "No more clubs. No more parties. And for God's sake, no more scenes with Max Verstappen."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know without looking it's probably Lando checking on you. Or worse, Max.

"YN." Your father's voice draws your attention back. "I mean it. Whatever is going on between you two... it ends now."

"Nothing is going on," you mutter.

"Then it should be easy to maintain distance."

Susie finally speaks up. "Why don't you come work with me for a while? Help with the She Moves Forward initiative?"

You know it's a peace offering - a way to keep you busy and out of trouble. But the thought of structured days and responsible tasks makes your hangover worse.

"Fine," you concede, if only to end this conversation.

Lewis nudges you under the table - a small gesture of solidarity. Valtteri offers a sympathetic smile.

"Good." Your father stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have damage control to handle."

After he leaves, Lewis slides a bottle of Advil towards you. "Here. You look like death."

"Thanks," you grumble, dry-swallowing two pills.

"He's right, you know," Lewis says quietly. "About Max."

"Not you too."

"YN." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. The drinking, the acting out - it's not going to make it hurt less."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He stands, squeezing your shoulder. "Just... think about what you're really angry at. Because I don't think it's your father, or the team, or even Max."

"I'm going back to bed," you announce to no one in particular.

"Honey," Susie calls after you. "This doesn't have to be a punishment. Maybe it's an opportunity."

You pause at the door. "For what?"

"To figure out who you are without all the drama. Without..." she hesitates. "Without defining yourself by who you're trying to hurt."

You think about Max's face last night, about the girls he was with, about how none of it made you feel better.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "Maybe."

The air feels thick and oppressive as you stumble out of another club, the world spinning slightly. You're not entirely sure how you ended up here - after the disastrous night a few weeks ago, you'd promised yourself (and your father) that you were done with the party scene. But one text from Lando about needing to "get out" had quickly spiraled.

Except Lando had bailed last minute with food poisoning, and you'd gone anyway. Because you're nothing if not stubborn.

The familiar figure of Charles Leclerc materializes beside you. "YN? Are you okay?"

"Charles!" You throw your arms around him, nearly losing your balance. "My favorite Ferrari boy!"

He steadies you with practiced ease. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Lost count," you admit cheerfully. "But it's fine. Everything's fine."

Charles sighs, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Lewis."

"No!" You grab for his phone but miss entirely. "Not Lewis. He'll tell Papa."

"Good. Maybe he should."

You slump against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Everyone's so disappointed in me."

Charles' expression softens as he puts the phone to his ear. "We're worried, not disappointed."

Twenty minutes later, you hear the distinctive rumble of Lewis's car. He jumps out, concern etched on his face.

"YN? What were you thinking?"

"That alcohol makes feelings go away?" you offer weakly.

Lewis turns to Charles. "Thanks for calling me."

"Of course. Take care of her."

The ride home is quiet until Lewis finally speaks. "This has to stop."

"I know," you whisper.

"No, I mean it really has to stop. You're hurting yourself, and for what? To prove something to Max?"

"It's not about Max."

"Isn't it?"

You stare out the window, tears forming. "I need to get away from here."

"What do you mean?"

"The paddock, the drama, all of it." You turn to him. "I can't keep doing this. Being the Mercedes princess, the ex-whatever of Max Verstappen. I need… space."

Lewis is quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad idea. Take some time, figure out who you are away from all this."

"Will you help me convince Papa?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'll help. But you have to promise me - no more nights like this."

You nod, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. "I promise."

As Lewis helps you out of the car, you freeze. Toto is standing in the doorway, still in his sleeping clothes. Your stomach drops and fresh tears spring to your eyes - this is it, the final disappointment.

But instead of the anger you expect, your father simply opens his arms.

You practically fall into them, suddenly sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he soothes, holding you tight like he did when you were little. "You're alright, liebling. You're alright."

"I can't-" you hiccup against his chest. "I can't do this anymore. I need to get out of here."

"Out of where?"

"Monaco. The paddock. All of it." You pull back slightly to look at him. "I need space. To figure out who I am without… without all of this."

Toto exchanges a look with Lewis over your head. "I know," he says softly, surprising you. "I've seen it coming."

"You have?"

He cups your face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. "You're my daughter. Of course I have. I just needed you to realize it yourself."

"I'm tired, Papa," you whisper. "Of being the Mercedes princess, of the gossip, of seeing…" You trail off, but they all know what you mean. Who you mean.

"Then go," he says simply. "Find yourself. The paddock will still be here when you're ready."

"You're not mad?"

He laughs softly. "Oh, we'll discuss tonight's adventure when you're less drunk. But no, liebling. I'm not mad. Sometimes we need to step away to see things clearly."

Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We've got your back, little Wolff. Whatever you need."

Fresh tears fall as you're overwhelmed by their support. "I love you both so much."

"And we love you," Toto kisses your forehead. "Now, let's get you to bed. We can make plans tomorrow."

As they help you inside, you feel lighter somehow. Like maybe this isn't an ending, but a beginning. A chance to become someone new - or maybe to find who you've been all along, underneath the labels and expectations.

Austria, 2020

The familiar scent of rubber and fuel hits you as you step into the Mercedes garage for the first time in almost two years, your heart doing a little flip at being back after so long. Everything looks exactly the same, yet somehow different - or maybe you're the one who's different now.

"Little Wolff!" Lewis' voice booms across the garage before you're engulfed in a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off your feet. "Finally back where you belong!"

You laugh, squeezing him back just as tight. "You literally saw me at Christmas, Lewis!"

"That's not the same and you know it," he sets you down but keeps his hands on your shoulders, studying your face. "Christmas is family time. This," he gestures around the garage, "this is home."

Looking at him now, you can see the genuine joy in his eyes. Lewis has always been your second father, and these past two years, he's been your biggest cheerleader from afar, always sending encouraging messages when you were climbing mountains in Nepal or teaching English in Thailand.

"She's hardly been here five minutes and you're already monopolizing her, Lewis?" Your father's voice carries that familiar warmth that makes your chest tight with happiness. Your relationship with him has transformed during your time away - all those long phone calls and video chats where you really talked, not just about racing but about life, dreams, fears. Distance made you both realize what you'd been missing.

"Papa," you smile, walking into his open arms. He holds you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Welcome home, liebling," he murmurs. "The garage hasn't been the same without you."

"I missed you too," you say, then pull back with a grin. "But I need to go see someone else before he thinks I've forgotten him entirely."

Toto laughs. "Go on then. Lando's been asking about you non-stop since he heard you were coming back."

You practically skip your way to the McLaren garage, your heart light. The past two years have given you perspective, helped you understand yourself better. You're not the angry, lost girl who fled Monaco anymore. You're stronger now, more sure of who you are outside of being "Toto Wolff's daughter" or "Max Verstappen's conquest."

"YN!" Lando's screech of delight echoes through the garage as he launches himself at you. "You're back, you're finally back!"

"I missed you so much, you idiot," you ruffle his hair, noting how he's grown even more into himself. He's not the shy rookie anymore - he's coming into his own as a driver.

"Group hug!" Carlos appears, wrapping his long arms around both of you. "Welcome back, pequeña. It's been too quiet without you here to keep this one in line."

"Oi!" Lando protests, but he's beaming.

You're in the middle of telling them about your adventures in Japan when movement catches your eye. Your words trail off as you see him - Max, walking past the garage with Christian. He's filled out more, shoulders broader, face more mature. Your heart does that familiar stutter-step it always did around him.

Two years haven't completely erased the memory of his hands on your skin, his laugh against your neck, the way he used to look at you like you were his entire world. First loves leave permanent marks, and Max Verstappen had branded himself onto your heart when you were both too young to understand the weight of it all.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, and for a moment, your eyes lock. There's something there - recognition, remembrance, maybe even regret. You see him swallow hard, his step faltering just slightly. But neither of you moves to bridge the gap.

You turn back to Lando and Carlos, forcing a smile, but your mind is still with that brief moment of eye contact. You're not that lovesick teenager anymore, but part of you wonders if you'll ever fully get over Max Verstappen. If anyone ever really gets over their first love, or if they just learn to live with the echo of what could have been.

"YN?" Lando's voice brings you back to the present. "You okay?"

You look at your friend's concerned face and give him a genuine smile this time. "Yeah, I am. Just… remembering."

Carlos squeezes your shoulder knowingly. "The past is the past, si? You're here now, that's what matters."

You nod, grateful for their understanding. You're not the same person who left two years ago, running from heartbreak and confusion. You're stronger now, wiser. Ready to write a new chapter.

Even if sometimes, just sometimes, you still feel the ghost of an old love story tugging at your heart.

Barcelona, 2020

The Barcelona night is warm and heavy with memories as you sit at the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Daniel's telling some ridiculous story about a kangaroo, but your attention keeps drifting to the other end of the table where Max sits, deliberately positioned as far from you as possible.

Five years ago, you'd kissed him for the first time just a few streets from here. After his first win, giddy with freedom and teenage rebellion.

"So how was Bali?" Charles asks making your come back to your senses,"The surfing photos were insane."

"Almost died about twelve times," you laugh. "But worth it."

"She's exaggerating," Max comments casually, surprising everyone at the table. It's the first time he's directly addressed anything about your travels. "I saw the videos. Your form wasn't that bad."

You catch his eye across the table. "Been keeping tabs on me, Verstappen?"

He shrugs, a hint of that old smirk playing at his lips. "Hard not to when you're all over everyone's Instagram stories."

The tension at the table shifts slightly - not gone, but different. Lando kicks your foot under the table, raising an eyebrow when you look at him. You ignore him.

The conversation flows easier after that, stories and laughter bouncing around the table. You find yourself watching Max when he's not looking - the way he's grown into his features, how his laugh is deeper now, how he still runs his hand through his hair when he's trying not to smile.

As the night winds down, you end up being the last two waiting for cars. The others had filtered out gradually - Daniel dragging Charles off to some club, Lando claiming early training, Carlos heading home with his father.

"So," Max breaks the silence first, hands in his pockets. "Two years."

"Two years," you echo, leaning against the wall. "Feels longer sometimes."

"And shorter," he adds, then glances at you. "You look good. Happy."

"I am. Mostly." You study his profile in the streetlights. "You've changed too."

He laughs softly. "Had to grow up sometime, right? Can't be the paddock's problem child forever."

"No more sneaking around in garages?" The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes darken slightly at the memory. "Bit harder to get away with that these days. Plus, there hasn't been anyone worth the risk."

The weight of unspoken things hangs between you. All those stolen moments - behind motorhomes, in empty conference rooms, dark corners of victory parties. Never official, never acknowledged, but burning so bright it scared you both.

"Want to come up to my place?" he asks suddenly. "Just to talk. Properly. Without…" he gestures vaguely at the paddock world around you.

You should say no. But two years of distance have made you forget how magnetic he is, or maybe just made you brave enough to pretend you can resist it. "Okay."

The penthouse is exactly what you'd expect - sleek and modern, with a view that makes you catch your breath. You walk to the windows, Barcelona sprawling below like a constellation.

"Remember that night after your first win?" you ask softly. "When we snuck onto the roof?"

"Papa Wolff nearly had a heart attack," Max comes to stand beside you, close enough that your arms almost touch. "Worth it though."

"Was it?" You turn to look at him. "All of it? The sneaking around, the fights with our families, the constant hiding?"

"You know it was." His voice drops lower. "At least, it was for me."

"Max…"

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "Not just… not just the physical stuff. I missed talking to you. Making you laugh. The way you'd roll your eyes every time I said something stupid in press conferences."

"I still do that," you smile despite yourself. "Some things don't change."

"Maybe they shouldn't." He steps closer, and suddenly you're eighteen again, heart racing at his proximity. "Maybe some things are worth holding onto."

When he kisses you, it feels like muscle memory. Your body remembers this dance - the way his hands find your waist, how he tastes like wine and possibilities. It's softer than the desperate kisses you used to share in dark corners, but somehow more dangerous for it.

You pull back first, breathing hard. "We can't."

"Why not?" His thumb traces your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. Who cares what anyone thinks?"

"I do," you step away, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I left to get away from this, Max. From sneaking around, from being the paddock scandal waiting to happen. I built a life where I'm not defined by who I'm secretly sleeping with or whose daughter I am."

"It wouldn't be like before-"

"Wouldn't it? The politics haven't changed. Our families still wouldn't approve."

"I don't care about any of that," he reaches for you but you step back.

"That's the problem," your voice cracks. "I had to live with all of it. The whispers, the judgment, watching my father's face every time there was another rumor about us. I can't go back to that."

"YN, please-"

"I should go." You grab your phone from the counter. "This was a mistake."

At the elevator, you turn back one last time. He's still by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. "For what it's worth," you say softly, "you were my first love. Maybe that's why we have to let it stay in the past."

The elevator doors close on his response, and you lean against the wall, heart pounding. Some part of you will probably always want Max Verstappen. But you've worked too hard to become your own person to let that want destroy everything again.

Even if walking away feels like leaving part of yourself behind.

Monaco, 2020

The yacht party is winding down, the late hour thinning out the crowd until somehow you find yourself alone on the upper deck. The Mediterranean breeze carries fragments of music and laughter from below, but up here it's quiet enough to hear your own thoughts - dangerous, when they all seem to revolve around him.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. You don't need to turn around to know it's Max - your body has always been attuned to his presence, like a compass finding north.

"Hiding?" His voice is soft as he comes to stand beside you at the railing.

"Just needed some air." It's not entirely a lie. "Shouldn't you be downstairs? This is your best friend's party."

"Daniel can handle it on his own," he shrugs, looking out at the harbor lights. "Needed some air too."

The silence that follows should be uncomfortable, but it isn't. That's the problem with Max - everything still feels as natural as breathing. Two years away hasn't changed how your body relaxes in his presence, how the air seems to crackle with possibility when he's near.

"Remember that party in Singapore?" he asks suddenly.

You smile despite yourself. "When we hid from Lewis for half of the night?"

"You were wearing that blue dress," he continues, and something in his voice makes your heart skip. "I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."

"Max…"

"I still can't," he admits quietly. "Even now. Even when I'm supposed to be focusing on other things, my eyes just… find you."

You grip the railing tighter. "We can't do this again."

"Can't we?" He turns to face you now. "Because ever since Barcelona, since that kiss…"

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?" He steps closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like coming home."

The words hit you right in the chest, because he's right. That's exactly what it felt like - like every cell in your body recognizing where it belonged.

"Nothing's changed," you say, but your voice wavers. "The politics, our families, the media…"

"Everything's changed," he counters. "We're not those kids anymore, sneaking around without putting a label on it because we didn't know better. I know exactly what I want now. Who I want."

"Max, please-"

"Two years, YN. Two years of watching you live your life through Instagram stories and paddock glimpses. Two years of trying to convince myself I was over you." His hand finds yours on the railing. "But the truth is, a part of me has belonged to you since that first night in Melbourne, and I don't think that's ever going to change."

You should pull your hand away. Instead, you turn it over, letting your fingers intertwine with his. "I tried so hard to become someone new," you whisper. "Traveled the world, built this whole independent life. But the moment I saw you again…"

"I know." His other hand comes up to cup your face, and you lean into the touch instinctively. "Because I felt it too."

"It scares me," you admit. "How easy it is to fall back into this. How right it feels when it should feel wrong."

"Maybe that's exactly why it isn't wrong." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Maybe some things are just meant to be, despite everything else."

When he kisses you this time, it's different from Barcelona. That kiss had been hesitant, testing. This one feels like surrender, like finally stopping a fight you were always meant to lose. Your hands find his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispers. "You're the first girl I ever loved, and I think maybe you'll be the last. I know it's complicated, I know there are a million reasons why we shouldn't, but I don't care about any of them. I just want you."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the truth in his words, by how perfectly they mirror your own feelings. "I never stopped loving you," you confess. "I tried. God, I tried so hard. But it's like… it's like a part of me just belongs to you, and no amount of distance can change that."

"Then be with me," he pleads softly. "For real this time. No more running."

"How?" But you're already melting into him as he pulls you closer. "Nothing's changed, Max. My father would still lose it, Christian would still disapprove, the media would have a field day…"

"So we don't tell them." His hands slide to your waist. "We keep it between us. No sneaking around in garages this time, no risky moments in the paddock. Just us, in private, doing this properly."

You should say no. You know all the reasons why this can't work. But as his lips find yours again, you realize you're tired of fighting this magnetic pull between you.

"If anyone finds out…" you start.

"They won't," he promises. "We'll be careful. We're not those reckless kids anymore."

And maybe that's the key difference - you're not acting on impulse anymore, not diving in blindly. You're choosing this, fully aware of the consequences, of what you both stand to lose.

"Okay," you whisper against his mouth. "Okay."

When he kisses you again, it feels like every kiss you've ever shared and completely new all at once. Like coming home and starting an adventure. Like an ending and a beginning wrapped into one.

Later, you'll figure out the logistics, the careful dance of secrecy. But for now, you let yourself exist in this moment.

Some things, you realize, are worth keeping secret. Some loves are worth protecting, even if it means hiding them from the world.

Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max's apartment, painting everything in soft gold. You're awake before him, taking in the familiar weight of his arm around your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck. It feels surreal - like stepping back in time, but with the sharp edge of awareness that comes with being older.

You feel him stir, his arm tightening slightly around you. "You're thinking too loud," he mumbles against your shoulder.

"Sorry," you turn to face him, finding his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Hard not to."

He props himself up on an elbow, studying your face. The morning light makes everything feel more raw, more real. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," you say honestly. "Just… thinking about how we make this work."

"We managed before."

"And look how that ended." You trace a pattern on his chest absently. "We were reckless then. Every stolen moment was a near-miss."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "So we're smarter this time. No more risky moments in the paddock. No sneaking around where anyone could see us."

"It's not just that." You sit up, pulling the sheet with you. "Max, if this gets out… it's not just about our families being angry. It could affect your career, the team dynamics. And my father-"

"Would probably try to have me assassinated," he finishes with a half-smile, but you can see the seriousness in his eyes. "I know. Trust me, I've thought about all of it."

"And you still want this?"

He sits up too, cupping your face in his hands. "More than anything. The question is, do you?"

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. "You know I do. That's what scares me. How much I want this, despite everything."

"Then we figure it out." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. We know how to be discreet. Your place, my place, private locations only. No public appearances together unless we're with the whole group. No suspicious social media activity."

"No telling anyone," you add. "Not even Lando or Charles."

"Especially not them," he agrees. "The fewer people who know, the safer it is."

You open your eyes to find him watching you with that intense focus he usually reserves for racing. "It's going to be hard," you warn. "Pretending there's nothing between us in public. Watching you from a distance at races."

"We've had years of practice at that," he reminds you softly. "At least now I get to hold you afterward."

The simple statement makes your heart clench. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. "When did you get so good with words?"

"Must be all those media training sessions," he smirks, but then turns serious. "I meant what I said last night. I love you. Whatever we have to do to make this work, I'm in."

"I love you too," you whisper back. "God, I really do."

He kisses you then, slow and deep, like he's trying to memorize the moment. When you pull back, you're both breathing harder.

The morning light is brighter now, reality creeping in with the rising sun. Soon, you'll have to leave separately, go back to pretending there's nothing between you. But for now, you let yourself sink into his embrace, memorizing the feeling of being here, being his.

"This is crazy, isn't it?" you murmur against his chest.

"Probably," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your hair. "But some of the best things in life are a little crazy."

You know there will be challenges ahead - difficult moments, close calls, the constant strain of secrecy. But as Max pulls you back down onto the pillows, his lips finding yours with familiar hunger, you think maybe he's right.

Some things are worth the risk. Some loves are worth keeping secret.

The key card clicks softly as you slip into Max's Monaco apartment late on September 30th. You'd made your excuses to your friends early - a headache, an important call - knowing they wouldn't question it too much since they'd already planned Max's official celebration for tomorrow.

But tonight is just for the two of you.

You find him in the kitchen, already changed into sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, pulling something from the oven. The domestic scene makes your heart flutter.

"Is Max Verstappen actually baking?" you tease, dropping your bag.

He turns with that smile that's become exclusively yours - soft, unguarded, real. "It's just heating up the cake Victoria made. I'm not completely useless."

You cross the space between you, wrapping your arms around him from behind. "Happy birthday, baby."

He turns in your embrace, backing you against the counter. "This is already better than last year's birthday."

"Mm, because last year you weren't secretly dating your rival team principal's daughter?"

"Because last year I couldn't do this," he murmurs, before kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

The timer dings, making you both jump and then laugh.

"The cake can wait," he starts, but you push him back gently.

"Let's do this properly. Cake first, then presents, then…" you trail off suggestively.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes are sparkling. "But I'm holding you to that 'then'."

You sit cross-legged on his massive couch, sharing pieces of Victoria's chocolate cake straight from the tin. It's comfortable in a way that still surprises you sometimes - how easily you've fallen into these private moments, these glimpses of normalcy in your decidedly abnormal situation.

"Got you something," you say, reaching for your bag.

He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were my present?"

"Cheesy," you throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Here."

He unwraps the small package carefully. Inside is a simple leather bracelet, dark brown with a subtle pattern worked into it. "Turn it over," you say softly.

On the inside, barely visible unless you know to look, are your initials and the date from Monaco - the night everything changed.

"YN…" his voice is rough as he runs his thumb over the engraving.

"I know we can't do obvious things," you explain. "But I wanted you to have something… something that's just ours. Something you can wear without anyone knowing what it means."

He pulls you into his lap, kissing you with an intensity that makes your head spin. "I love it," he murmurs against your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whisper back, heart full with how natural those words feel now. "Even if you are getting old."

He retaliates by tickling your sides until you're both breathless with laughter, ending up horizontal on the couch with you pinned beneath him.

"Twenty-three isn't old," he protests, pressing kisses down your neck.

"Ancient," you tease, but it turns into a gasp as he finds that sensitive spot below your ear. "Max…"

"Mm?"

"The cake…"

"Can wait," he finishes, hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. "Right now, I want to unwrap my other present."

Later, much later, you're tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest as he plays with your hair. The city lights twinkle through the windows, creating patterns on the ceiling.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"For what?"

"For this. For making my birthday special even though we have to hide. For loving me despite everything."

You prop yourself up to look at him, trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "Thank you for making it worth it."

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Sometimes I wish we could just tell everyone. Walk into the paddock holding your hand, take you on real dates, post about you on Instagram like a normal couple."

"I know," you sigh, settling back against his chest. "Me too. But…"

"But it would cause chaos," he finishes. "I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting it though."

You lift your head again, kissing him softly. "Maybe someday. But for now, I'm happy just having you like this. These moments are ours, just ours."

His arms tighten around you. "I love you," he says again, like he can't help himself. "More than racing, more than winning, more than-"

"Don't," you laugh, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't say more than racing. We both know that's a lie."

He grins, rolling you under him again. "Maybe it's a tie?"

"I can live with that," you smile up at him, pulling him down for another kiss.

The world outside keeps turning - tomorrow there will be the official party, the public celebrations, the careful distance you'll have to maintain. But tonight, in this space that's become your sanctuary, you can just be Max and YN, two people in love, celebrating another year together.

Even if the rest of the world doesn't know it yet.

Monaco, 2021

You're curled into Max's side on your couch, some Netflix show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm while you scroll through your phone, both enjoying the calm before tomorrow's storm - the start of a new season, new expectations, new pressure.

"Nervous about tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head to look at him.

He shrugs, but you can feel the slight tension in his shoulders. "Not nervous. Just�� ready. The car feels good, testing went well."

"Mm," you press a kiss to his jaw. "Maybe this is your year."

"Maybe," but his smile is confident as he turns to capture your lips properly. "Though right now I'm more interested in-"

Your phone buzzes loudly, Lando's name flashing on the screen. You answer it without thinking.

"Hey Lan-"

"I'm outside your place!" his cheerful voice cuts through. "Charles and I brought wine and that awful reality show you love. Open up!"

Your heart stops. "What?"

"Come on, it's freezing out here! I can see your lights on."

You sit up straight, panic flooding your system. "Lando, I-"

"Don't even try to say you're busy. It's the night before the first race, I know you're just sitting there overthinking everything."

Max is already moving, gathering his shoes and jacket silently. Your eyes meet across the room, both knowing how catastrophic it would be if Lando found him here.

"Give me five minutes," you say into the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm… I need to put clothes on."

"Gross, too much information," Lando laughs. "Five minutes!"

You hang up, heart racing. "Shit, shit, shit."

"It's fine," Max is surprisingly calm as he pulls on his shoes. "I'll go out through the back stairs."

"What if they see you?" You're already scanning the room for any evidence of him - his Red Bull cap on the coffee table, his phone charger by the couch.

"They won't." He grabs his things efficiently, muscle memory from two years of sneaking around kicking in. "I'll text you when I'm clear."

Another knock at the door makes you both freeze. "YN!" Charles's voice this time. "We can hear you moving around!"

Max pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss. "I love you. Don't worry."

"Be careful," you whisper against his lips.

He flashes that cocky grin you love. "Always am."

You watch him disappear through your bedroom toward the back stairwell, then take a deep breath, running your hands through your hair to mess it up slightly - making your "just got out of bed" excuse more believable.

When you open the door, Lando immediately pushes past you with wine bottles clinking. "Finally! What were you really doing?"

"Told you, getting dressed." You accept Charles' hello kiss on the cheek, praying your face isn't as flushed as it feels.

"Your shirt's inside out," Charles points out, smirking.

You look down - shit, he's right. You'd thrown it on hastily after… earlier activities. "I was sleeping," you say quickly. "You guys interrupted my pre-race nap routine."

"At 9 PM?" Lando's already making himself at home on your couch - right where Max was sitting minutes ago. "Sure, sure."

Your phone buzzes with a text: "All clear. They didn't see me. Missing you already x"

Relief floods through you as Charles pours wine and Lando queues up the show. You settle into the evening, letting their familiar banter wash over you, trying to act normal even as your skin still tingles from Max's touch.

"You seem different lately," Charles observes suddenly, studying your face. "Happier."

"Just excited for the new season," you deflect smoothly, a skill you've perfected over the past year.

"Mm," he doesn't look entirely convinced. "No secret boyfriend we should know about?"

You laugh, the sound only slightly strained. "Right, because that worked out so well last time."

"Last time was Max," Lando points out. "Thank god you're both over that whole thing."

If only they knew. But you just smile and take a sip of wine, letting them move on to discussing tomorrow's race.

As the evening progresses, the wine flows and the reality show plays in the background. You're carefully avoiding any topics that might make Charles or Lando suspicious, laughing a bit too loudly at their jokes.

Lando, ever restless, decides to raid your kitchen for snacks. "Where do you keep the good stuff?" he calls out, opening cupboards.

Your heart immediately races. You know exactly what might be lurking in those cupboards - Max's favorite energy drink, a Red Bull can he'd left behind last time he was here. You stand up quickly, "I'll get it for you-"

But Lando's already moving, pulling open the refrigerator door. "Found it!" he announces, then pauses. His hand emerges holding a Red Bull can, but something else catches his eye. A water bottle with a distinctive Red Bull Racing team logo sits next to it.

"Huh," Charles looks over. "Isn't this Max's water bottle?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. "Oh, um-" Your mind races, searching for an explanation. "I... must have picked it up from somewhere. You know how these things get mixed up."

Lando turns, one eyebrow raised. The playful smile slowly morphs into something more knowing. "Mixed up, huh?"

Charles is watching you now, that sharp observant look that made him such a good racing driver now focused entirely on you.

"Yeah, I must've picked it up by accident, didn't even realize."

Lando shrugs and cracks open a packet of chips, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. But Charles continues to study you with that piercing gaze that makes you want to squirm.

Keeping this a secret is becoming harder and harder.

Silverstone, 2021

The English countryside blurs past your window as Max takes another curve, maybe a bit faster than necessary. It's nearly midnight, and you should both be resting before tomorrow's race, but these night drives have become your thing - the only time you can be truly alone during race weekends, truly free.

"You're showing off," you accuse, but you're smiling.

"Me? Never." He takes his eyes off the road for a second to grin at you, his hand finding yours across the console.

The radio plays softly in the background, some British pop song you don't know. The summer air rushing through the open windows carries the scent of grass and freedom. It feels perfect. Until it isn't.

It happens so fast - a deer appears out of nowhere, Max swerves to avoid it, but the road is narrow and dark. The tires lose grip on loose gravel, and suddenly you're spinning, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of shadows and panic.

The impact when it comes is brutal. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and everything goes still.

"YN?" Max's voice is tight with fear. "Baby, are you okay?"

You do a quick mental check. Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken. "I'm okay. You?"

"Fine." He's already trying to open his door, but it's jammed. The front of the car is wrapped around a tree, steam hissing from the hood. "Fuck. Fuck!"

Your phone is somewhere on the floor. When you retrieve it, the screen is cracked but working. "We need help."

"We can't call emergency services," Max says immediately. "It'll be all over the news in minutes."

He's right. You can already see the headlines: "Verstappen in Late Night Crash with Mercedes Boss's Daughter."

"Christian?" you suggest.

"He'll kill me. We have a race tomorrow." Max runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We need someone who can be discreet, who has the resources to handle this quietly, who-"

You both realize it at the same time.

"No," Max says.

"He's the only one who can help us without this becoming a scandal."

"YN, he's the last person-"

"Max." You reach for his hand. "We don't have a choice."

He knows you're right. With a resigned sigh, he nods.

Your hands shake slightly as you dial Lewis's number. It rings three times before he answers, voice groggy with sleep.

"Little Wolff? It's midnight, what-"

"Lewis, I need your help. And I need you to not ask questions."

There's a pause, then rustling as he presumably sits up. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but… we're stuck. Had an accident on the back roads near Silverstone. We need help getting the car towed without anyone finding out."

There's a pause. "We?"

You close your eyes. "I'm with Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. "Send me your location. Don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

True to his word, headlights appear eighteen minutes later. Lewis steps out of his car, taking in the scene - the wrecked vehicle, you and Max standing by the roadside, the unspoken truth of why you were together at this hour.

"Are you both alright?" He asks first, concern overriding any other emotions.

"Just bruised," you answer. "The car took the worst of it."

He nods, already on his phone. "Angela's on her way with a tow truck. She'll be discreet."

Max steps forward. "Lewis, I-"

"Don't." Lewis holds up a hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for her." He looks at you, something sad in his expression. "How long?"

"Since last year."

He lets out a low whistle. "Well, that explains a few things."

The wait for Angela is tense. Lewis keeps his distance, occasionally speaking quietly into his phone. Max doesn't let go of your hand, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

When Angela arrives with the tow truck, she doesn't bat an eye at the situation. The car is loaded efficiently, and arrangements are made to have it repaired at a private garage Lewis trusts.

"I'll drive YN home," Lewis says, and it's not really a question.

Max tenses beside you, but you squeeze his hand. "It's safer this way," you whisper. "Less suspicious if anyone sees us."

He knows you're right, again. "Text me when you're home?"

"Promise."

The drive with Lewis is quiet at first. Then the storm pours down.

"Of all the stupid, reckless things," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "A year? You've been sneaking around with him for a year? Again?"

"Lewis-"

"No." He turns to face you, anger and worry warring in his expression. "Do you have any idea what could happen if this gets out? What your father would-"

"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, making your head throb. "I don't care what anyone thinks anymore."

"Well, you should!" Lewis's voice rises to match yours. "This isn't some game, YN. This is your life, your career, your family-"

"You think I don't know that?" You bite back. "You think we haven't spent the last year terrified of exactly that? Hiding everything, sneaking around, lying to everyone we care about?"

"Then why?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "Why risk everything for him?"

"Because I love him!" The words echo in the car. You lower your voice, tears threatening to fall. "I love him, Lewis. And he loves me. Isn't that enough?"

Lewis' expression softens slightly, but the worry remains. "Love isn't always enough, YN. Not in this world. Not with everything at stake."

"It has to be," you whisper. "Because I can't do this anymore - pretending I don't feel what I feel, acting like my heart doesn't race every time he walks into a room. I'm tired of hiding."

"He's not good for you," Lewis says quietly. "You remember how broken you were after-"

"He was nineteen," you cut him off. "We were both kids, both scared. Things are different now."

"Are they?" his voice is gentle but firm. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still sneaking around in the middle of the night, still hiding from everyone. That doesn't sound different to me."

You sink back into your seat, suddenly exhausted. "I'm not asking for your approval, Lewis. I'm just asking for you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Because getting into a car accident at 2 AM doesn't exactly scream good decision-making."

"That wasn't-" you start to defend, but he holds up a hand.

"You shouldn't have been out there in the first place. These secret meetings, these late-night drives… it's not sustainable, YN."

"I know," you admit quietly. "We know. We've been talking about telling people, about doing this properly."

Lewis studies your face for a long moment. "And what happens when the media finds out? When your father finds out? When the pressure becomes too much and he runs again?"

"He won't." Your voice is firm despite your injuries. "He's not that scared kid anymore, Lewis. He knows what he wants now."

"And what is that?"

"Me." You meet Lewis's gaze steadily. "He wants me. All of me, no matter what it costs. And I want him."

Lewis sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "I can't support this, YN. I've watched him hurt you too many times."

"I know," you say softly. "And I love you for wanting to protect me. But I'm not asking for your support. I'm just asking you not to make this harder than it already is, I know you're worried. But please… please don't tell anyone. Not yet. Let us do this our way."

He doesn't respond, just pulls up the car outside your hotel and unlocks it so you can get out.

Silverstone, 2021. Race day

Your hands are still shaking slightly as you make your way through the paddock. Last night's crash left more than just physical bruises - the tension with Lewis, the close call, the reality of how fragile your secret is, it all weighs heavily.

The Mercedes garage is already buzzing with pre-race energy when you spot Lewis by his car, going through data with Peter. You wait until he's alone before approaching.

"Lewis," you say softly. "Can we talk?"

He glances around before responding, voice low. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Please. What you did last night-"

"Was a mistake," he cuts you off, finally turning to face you. "I should have called emergency services, protocol be damned."

"You know why we couldn't-"

"No, YN. You couldn't because you're sneaking around like teenagers. Do you have any idea what could have happened? If that tree had been a few inches to the left-"

"But it wasn't," you interrupt. "We're fine."

"Fine?" He scoffs. "You're both bruised, his car is wrecked, and I'm now complicit in your little romance."

"It's not a little romance-"

"Then what is it?" His voice rises slightly before he checks himself. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern as before. You, him, secrets, lies."

"I told you last night - I love him."

"Love?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Love doesn't hide, YN. Love doesn't put people in dangerous situations. Love doesn't-"

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't pretend you understand what we're dealing with."

"Oh, I understand perfectly. You're playing girlfriend with my biggest rival while there's a championship at stake. You're risking everything - your reputation, your father's position, the team's integrity-"

"This isn't a game to me!" The words come out sharper than intended. A few mechanics glance your way, and you lower your voice. "This isn't about the championship or the team. This is about me and him."

"Nothing in this paddock is ever just about two people," Lewis says coldly. "You of all people should know that."

Before you can respond, Bono approaches. "Lewis, strategy meeting."

"I need to focus," Lewis tells you, his expression hardening. "I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie before someone gets really hurt."

He walks away, leaving you standing there with a hollow feeling in your chest. Angela catches your eye, her expression sympathetic, and you wonder how much she knows.

The pre-race preparations pass in a blur. You go through the motions, smile when appropriate, but your mind keeps drifting to Max. You haven't seen him since Lewis dropped you off last night - you both agreed it was safer to stay apart until the race.

Then you're in the garage, watching the formation lap. Your father stands beside you, discussing something with the engineers, but their words sound distant.

Lap one. Copse Corner.

The contact happens so fast - Lewis's Mercedes alongside Max's Red Bull. The touch of wheels. Then Max's car is airborne, spinning, crashing into the barriers with devastating force.

The garage erupts in chaos. Screens show the replay from every angle. Your father is immediately in discussion with the stewards.

You can't breathe. Can't move. Your eyes are fixed on the smoking wreck of Max's car, willing him to move, to get out, to be okay.

"Racing incident," Toto argues. "Lewis had the line-"

Their voices fade to background noise as you watch the medical team reach the car. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, but you can't check it - not here, not with everyone watching.

"YN," Angela touches your arm gently. "You look pale. Maybe some water?"

You follow her away from the garage, grateful for the excuse. As soon as you're out of sight, your composure breaks.

"I don't know if he's okay," you whisper, hands shaking. "I can't- I can't check my phone, I can't ask anyone, I can't-"

"Breathe," Angela steadies you. "Just breathe."

"I should be there. I should be with him. After last night, after everything-"

"I won't say anything," she promises quickly. "But YN... this is bigger than just keeping a secret now."

"I know," you admit. "God, I know. But I can't- I can't even ask if he's okay without raising suspicions."

The race continues. Lewis gets a ten-second penalty but fights back to win. The garage celebrates, and you have to join in, have to smile and cheer while your heart is somewhere else entirely.

Hours pass with no news. Social media is full of speculation, but nothing concrete. You catch snippets of conversation - "hospital for checks" and "conscious but shaken" - but nothing official.

It's torture, pretending everything is normal. Pretending you're just concerned in a general, professional way. Pretending last night never happened, that you don't still have bruises from a different crash, that your world isn't falling apart all over again.

Finally, after what feels like years, you manage to slip away to the Red Bull motorhome.

The motorhome is quiet when you enter. GP looks up from his laptop, surprise crossing his features.

"YN? You shouldn't-"

"Please," your voice breaks. "Please, I need to see him."

GP studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "Last door on the right. But be careful - he's pretty beaten up."

You find Max lying on the small bed, eyes closed but breathing steady. The room smells of medical cream and defeat.

"Max?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

His eyes open immediately, finding yours in the dim light. Despite everything, his lips curve into a small smile.

"Two crashes in twenty-four hours," he mumbles. "Must be some kind of record."

"Don't," tears spill over finally. "Don't joke. Not now."

"Come here," he tries to move over but winces.

"Careful," you rush to his side, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"

"Everything hurts," he admits. "But nothing's broken. Well, except my championship lead."

"I was so scared," your voice breaks. "When I saw the crash, and then I couldn't- I couldn't even ask if you were okay. I had to stand there and pretend like I wasn't terrified."

"Hey," he reaches for your hand, wincing at the movement. "I'm okay. Well, relatively speaking."

"This is my fault," you whisper. "If I hadn't called Lewis last night-"

"Stop," he squeezes your hand. "This had nothing to do with last night."

"Didn't it? He was so angry this morning, about us, about having to help us-"

"Lewis and I race hard regardless of personal feelings," Max says firmly. "What happened today was racing. Stupid, dangerous racing, but still racing."

You study his face in the dim light, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain he's trying to hide, "Max, don't you think it's time?"

"Time?"

"To tell people. About us." The words rush out now that you've started. "I can't keep doing this - watching you race and pretending I don't care, hiding how I feel, lying to everyone we know. Today made me realize… if something had happened to you, really happened…"

He's quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing patterns on your hand. "What about your father?"

"I don't care anymore. Well, I do care, but… not more than I care about you. About us." You meet his eyes. "When the season's over. Before next year starts. We tell everyone."

"You're sure?"

"Are you?"

He pulls you closer, carefully, until you're lying beside him. "I'm sure if you are."

"Even with the championship? The media circus it'll cause?"

"Especially then." He kisses your forehead. "Today… when I hit that barrier, all I could think about was you. Not the championship, not the points, just… you. And how much time we've wasted hiding."

You curl into his side, mindful of his bruises. "So we're agreed? After Abu Dhabi, whatever happens with the championship…"

"We tell everyone." He lifts your chin to kiss you properly. "No more hiding."

"Promise?" You need to hear him say it.

"Promise," he pulls you closer, careful of both your injuries. "Besides, after last night's adventure and today's crash, I think we've filled our drama quota for a while."

You stay there, tangled together in the quiet darkness, both battered from different crashes but somehow still whole.

"I should go," you whisper eventually. "Before someone comes looking."

"One of the last times we'll have to say that," he reminds you.

"Promise me something else?"

"Anything."

"No more late-night drives for a while?"

He laughs, then grimaces in pain. "Deal. Although technically, both crashes were Lewis' fault."

"Max..."

"Kidding," he kisses your forehead softly. "Kind of."

You stand carefully, already missing his warmth. "Text me when you're feeling better?"

"Text me when you're home safe," he counters.

At the door, you turn back one last time. He's watching you with those eyes that made you fall in love twice - once when you were too young to know better, and again when you were old enough to know exactly what you were risking.

"Max?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. Even when I have to pretend I don't."

His smile, despite the pain, lights up the dark room. "I love you too. Even when Lewis Hamilton tries to kill me. Twice in twenty-four hours."

You shake your head, but you're smiling as you slip out into the night. A few more months of hiding, of pretending, of careful distances and secret meetings. Then everything changes.

You just hope you're both ready for whatever comes next.

Abu Dhabi, 2021

The final showdown. Equal points, one race to decide it all.

The morning of the race, you slip into the Red Bull garage before sunrise. Max is already there, going through his pre-race routine, but his face softens when he sees you.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, pulling you into his arms.

"Not really," you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Too much going on in my head."

"Talk to me."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "I'm nervous. For you, for the race, for what comes after…"

"Hey," he cups your face gently. "Whatever happens today, we're in this together. Remember?"

"I know," you try to smile. "It's just… everything's going to change after today."

"Good changes," he kisses your forehead. "No more hiding, remember?"

You've had this conversation countless times over the past months, planning how you'll handle the revelation of your relationship. Your father still doesn't know, though you suspect he's noticed something's different.

"I brought you something," you reach into your pocket and pull out a small charm - a tiny silver racing car. "For luck."

Max takes it, turning it over in his hands with a soft smile. "You're my luck."

"That was incredibly cheesy," you laugh, but your heart swells.

"You love it," he pulls you closer, kissing you properly this time. "And you love me."

"I do," you whisper against his lips. "So much it scares me sometimes."

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before reality intrudes again.

"I should go," you sigh. "There's something else I need to do before the race."

Max knows without asking. "Lewis?"

"Yeah," you bite your lip. "I can't let things end like this between us."

"Go," he squeezes your hand. "Just come back to me after?"

"Always."

Finding Lewis proves harder. He's been avoiding you since Silverstone, your relationship reduced to professional nods and carefully maintained distance. But you finally spot him in the Mercedes garage, alone with his thoughts.

"Lewis?" your voice is hesitant.

He tenses but doesn't turn around. "YN."

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me-"

"Then why are you here?"

You take a deep breath. "Because you're my brother, Lewis. Not by blood, but by choice. And I can't stand how things are between us."

He finally turns, and the pain in his eyes matches your own. "You chose him."

"I chose love," you step closer. "That doesn't mean I stopped caring about you."

"You could have told me," his voice cracks slightly. "Before Silverstone, before any of it. I thought we told each other everything."

"I was scared," you admit. "Scared of exactly this - losing you, losing my family, losing everything I've known."

"So instead you just lied? Snuck around?"

"I know it was wrong," tears prick at your eyes. "And I'm so sorry, Lewis. Not for loving him, but for hurting you. For breaking your trust."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face. "Does he make you happy? Really happy?"

"Yes," you whisper. "More than I ever thought possible."

Lewis sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Come here, little sister."

You practically fall into his arms, tears flowing freely now. He holds you tight, like when you were kids and he would protect you from everything.

"I'm still mad at you," he mumbles into your hair.

"I know."

"And I still think you're crazy."

"Probably."

"But," he pulls back to look at you, "I love you. And I miss you. And if he ever hurts you, I'll end his career so fast-"

You laugh through your tears. "There's my overprotective brother."

"Someone has to look out for you," he wipes your cheeks gently. "Even if you make it incredibly difficult."

"I'm sorry," you say again. "For everything."

"I know," he kisses your forehead. "We'll figure it out. After today."

"About that…" you hesitate. "We're planning to go public. After the race."

Lewis nods slowly. "I figured something like that was coming. The way you look at each other isn't exactly subtle."

"You noticed?"

"YN, everyone with eyes has noticed. They're just too scared of your father to mention it."

You both laugh, and for a moment it feels like before - easy, comfortable, safe.

"Lewis?" you grab his hand. "Whatever happens today… I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be."

He squeezes your hand. "Right back at you, little Wolff. Even if you have terrible taste in men."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying, there are other drivers-"

"Goodbye, Lewis," you start walking away, but you're smiling.

"YN?" he calls after you. "For what it's worth… he better know how lucky he is."

An hour later, you're standing in the Mercedes garage, heart in your throat, watching the screens as though your life depends on it. In a way, it does. Six years of loving Max in secret, two years of running away from it all, and now here you are - watching the man you love fight your father's driver for the championship in the most intense finale you've ever witnessed.

When Nicholas Latifi crashes, everything changes. The safety car comes out, and suddenly the garage erupts with activity. Your father's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and authoritative as he argues with race control. You've never seen him like this - the usual composed Toto Wolff replaced by someone desperately fighting against what feels like destiny shifting.

"No, no, no, Michael, that is so not right!" Your father's voice booms through the garage as the lapped cars are allowed through. You flinch at the fury in his tone, at the way he slams his headset down.

The final lap is unbearable. You watch Lewis getting hunted down by Max on fresh tires. Your nails dig into your palms, torn between family loyalty and the love you've kept hidden for so long.

When Max makes the pass, when he crosses the line as World Champion, the Mercedes garage falls silent. The contrast between the Red Bull celebrations on screen and the devastation around you is stark.

Your father looks destroyed, a mixture of anger and disbelief on his face. But it's Lewis who breaks your heart - the way he sits in his car, processing what just happened, the dignity with which he eventually emerges to congratulate Max.

You find Lewis in the drivers room a few hours later, away from the cameras. His eyes are red, his shoulders slumped in a way you've never seen before.

"Lew," your voice breaks.

He looks up, and suddenly you're both crying. You wrap your arms around him as he breaks down.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this," he whispers.

"I know," you hold him tighter. "I know."

You stay with him, through the protests, through the appeals, through the obligatory congratulations he has to give. You stay because he's family, because he needs you, because some things are more important than celebration.

Through it all, you catch glimpses of Max - being crowned champion, celebrating with his team, searching the crowd with eyes that keep finding you. But you stay where you're needed most.

Hours pass before you make it to Max's hotel. The celebrations are still going on somewhere, but he's in his room when you arrive, pacing like a caged animal.

"Where were you?" he demands as soon as you enter.

"I was with Lewis."

His face darkens. "Of course you were. Consoling the Mercedes garage while I won my first championship."

"Max, don't."

"Don't what? Don't be upset that my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me? That she was too busy comforting the opposition?"

"That 'opposition' is my family!" Your voice rises to match his. "Lewis is like my brother, my father is devastated-"

"Your father?" He laughs bitterly. "The same father you've been lying to for years? The one we're supposedly telling about us after this race?"

"Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"When else am I supposed to do it? When you're ready? Because I've been waiting for you to be ready since 2015!"

The words hit like physical blows. "That's not fair. You know why I left in 2018, the way you cut me off like I was nothing, it tore me apart."

"Yeah, because it got too hard. Because loving me was too complicated." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And now here we are again. I just won the World Championship, and where were you? With them."

"They're my family!"

"And what am I?" He steps closer, eyes intense. "What are we, YN? Because right now it feels like I'm still your dirty little secret."

"That's not-"

"Then prove it. Let's go tell Toto right now. Let's end this charade."

"Today? After everything that happened? Are you insane?"

"Why not today? When will it be convenient enough for you? When will loving me not conflict with your perfect Mercedes family?"

Tears are falling freely now. "You're being cruel."

"No, I'm being honest. Finally." He sits heavily on the bed. "I love you. I've loved you through everything - through you leaving, through you coming back, through all the hiding and sneaking around. But I can't do this anymore."

Your heart stops. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want all of you. Not just the parts that are convenient, not just the stolen moments between races. I want to celebrate with you when I win, hold you when I crash, build a life with you in the open." He looks at you, and you see the tears in his eyes too. "But I don't think you want that. Not really. Not enough to risk everything else."

"Max…"

"Go home, YN. Go console your father. Go be the perfect Mercedes daughter." His voice breaks slightly. "Just… don't come back unless you're ready to choose me. All of me. The rival, the champion, everything."

You stand there, frozen, both of you crying. Everything you've built, every secret moment, every whispered promise, feels like it's crumbling around you.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I know." He doesn't look at you. "That's never been our problem."

As you stand in the doorway of Max's hotel room, the weight of seven years of love, secrets, and choices bears down on your shoulders. The championship trophy gleams on the table behind him, a symbol of everything he's achieved and everything that's torn you apart.

[lulujamesspencer]

I think for sensitivity/authenticity readers you need to approach it like any other outside reader or editor: approach it as you would a therapist and pick one that fits with your style of working, actually reads and likes your genre, and will be able to give their edits/critiques in a way that is accurate AND kind. This is especially important for neurodiverse folks (solidarity fist bump to my RSD neurodiverse folks).

Story: About 10 years ago, I graduated seminary and had an idea for a theological non-fiction book on mulit-faith spirituality, which also strayed into politics and other issues. I wrote an introduction that I thought was good and interesting, so I sent it to someone who I thought would give me good advice on some of the topics, since she had experience in those areas, and maybe point out if I'd gone too far afield with some of the topics.

When I got their comments back, it was devastating and soul crushing. They ripped it to shreds, and, in areas I thought we shared similar opinions they shredded my manuscript as if they put it in a wood chipper then stomped on the mulch. Much of it the shredding was due, I think, to a mininterpretation of my wider neurodivergent thinking, but it may just be that I didn't explain myself right or... well, I just don't know, since it was hard to get past their criticisms and telling me how I was completely stupid and wrong about all of it. Now, if their comments were more like, "I don't think I agree with this statement. Did you mean for it to come off saying XYZ?" of "This doesn't happen in my experience, could you explain what your thought process was here?" I probably would have been fine, but instead they were angry and mean and assumed I didn't have knowledge about certain areas when I actually did have extensive knowledge. It was my first foray into non-fiction and as I said earlier, it was soul crushing. I really wanted to write that book, and still wish I could, but to this day I can't even start writing non-fiction without thinking about that and getting extrememly anxious. (And yes, I go to therapy, etc etc) For my fiction stuff, I'm much more careful about who I let read my early drafts. My Wife is my first reader/listener and she loves scifi and fantasy and she's able to give me feedback that's constructive, but also kind and compassionate. I have a great editor who is also very good at giving me constructive edits and feedback, but is also very kind and compassionate in the way she does it. I have a lot of friends from different experiences in life that I am comfortable asking questions of if I need to check things and I'm also very good at research. This, so far, has worked for me, and now I have 5 books of fantasy and science fiction out.

This is also why I self-publish. The constant rejection of traditional publishing would stop me from writing all together. I still can't write non-fiction in book form and that was from just one person who didn't really think about how their criticism would effect me. I also don't do writing groups, as many writing groups use a model that would absolutely ensure I never write again. So, if you are an editor, beta reader, part of a writing group, or even an agent or publisher, know that your rejections, harsh criticisms, or tough love, doesn't improve most writers, especially neurodivergent writers. Know that a lot of writers DO want to do justice to characters from experiences that they don't have experience in. I've heard stories like mine with really mean sensitivity/beta readers, and a number of those people will never write again, or never write publicly again. Please be aware that you can kill someone's passion and talent, possibly permanently.

And writers, be careful who you ask to read your stuff, and if someone has been mean, know that it's not you or your writing. Try not to give up, or give in to the tapes in your head that tell you you're horrible. Find better people to read your stuff.

On sensitivity readers, weakness, and staying alive.

The other day I was part of a Twitter conversation begun by a fellow-author on the subject of sensitivity readers, in which he said that no serious author would use sensitivity readers, and spoke of work being “sanitized”. The conversation devolved, as it often does on Twitter, but it got me thinking. It must have got someone else thinking too, because a journalist from the Sunday Times got in touch with me the next day, and asked me to share my ideas on the subject. Because I have no control over how my words are used in the Press, or in what context they might appear, here’s more or less what I told her.

I think a lot of people (some of them authors, most of them not) misunderstand the role of a sensitivity reader. That’s probably mostly because they’ve never used one, and are misled by the word “sensitivity”, which, in a world of toxic masculinity, is often mistaken for weakness. To these people, hiring someone to check one’s work for sensitivity purposes implies a surrendering of control, a shift in the balance of power. 

In some ways, I can empathize. Most authors feel a tremendous sense of attachment to their work. Giving it to someone else for comment is often stressful. And yet we do: we hand over our manuscripts to specialists in grammar, spelling or plot construction. We allow them to comment. We take their advice. We call these people editors and copy-editors, and they are a good and necessary part of the process of being an author. Their job is to make an author’s work as accurate and well-polished as possible.

When writing non-fiction, authors sometimes use fact-checkers at the editorial stage, to make sure that no embarrassing factual mistakes make it into print. This fact-checking is a normal part of the writing process. We owe it to our readers to be as accurate as possible. No-one wants to look as if they don’t know what they’re talking about.

That’s why now, increasingly, when writing about the lives and experiences of others, we sometimes use readers with different specialities. That’s because, however great our imagination, however well-travelled we may be and however many books we have read, there will always be gaps in our knowledge of the way other people live, or feel, or experience the world. Without the input of those with first-hand knowledge, there’s always a danger we will slip up. That’s why crime writers often consult detectives when researching their detective fiction, or someone writing a hospital drama might find it useful to talk to a surgeon, or a nurse, or to someone with the medical condition they are planning to use in their narrative. That’s why someone writing about divorce, or disability, or being adopted, or being trans, or being homeless, or being a sex worker, or being of a different ethnicity, or of a different culture – might find it useful to take the advice of someone with more experience.

There are a number of ways to do this. One of my favourites is The Human Library, which allows subscribers to talk to all kinds of people and ask them questions about their lives  (Check them out at https://humanlibrary.org/). The other possibility is to hire a specialist sensitivity reader to go through your manuscript and check it. Both can be a valuable resource, and I doubt many authors would believe that their writing is sanitized, or diluted, or diminished by using these resources.

And yet, the concept of the sensitivity readers – which is basically another version of the specialist editor and fact-checker – continues to cause outrage and panic among those who see their use as political correctness gone mad, or unacceptable wokery, or bowdlerization, or censorship. The Press hasn’t helped. Outrage sells copies, and therefore it isn’t in the interest of the national media to point out the truth behind the ire.

Let’s look at the facts.

First, it isn’t obligatory to use a sensitivity reader. It’s a choice. I’ve used several, both officially and unofficially, for many different reasons, just as I’ve always tried to speak to people with experience when writing characters with disabilities, or from different cultures or ethnic groups. I know that my publisher already sends my work to readers of different ages and from different backgrounds, and I always run my writing past my son, who often has insights that I lack.  

Sensitivity reading is a specialist editorial service. It isn’t a political group, or the woke brigade, or an attempt to overthrow the status quo. It’s simply a writing resource; a means of reaching the widest possible audience by avoiding inaccuracy, clumsiness, or the kind of stereotyping that can alienate or pull the reader out of the story.

Sensitivity readers don’t go around crossing out sections of an author’s work and writing RACIST!!! in the margin. Usually, it’s more on the lines of pointing out details the author might have missed, or failed to consider: avoiding misinformation; suggesting authentic details that only a representative of a particular group would know.

Authors can always refuse advice. That’s their prerogative. If they do, however, and once their book is published, they receive criticism or ridicule because their book was insufficiently researched, or inauthentic, or was perceived as perpetuating harmful or outdated stereotypes, then they need to face and deal with the consequences. With power comes responsibility. We can’t assume one, and ignore the other,

Being more aware of the experiences of others doesn’t mean we have to stop writing problematic characters. Sensitivity reading isn’t about policing bad behaviour in books. It’s perfectly possible to write a thoroughly unpleasant character without suggesting that you’re condoning their behaviour. Sensitivity is about being more authentic, not less.

People noticed bigotry and racism in the past, too. Some people feel that books published a hundred years ago are somehow more pure, or more free, or more representative of the author’s vision than books published now. You often hear people say things like: “If Dickens were around today, he wouldn’t get published.”

But Dickens is still published. We still get to read Oliver Twist, in spite of its anti-Semitism. And those who believe that Dickens’ anti-Semitism was accepted as normal by his contemporaries probably don’t know that not only was he criticized by his peers for his depiction of Fagin, he actually went back and changed the text, removing over 200 references, after receiving criticism by a Jewish reader. And no, it wasn’t “normal” to be anti-Semitic in those days: Wilkie Collins, whose work was as popular as Dickens’ own, managed to write a range of Jewish characters without relying on harmful and inaccurate stereotypes. 

But it isn’t automatic that a book will survive its author. Books all have shelf lives, just as we do, and Dickens’ work has survived in spite of his anti-Semitism, not because of it. The work of many others has not. Books are for readers, and if an author loses touch with their readers - either by clinging to outdated tropes, or using outdated vocabulary, or having an outdated style – then their books will cease to be published, and they will be forgotten. It happens all the time. What one generation loves and admires may be rejected by the next. And the language is always changing. Nowadays, it’s hard to read some books that were popular 100 years ago. Styles have changed, sometimes too much for the reader to tolerate.

Recently, someone on tumblr asked about my use of the word “gypsy” in Chocolat, and whether I meant to have it changed in later editions. (River-gypsies is the term I use in connection with Roux and the river people, who are portrayed in a positive light, although they are often victims of prejudice.) It was an interesting question, and I gave it a lot of thought. When I wrote the book 25 years ago, the word “gypsy” was widely used by the travelling community, and as far as I knew, wasn’t considered offensive. Nowadays, there’s a tendency to regard it as a slur. That’s why I stopped using it in my later Chocolat books. No-one told me to. It was my choice. I don’t feel as if I’ve lost any of my artistic integrity by taking into account the fact that a word has a different resonance now. On the other hand, I don’t feel that at this stage I need to go back and edit the book I wrote. That’s because Chocolat is a moment in time. It uses the language of the moment. Let it stand for as long as it can. 

But I don’t have to stay in one place. I can move on. I can change. Change is how we show the world that we are still alive. That we are still able to feel, and to  learn, and to be aware of others. That’s what “sensitive” means, after all. And it is nothing like weakness. Living, changing, learning – that’s hard. Playing dead is easy.

[alchemistc]

Actually you know what I don't think I've really seen anyone talk about how TYPICAL of Buck it is to revert to sex as a coping mechanism. Like yeah he's absolutely grown and changed from Buck 1.0 but let's look at his last year or so from his perspective:

Buck discovers new facets of his sexuality. He starts dating a dude who turned him into a feral little jealousy gremlin

Bobby leaves the 118 and leaves them with fuck ass Gerrard. Bobby almost dies.

Buck has a BOYFRIEND and he sees a future with him

Buck finds out something about his boyfriend that he can't square with, and gets frankly awful advice about what his boyfriend went through to make him Like That. He also continues to be not taken seriously about himself, his feelings, his wants and desires, his concerns

Buck gets dumped. He pushed too hard too fast as he tends to do and he gets dumped for it. Rinse and repeat

All of his friends immediately jump down his throat for wanting to talk to the dude who dumped him. He bakes. And bakes. And bakes and bakes and bakes and it doesn't stop him from missing the guy who dumped him

His best friend leaves. And while Buck can understand it it hurts enough to make him act a little out of pocket.

(Can we talk about the way everyone in his life infantalizing him absolutely makes him behave in childish ways in response? No? Okay I'll shut up.)

His sister gets kidnapped? And almost dies?

He moves out of a place he's lived in for five years to help his best friend. He cannot sleep in the new place.

He tries to make new friends but the thing is he already has a best friend and right now all he has available to him are stories about his best friend. So he tells them. To exhaustion.

So yeah. He's disconnected from a lot of his support systems because they just have other shit going on. (I do not blame them for not making him their number one priority and Buck doesn't either but they're still ...missing.)

He runs into his ex. His ex gives him a SCRAP and what does Buck do? He turns it immediately to sex. And he thinks to himself: this is what I'm good for this is what I can offer THIS will have to be enough even though this man has validated me: the way my brain works, the tangents I go on, the over-reactions I have and the way I get obsessive. But Tommy dumped him. So. Sex will have to be enough for Buck.

Like I just think we're undervaluing exactly how much this regression to fuckboy Buck makes sense. He's not doing it to be an asshole. It's a fucking survival instinct and he's been in survival mode since the second Tommy dumped him

[writingunderneathawillow]

novelty (bucky barnes x fem!reader)

content warnings: smut, mdni pretty please, first time, loss of virginity, inexperienced reader, female reader, soft bucky (i love him), established relationship, fluff word count: 2.6k a/n: i'm lowkey thinking about making this a series, but one where every part can be read as a stand alone? i've got so many ideas, basically all of them about bucky and inexperienced reader trying new things. is that weird?

Bucky and you had been dating for a month now.

He was always so sweet to you, making sure you felt comfortable with everything he did.

He never wanted you to feel like you had to do anything other than what you were willing to do.

The first time you stayed over at his apartment, he had even offered to sleep on the couch which had left you laughing and feeling luckier than anyone else. You declined this and both of you spend the night entangled with each other in his bed.

On the night of your one-month anniversary, the two of you sat together on the bed after a fancy dinner and lots of flowers. When the light outside faded and the sunset coloured his bedroom in golden hues, you kissed him. Half lying on him, half sitting on his lap, your lips crashed onto his, relishing in the flavour of him.

Your hands ran through his hair while his fingers ghosted over your waist, holding you closely to him.

His tongue moved against your slightly parted lips, pushing them apart and exploring the inside of your mouth.

With a gentleness that contrasted so strongly with his usual demeanour, he cradled the back of your head with one hand and rested the other on the small of your back.

A moan escaped his mouth which seemed to bring him back to reality and he gently pushed you away to look at your face.

He took in your glassy eyes and warmed skin, slowly dragging his knuckles over your cheek.

"We gotta go a little slower," he rasped, keeping his hand against your cheek.

"Why?" You asked, a shy smile curving your mouth.

"Cause you're killing me when you do... this," Bucky replied, smirking as he looked you up and down.

Your smile expanded and you looked at him through heavy lidded eyes, desire coursing through your veins.

"Maybe that's the plan," you confessed and gazed at him, waiting for his reaction.

He took in a sharp breath, fingers twitching on your sides as he seemingly struggled to hold himself back from taking you up on your offer.

"Doll," he rasped quietly, muscles flexing under his shirt as he pulled you flush against him.

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Yeah, I do," you retorted, your fingers wandering over his neck and into his hair, slowly dragging between his locks as you met his lips again.

His breath stuttered against your mouth and his hands slipped underneath your shirt, ghosting against the clasps of your bra.

Then he pulled away again, his cheeks flushed and eyes hungry with desire.

"This is a big step, sweetheart," he whispered, and held you at bay, taking in every micro expression of your face.

"I'll wait as long as you want," Bucky insisted.

"I don't wanna wait," you replied, scrunching up your eyebrows. "I'm ready. I wanna do it... with you."

For a few seconds, he closed his eyes, relishing in your words. His mouth corners twitched as if he was fighting a smile.

"Are you sure?" He asked then, cupping your face in order not to miss a single sign of uncertainty.

"Yes," you answered and there was no room for doubt in your voice, simply excitement.

If a smile could truly light up a room, it would be Bucky's right now.

He leaned back in to kiss you again, this time with more vigour.

Breathless and messily, your faces connected while his hands traced shapeless motions on your bare stomach. He fumbled with the hem of your shirt, taking his time in peeling away the layer that separated the two of you.

You could tell that he was slowing himself down, letting you feel every inch of his patience in his movements

When he finally rid you of your shirt, his eyes hungrily darted over your body, taking in all of you.

Excitement pooled in your stomach along with some nerves that sparked little bolts of electricity underneath your skin.

To even out the playing field, you began to take off his shirt, dragging the material over his chest and slowly exposing more of his skin.

The low lighting in the room bounced off on his abs, highlighting the dips and crooks.

With a feathery finger, you slowly traced the lines on his abdomen, travelling further south. His breath hitched and he reflexively caught your hand.

You looked at him and saw a hint of a smile on his lips when he grabbed your other hand as well, bringing them above your head. He inched closer to you and played with the waistband of your jeans, one hand slipping towards the button and zipper.

A feeling which was a mix of lust and nervousness coursed through you as he removed your jeans, leaving you in just your underwear before him.

Again, he let his gaze wander over you before conquering your mouth in a wet kiss, that sent heat between your legs.

You hooked your ankles behind his back, pulling him in closer.

The material of his trousers was rough against your bare skin, every shift dragging across you. Pressed up against him, you felt his clothed arousal digging into your core and it made your stomach flutter.

Bucky’s lips travelled down from your lips to your jaw, then your collarbone. He stayed there a while, sucking and licking the sensitive skin until he was satisfied with the blooming red underneath that promised a deep purple mark tomorrow.

When he looked up at you, chin hovering just over your breasts, the breath was stolen from your lungs.

His pupils were dilated with lust and there was a faint line of saliva around his lips. To see him like this, absolutely taken with you, it made you lightheaded with joy. The fact that you had this kind of effect on him eased your nerves.

“You okay?” He asked, his voice rough but attentive.

“Yeah, better than okay,” you replied, and he nodded.

“You just tell me when to stop, alright, doll?” His gaze was fixed on you, sure not to miss a single indication of you.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you answered truthfully, writhing a little underneath him with pure yearning.

You felt the damp patch in your panties as you shifted around and almost wished that he wouldn’t be so considerate. A hunger that you had never experienced like this before had taken a hold of you and it only increased when he started to unhook the clasps of your bra.

He looked at you like you were a masterpiece, a painting that should be admired by billions of people when his eyes followed every contour of your exposed body.

It would have been instinctual for you to feel just a bit self-conscious, your body bare before his eyes, just covered by your panties, but how could you when he looked at you like that. Like you were born to be pressed flush against him, born to be his.

His tongue trailed down between your breasts, leaving a trail of him down to your belly button.

Only then he began to take off his pants, the tent in his boxers leaving you speechless and clenching your legs together a little.

He smirked as he saw the tremors in your legs, one large hand brought down to rest on your thigh, so close to the hem of your panties.

“Nervous?” He asked, no trace of cockiness in his voice as he fixated you with his eyes.

“A little. But the good kind,” you responded truthfully.

“The good kind,” he repeated, a husky chuckle following. “Alright.”

With one swift motion he advanced closer to you on the mattress and rested his hands on your hips, just on the edge of your underwear.

He hooked his fingers into the material and slowly, torturously freed you of them. With the phantom of a smug grin did he drag the pad of his thumb over the wet patch on them before dropping them to the ground.

Now, fully bare before him, the nerves returned fully. You closed your eyes, trying to slow your heartbeat and get lost in the sensation of being exactly where you wanted to be.

Only when Bucky softly spoke did your eyes snap back open.

“Sweetheart? Do you wanna stop?”

You couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh.

“Not at all. I just… need a second.”

He nodded and said: “Take all the time you need.”

It didn’t seem possible for your heart to be any fuller with adoration for him but with words like that, it was seconds away from bursting.

You pulled him back towards you, connecting your lips with his and felt his tongue drag along the entrance of your mouth, teasing your until you opened up.

While his tongue explored your mouth, his right hand dipped down between your legs, brushing up ever so gently against your slick folds.

An exhale caught in your lungs as you felt his fingers toying with you, gathering your arousal and coming up against your clit for a few seconds.

He deepened the kiss, and you bucked your hips towards him, looking to replicate the feeling of his hands on you again. You felt him grin against your lips, but you were so high on his touch that you didn’t care.

One of his fingers circled your entrance and he pulled back to look at you, wanting to take in your face as he pushed into you.

A stifled gasp broke from your lips as you felt him slowly widening you out, pumping in and out of you at a steady rhythm.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, and you felt his dick twitch against you, still covered by his boxers. “Gonna take a second to get you ready.”

He added a second and then a third finger, filling you up so deliciously that you couldn’t stifle the moan that escaped your lips.

“You like that?” He asked, still as attentive and focused on you as before.

“Yeah,” you replied, nothing more than a shaky gasp as you felt your insides tighten around his finger, sucking him in greedily.

Your head swam with oxytocin and when he brushed up against your clit with his thumb, your whole body began to quiver.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, not that Bucky showed any inclination to do that. You searched for something to hold onto, digging your nails into his back as he continued to encircle your clit, giving you the friction that you needed.

Heat was building up in your lower stomach like a knot coming closer to detangling with every single movement of his. You felt the warmth spread to your neck and chest, the pressure strengthening with every second that passed until it broke. The knot unravelled and you came with such a force that you had to press your mouth against his shoulder as blinding satisfaction flooded your veins.

Bucky continued to work you through your orgasm until you caught your breath and looked up at him with gleaming eyes.

Next to the craving in his eyes was pride. In you, in himself, in the connection that you shared.

He leaned down to kiss your forehead that gleamed with sweat, and you closed your eyes, radiant with the burn of your release.

When your breathing evened out, you parted your legs again, allowing Bucky to fit himself against your body. He took off his boxers and his cock sprung free, slapping against his stomach. Beads of precum wetted the pink tip.

You held your breath as you appraised him and a second of doubt clouded your mind. His dick was a lot bigger than just his fingers. But when you looked at Bucky and saw the adoration plastered across his face, you breathed out your worries and nodded.

“I’m ready,” you said and meant it.

He cupped your face and replied: “You just tell me if I gotta stop, ok? I promise I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know.”

He beamed down at you and then moved forward until he lined up with your entrance.

With his hand he slowly guided himself in. You felt the stretch immediately, but it didn’t hurt. It was more of a burning sensation that excited you.

Bucky kept his eyes on you, searching for signs to stop.

Since there were none, he moved further, and you held onto his muscular arm as he spread you open.

Bucky groaned as he felt your walls flutter around him at the same time as your nails dug into his forearm and it took a lot for him to not fully push himself into you.

He gave you time to adjust, to shape yourself around him. It was a snug fit, but sensually so, you could feel every vein on his dick.

When you nodded again, he pulled back a little only to then move further into you as your walls allowed for him to enter your almost completely.

You weren’t sure which one of you felt more bliss in this second.

The sensation of him filling you out, stuffing you to the brim until you thought you could never feel lonely again, spread through your body and sent warm shock waves into your limbs.

He trembled in you, clearly enjoying the sensation of being enveloped by you and then bridged the last uncovered inches of his dick, fully filling you out until the hairs at his base tickled against your skin.

A moan broke from your lips as you felt the spongy tip of his head kiss a spot so deep within you.

After a few seconds of letting you adjust again, he began to move his hips, pulling out almost fully only to snap his hips against your again.

He sat a pace that kept him on edge and almost sent you into your next orgasm. When he added a finger to your clit, swift motions flicking against it, you had to ground yourself by gripping the sheets to not immediately give into your release.

Sweat beaded from his forehead and mingled with yours.

“You’re so perfect,” he gasped, as he pumped into you, “So fucking perfect.”

You felt lightheaded and fought to come undone so quickly, but his praise made your velvety walls flutter, and you knew he could feel it.

“So fucking amazing,” he whispered, now almost teasingly as he increased the pressure on your clit, dragging the mix of your wetness and his precum across the sensitive nerves.

“J-James,” you hiccupped, holding onto his shoulders.

He silenced you with a kiss, wet and sloppily dragging his lips against yours while keeping intense pressure on your clit.

“Come for me,” he panted, “I know you want to, doll.”

A sound that you didn’t even know you could make parted your lips as his words pushed you over the edge, while he relished in the feeling of you tightening around him. Blinding white lights filled your vision as you rode out your second orgasm.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured into your ear as the aftershocks of your release coursed through your body.

He increased his pace, hips snapping back and forth against you and as he saw your eyes, glazy with satisfaction, he let himself go.

You could feel his spent coating your walls, painting your insides with his cum while he groaned, lips pressed against yours.

He sank onto you, careful not to squeeze you under him and closed his eyes while he caught his breath.

With your head still in the clouds, you caressed his back until he declined onto the mattress, pulling you snug against his chest.

[biff-adventurer]

i've seen this post a lot in the past year/s(???) and like. i just don't understand. if you want reach, you share your ao3 posted fic to places like twitter, bluesky, tumblr, etc. people used to write fics on facebook back when i first started rp.

but also, fanfiction is one hobby that can't make you legal money. people try very hard to be known as good writers, or else advertise commissions to others in fandom, but they forget--they're typically writing in a copyrighted world. that's why ao3 doesn't allow you to share on pages that might make you money for writing fanfic.

writing fanfiction can be a serious, thoughtful, artistic undertaking-- it's not below any genre in terms of literary worth. it captures the way the audience of a piece of media feels toward the media, it captures our cultural thinking in the moment, it expresses and, possibly, spreads the love for topics in the media it is referencing. fanfiction has so much inherent worth.

i myself indulge in fanfiction as a literary undertaking. i'm completely serious about it. but in the US, i can't make money off it. again and again, communities must be reminded that benefitting financially from the writing of fanfiction (directly) means playing fire with big corporations who will wage legal wars. i wasn't there during the anne rice saga, but those that were will tell you the horror stories. we don't want to be afraid of posting fanfiction and getting sued for it. ao3 is a godsend when it comes to protecting our rights.

i say this because "reach" echoes this idea that everything we post must be commodified and useful to us in some capital-gaining way, whether that be social or financial. do not post for reach. do not write to be famous. you'll writhe, wither and wail at the pain it causes you.

fanfiction has always been about the people reading and writing it. how do you feel about this work? how do you seethe world these characters are in? why are you telling the story you're telling?

(it doesn't HAVE to be meaningful to be important, it can be completely self-indulgent, it can be cursed, it can be wrong, it can be on any scale of quality just as all writing can be)

please write because you have something to say. because you want to share your daytime reveries and your silliest thoughts. because you want to leave something behind. because you love something and, gods be damned, you have to make more of it because no one else will.

there are as many writers in the world as there are stars in the sky. it's a luck of the draw to get recognition for a work, and it's been that way for a great, long time. so if you write, let it be because you must. because your love of the act compels you. because a dream rooted in vanity will inevitably break you.

writing isn't about status, branding, marketing, or anything like that. don't trap yourself in this notion, and don't let it make you feel superior to anyone. do it for you. do it for the love of you. you will blossom into the person you've always meant to be if you do.

nothing pisses me off more than when i see a fic on ao3 talking about reach. "this ship isn't here but i added them for reach" "this fandom tag isn't necessary but i'm adding it for reach" "reposting for reach" STOP IT!!!! this is not tiktok this is not twitter this is an ARCHIVE this is not how it works!!!

[peepawispunk]

I have some things to say about the situation in fandom the last few days // an open letter to the morally outraged.

I didn't read the fic that started this, purely because I didn't see it in my feed. But I have trusted friends who were able to give me enough of an idea on what it contained that I feel comfortable commenting.

I am both a parent, and was a victim of abuse when I was a child. I would kill or die to prevent my children or any children from becoming a victim of csa. I support a non profit organisation dedicated to keeping children safe from csa and csam.

This fic, from all accounts, did not contain or glorify csa. Also, when it comes to literature, csam laws do not apply. Fictional written works containing csa are actually researched and studied by experts in the psychology field. Well researched. They are not illegal, and the subject matter is in a lot of professionally published works.

Dark themes in fiction and erotica can also be a coping mechanism for victims, to help them reframe their experience. It can be used as a safe means of exposure therapy where they retain control and power in the situation as they read.

Pedro himself has said one of his favourite books is Lolita. Does that say anything about his character or morals? Are you going to go around telling everybody vile things about him now?

Just because something is not to your tastes doesn't mean it should be banned, or that you should be naming and shaming people who interact with it. We are on a slippery political slope with the right wing pushing censorship and banning and othering. Do not make it easier for them to do this.

If you draw the line at uncomfortable subject matter for *you* and then try and draw that line for everyone else, too, where does it end? Do we stop at what makes you feel uncomfortable, or do we stop at what makes the next person, or the next person uncomfortable until we're well and truly censored and it's illegal to do or write anything other than under the covers missionary with your spouse?

If you're not actually out there doing the work to help victims, then what you're doing by naming and shaming is purely performative. If you were out there doing the work to help real victims, you'd be putting your energy there instead of into this stunt.

You might think you're a real hero, out there fighting the "good fight" against "those disgusting people who read that stuff", but what you need to realise is that fandom spaces are not built for you specifically. They are a community, one you need to know the rules and etiquette for.

I've been in fandom spaces for a good twenty something years at this point, so take it from a fandom old.

1. Don't like, don't read. Curate your own experience. We didn't have tags and summaries and descriptions like we have now twenty years ago. We have tags now. Use them liberally, both to seek out what you want to see, and to block what you don't.

2. We're all a community here. If you're new, you're a guest. Don't come into our community and tell us how to do things. You didn't build this fandom, and you most certainly do not get to dictate it.

3. Fanfiction is full of adult content. If you can't be an adult about said content, fandom is not the place for you. If you can't scroll on or block tags, you aren't mature enough to be here.

You don't have to like everything you see. You don't have to see everything the fandom posts. But you sure as hell can't come in here and tell everybody what goes and what doesn't, and use fear and naming and shaming to try and control the fandom. It's awfully dictator of you.

Take a look at this post if you've gotten this far in. Fandom has had these rules long before you joined and they will be the rules long after you leave. It's the only way fandom works.

[shouts-into-the-void]

Montresor caring about Will didn't come out of nowhere, Lenore was just mad: a biased completely unbiased post

The thing we need to remember as a rule is that Montresor's default personality is rude and antagonistic even when he's not actively trying to be an aggressor, which means you have to look at what he means rather than necessarily the things he says. He's a clear victim of abuse, who reacts to feelings trapped, cornered, threatened, panicked, or humiliated by lashing out. From what I have gathered, it seems like his mother may have been the type of person who was nice one minute, then became abusive at the drop of a hat, and/or acted loving while claiming she "had to do this for his own good", and he was clearly raised in a very strict religious environment where he didnt have a lot of control/was punished for things he couldnt help. As a reaction, Montresor tries to force an aggressive response out of anyone he feels threatened by, because at least then it's predictable and he feels in control. Okay, great, Montresor analysis out of the way, moving on.

Our first real look at Will and Montresor as a unit is when the clusterfucks (side note: I've seen a lot of people calling them the acoleets now? Far less funny, absolutely not) are discussing their spectres. During this conversation, Montresor is actually hyping Will up, and even when he agrees with Ada that is sounds useless, he makes sure to assure him that it "looks really cool though."

We only really see Montresor become outright violent and dangerous once it's revealed that only one person can win a new life. We see him actively panic about it, and while we don't really get a lot more context for him yelling at Will in the moment, I think its relevant that this is the moment when he starts treating Will less nicely, because now it's a competition an everyone else is potentially out to get him. Hell, he even immediately begins joking around with Will after telling him to shut up, so it's clear that he's acting out of stress and fear immediately after the revelation.

The interaction that immediately follows this is the incident with Morella and Ada, and I find it notable that Montresor goes out of his way to include Will. (when he makes sure to let you get your turn humiliating a woman to prove her loyalty to the group #romantic 🤡)

Later, during the Spectre vs. Students lesson, when Berenice bites Will and he asks for help, Montresor immediately tells her to leave him alone. While he seems mildly annoyed with Will the whole time (kind of understandably, because Will keeps screwing up the plan) he only says anything particularly horrible after Berenice slashes him across the face with her knife, which clearly pisses him off in general. We see him letting Will nap on his shoulder afterwards, which isn't super important I just think it's cute.

Montresor clearly sees them as a unit, as he still involved Will with the plan despite Will messing up the previous night with Duke and stops Will from helping Annabel with Ada despite not having a real reason to do by saying "We'll sit this one out." Like it should have gone without saying that if he's not doing it, Will isn't either. Then the next day, the fact that Montresor comes to get Will specifically so they can walk to breakfast together? Knows what his toothbrush looks like and goes out of his way to give it back? The little flick on the forehead when he calls him a church churchmouse? That he picks up on Will's distress and immediately goes to collect Ada to save him? I see you, fake-ass idgafer.

Which brings me to my next point, which is that it is Lenore on her enraged, vengeful tirade who claims that Montresor hates Will. She claims it's due to his behavior towards Will when he came to get him, but I think its pretty clear she only says it to upset Will. And Will can't think of anything nice Montresor's ever done for him because he's stressed, thinks he's about to get shot, and his self-confidence is super low. He even addresses the fact later that Montresor goes out of his way to save him all the time.

I also think now is a good time to point out that Montresor only seems to physically hurt Will in any significant way when he's been having a flashback. His expression when he comes out of his death flashback to find himself attacking Will is shocked, and while he doesn't apologize, his response does come across as apologetic. He has a similar expression when he wakes up from Ada's vision choking Will, only he looks incredibly panicked that time because he'd done actual damage. The expression on his face when Lenore points out what he's done is pained. I think this runs back to Montresor telling Will not to touch him, I'm pretty sure part of his trauma revolves around physical touch and when he's having an episode of PTSD/not fully aware of his surroundings he lashes out instinctively at the person touching him, which unfortunately means Will, who is a very physically affectionate person (man has 13 siblings and it shows.) Which is unfortunate, because I think Montresor also seems to be a very tactile person, and he actually goes out of his way to be touching Will a lot.

Another interesting thing? Montresor only ever addresses Will by name, which is very significant with context. The nicknames Montresor gives people are meant to mock them, so by only using Will's name it subtlely signals that he holds him in higher respect (or at least in more genuine regard) than the others. In Will's flashback, Sally–someone who went to school with him and was in all the same classes–doesn't remember his name, only that he's one of many Wilson siblings. So for Montresor, who can't even remember his "ace in the hole" and current fling's name, to be constantly making it a point to say he knows who Will is, is a great indicator of his actual feelings. By contrast, Will calls Montresor "Monty" exclusively, the only nickname he receives that is genuinely affectionate and something he never attempts to make him stop calling him.

Which pretty much brings us back to the events of the current episodes, which I've already talked about the significance of in another post. I know this is probably insanely biased for multiple reasons and im sure theres a bunch of little tidbits I've forgotten , but do with it what you will.

[boyfriendtodeathconfessional]

A large reason I got into BTD + TPOF was the horror aspects and writing of certain characters; like Ren for example.

As fucked up as it sounds Ren is one of the only characters to share my same ways of being affected by abuse especially after being isolated by an abuser. The grappling at wanting to believe the abuser loved you and cared about you because you had a few good moments together, trying to explain away the abuse that happened to you, falling into old habits that you had during the abuse or learning the habits of the abuser and taking them on because it's all you've learned are all things I've done in my life as a result of being abused for almost my whole life.

To me Ren's route is terrifyingly realistic and something I can relate to. In one ending he cries about how he had literally no one except Strade and is trying to grasp the fact Strade did abuse him, all while still trying to explain and deny it. He says he loved him, which is something I found myself feeling about my abusers a lot. It's easy to believe they love you during the good times or even just when you've been alone for so long that any sort of affection, no matter how false or fucked up, reads as love to the mind. He feels like shit for not saving Strade, even knowing if he did he'd still be being abused because he thinks it's better that way because at least he'd still have someone, even if that someone hurt him so badly it altered his path of life completely.

Fox shares a lot of these relations as well. The want to have control so badly you'll do anything for it, grasping at any straws you can all while falling back into the habits you were trying so hard to escape. Fox himself doesn't exactly seem to enjoy hurting the MC once he gets to know them more, even stopping them from killing themselves on stream and saving them and instantly being concerned about their well-being even right before. He gets us the prosthetic because he wants us to stay alive. He doesn't want to lose us hence why he puts so much effort into us, even getting upset when we die in show 2. And furthermore he's still in denial about Strade once again. He says that all Strade did was make the scars but they didn't make him, but it's a lie. We know from BTD 2 that Ren can get better with the proper support and help, but In TPOF he never got that help. He wouldn't know how to be a showman or snuff streamer without Strade. Strade taught him all he knows and he doesn't want to admit that he's down this path because of him. He's repeating the same steps as his abuser while trying to deny he had any effect on him at all.

He tries so hard to please chat that he ignores his own wants. His wants to keep us safe and stay with him? He ignores them. In Show 3 there's a chance for a sprite to pop up where Fox tells you to wait, but then turns back to chat and see they're getting upset at him, likely making him worry as he thinks they may leave him if he doesn't listen. The people he's been trying to use as a substitute for Strade's affection turning on him the moment he shows worry for someone he's starting to care about. So upon noticing their reaction he addresses them, telling them he was just making sure they're having a good time while punishing himself for caring about us and trying to stop us by digging his claws into his wrists to make him bleed, punishing himself for going against those who he thinks love them, but they don't love him. They love that he's trapped himself again, that he'll do whatever they say no matter what because he's reliant on them. He thinks hurting the MC gives him some sense of control but in reality he's still completely lost any control he once had by listening to chat and not his own wants.

When you tell him "I thought you were the one in charge" it sets off to him that he in fact has never had control and has just been doing what everyone else wants. He only took you in because Celia said it'd be cute. It wasn't a genuine decision he made on his own. No decision has been.

In BTD 2 as well we can see endings where he ends up revictimized which is something I fear I've been through so many times, especially regarding sexual abuse. Ren becomes scared of you, terrified even, so he falls back into the old habits of listening and obeying because he thinks if he just listens it'll be ok. It'll be better that way. Fighting causes more issues so it's better to just take it, no matter how much it hurts and he doesn't want to. He'll force himself to like it, to love you, because now you're the one giving him the attention. You're who he'll be dependent on.

He also shows that abused can become the abusers as well, even if just by repeating actions they view as correct because it's what they've been taught and all they know. He doesn't know any other way, so he does what he knows worked to make him care about Strade and hopes it'll have the same effect on you.

Ren / Fox means so much to me as a victim of abuse because he shows the sides of abuse most people don't touch upon and are too scared to talk about or want to brush under the rug. It kinda sucks to me when I see people discredit him just because he's from a horrorporn game because he really is, at least to me from my own experiences with abuse and the aftermath/struggles, extremely accurate to the struggles that come after getting out of an abusive situation where all you know is your abuser and hold them to such high regard because you have no one else in life and will try to justify them no matter what because they're all you know and have or had.

.

[obsessedwhyyes]

The Art of Not Admitting a Thing (1/2)

Summary: Something's going on between Gale and Astarion... you're sure of it. So naturally, you decide to investigate. Who knew that one simple question would reveal such a mess of longing, denial, and a master class in emotional avoidance?

Rating: T Word Count: 1177 Pairing: Astarion x Gale Content: First Person Gale POV, interview format, mutual pining, yearning, denial of feelings, character study, Gale is bad at feelings, fluff, a teensy bit of angst but not much!

A/N: So here we have my first ever Bloodweave! I am both exceedingly nervous, and very excited about it. I've had ideas in mind for Bloodweave for months, but actually writing these ideas and sending them off into the big, wide world has been a rather intimidating affair. But we're finally doing it! And what better way for me to dip my toe into Bloodweave waters than by being incredibly predictable and writing yet another first person fic?

Chapter 1: "What do you think of Astarion?"

What do I think of Astarion? Well, that's a rather loaded question, is it not? Not that I don't have an answer, of course. No, quite the opposite, actually. I have too many answers, all vying for precedence. Because, you see, Astarion is not the sort of person one can sum up in a single sentiment. He is… how shall I put this? He is an equation with variables that simply refuse to behave. Utterly unsolvable.

Come now, don't look at me like that.

It’s just that Astarion is - well, to put it plainly - a lot. A relentless force of nature wrapped in silk and a layer of his own smugness. He walks into a room and suddenly you're aware of him. No, not just aware - attuned. It's all deliberate, of course. All part of the performance.

Yet, somehow, despite knowing it's all a performance, I still find myself watching.

And it's not just his presence. He's also clever, which is, dare I say, the most irritating thing about him. Not just sharp-witted, but… strategic. He understands people, knows exactly where to sink his teeth. Not just the literal ones - though those certainly warrant consideration - but also the more subtle. A smile, a look, a well-placed word. He plays people like instruments, plucking their strings just so, and I… Well, I have spent a great deal of time telling myself that I, of all people, should be immune to such things.

Alas, I am not immune. 

Which, of course, presents something of a metaphysical conundrum. Feelings, after all, are best understood when dissected. Laid bare and examined like lines in an ancient tome. One does not simply experience something without questioning its nature, its source, its… implications. No, the wise approach - the rational approach - is to study it with the same rigour that one would apply to any magical phenomenon. To categorise it, to determine whether it is genuine or merely some arcane anomaly. A peculiar resonance of the heart, if you will.

And so, in pursuit of intellectual honesty, I find myself studying Astarion with perhaps more dedication than strictly necessary. Any lingering thoughts are purely academic, I assure you. Elminster once told me that understanding the world means understanding its people, and what is Astarion if not a mystery to be unravelled? The way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he wields his beauty like a blade.

… Yes, he is beautiful, but that is besides the point. The point is–

…

I've lost the point.

That's what he does to me, you know. He derails my thoughts. I'm speaking perfectly rationally one moment, and the next, I'm somewhere else entirely, wondering if that grace comes naturally to him. If, behind closed doors, he rehearses those cutting remarks, those honeyed words.

Of course, I’m hardly special in that regard. I’ve seen him turn those honeyed words on just about everyone. He gives people what they want with such artful sincerity that they can’t help but believe him. He doesn’t mean it - not truly. And I would be a fool to imagine I’m any different. The world is his stage, and he is quite the performer.

And yet…

There are things about him. Real things. Beneath those rakish charms. I see them sometimes, in the quiet moments, when he doesn't realise anyone's watching. A weariness. A wariness. He's always aware, it seems. Of every room he walks into, of every person in it, of where the exits are. I recognise that sort of awareness. It's the kind you learn when you have been made someone's pawn for too long. When you've spent years convincing yourself that you're the one holding the strings, only to realise the strings are wrapped around your throat.

It unsettles me.

Dare I say, it even hurts me.

Not that I would ever say so. I doubt he would ever want to hear it. I doubt he would believe it.

And, anyway, it's not as if–

Not as if what?

No, truly, what was I about to say? That it's not as if I care? That would be a lie. That it's not as if I think about him more than I should? That would be another.

Perhaps I should stop talking.

…

You know, there was a time where I thought myself above this sort of thing. I thought I understood love completely. How could I not? I had experienced love in its most divine form - quite literally, in fact. My devotion to Mystra is… was… something transcendent. Something cosmic. I thought that was all love could be. All it should be. That anything less would be settling for a pale imitation of true devotion.

But lately, I find myself wondering if perhaps I’ve been rather short-sighted about the whole thing. Mystra herself appears in many forms; adapts to what her followers need. Perhaps love is similar - not always a grand, cosmic force that reshapes reality, but something more… subtle? The way a person looks at you when they think you aren't watching. The way their voice changes when you say their name. The way they make you feel like you are something more than what you were before. 

But if I did feel something - hypothetically, of course - it would hardly matter. Because what could I possibly offer him? A man who’s spent centuries under the control of another, only to find himself finally tasting freedom… What could he possibly want with someone like me? A wizard with borrowed time, carrying within him a responsibility so great that I am expected - destined - to lay down my life for it?

I’ve seen the fire in his eyes when faced with that which threatens to cage him. That fierce, burning defiance - the look of a man who has faced centuries of servitude and vowed never to be chained again. And what would I be, if not another form of binding? Another tragedy waiting to unfold? No. No, I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with such complications.

And yet… sometimes, I wonder.

If things were different - if I were different… If my fate weren’t already destined to end in sacrifice, would he look at me differently?

If he did - and that’s a big “if” - would I be so willing to accept that fate? To willingly embrace my end, if it meant never knowing what this - what we - might have become?

I was so sure the answer was simple. But then he looks at me, and for just a moment, I feel something I thought was long beyond my grasp. A foolish, reckless thing. It makes me hesitate.

And hesitation, well… that’s dangerous, isn’t it?

But stranger things have happened.

… Perhaps I have rather a lot to think about.

But I believe I’ve taken up quite enough of your time with these philosophical meanderings. No doubt you have better things to do than listen to a wizard ramble about matters of the heart. Besides, I have some rather important reading waiting for me. Something about… well, anything other than this conversation, really.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat, @davenswitcher, @silverfangmarks, @sparrowbard, @chonkercatto, @stokzr , @trafalgarussy , @asterordinary , @bite-me-tonight , @transparentkittenheart , @vividiana (thank you for being so supportive with this one <3), @bg3-fanfic-reblogs

[whatwouldeddiedo]

Can I ask what it was that changed your mind? Or was it more than one thing? I'm so curious because I suspect a lot more people are about to as well...

well, idk a lot of things. like, mostly i've always been a Buddie First person. Like it was really the ship that got me into fandom, and I've always suspected there was a chance we'd get canon buddie in the end (i think at the lowest end of the scale, i was giving it a 50/50 shot and never less than that). i didn't mind tommy at all, and i even liked the pairing and enjoyed buddietommy AND i actually enjoy eddietommy as well (i actually think it's my favorite of the Tommy Ships and I have some friends that write really really great eddietommy fics that i definitely will still read).

i honestly have had some mixed opinions about all of the fandom drama type stuff - like i have people blocked on both sides who said things that didn't sit right with me so it's not so much that. i mostly tried and still try very hard to keep out of That Part of it because I just don't see any reason. There are always gonna be shitty people in all parts of any fandom I don't particularly see any reason to single out an entire shipbase for the actions of a handful of people who don't have lines or understand that harassing real people over fake ships is wrong.

after confessions, i think bt just didn't really hit the same for me maybe? like i was sad for a minute and i thought i might miss tommy as a character, but in the end i barely even noticed all that much, and the break up was kind of like eh, for me. like i liked it for what it was and then it was done. not to mention, in general, there was a lot of negativity and just downerism over there anyway - suddenly everyone hated the show and Had Never Liked It To Begin With and it had Always Been Bad. Half of the BT fans were like Oliver is a Horrible Diva Who Just Wants Attention. Tommy/Lou got me in teh divorce. Etc etc. It was kind of a nightmare and just sucked the fun out of everything for me, personally. I don't begrudge anyone it didn't do that for. Everyone should have fun in fandom the way they choose, but that's not fun for me.

And then 8x09 happened and it just felt like buddie happening was imminent and i got really excited because that's legit what i've always wanted (and was never quiet about! i never denied it! i always said it was what i wanted!), and i followed some more buddie shippers and just got more and more excited after that ep.

and then i started to lose followers/mutuals lmao. like it started with one person and some vague posts about people being delusional, and then i just decided i didn't care. and then i got an anon asks telling me i was "hanging out with toxic buddies" and they were "ashamed we were ever mutuals" and i was like ah i see this is what it's gonna be like. i am just posting about the ship i like the most and being excited and whimsical and clowning about it with some friends and this is what happens. so i just decided i didn't care anymore and really embraced it.

because to be honest, i'd rather be a ridiculous delusional buddie shipper than the kind of person who unfollows and blocks their friends because they like another ship better, and i think after last week's episode i'm just fully all in and i didn't really love the way tommy acted about all the eddie stuff anyway (like i really really thought making a celebratory claim about the man you're trying to get back together with's best friend who you KNOW he has a really deep relationship with is a dick move), so i just. idk. and i've found that buddie fandom has been more of a fun and positive experience.

and i'm sure there will be people here who won't like me because i was on that side of the fandom for a long time and because there's a part of me that definitely still finds tommy interesting as a character, even though i don't want him dating buck at all anymore, and that's fine too, but i am fully all in on buddie now. it's what i want to see. some of it has to do with fandom, but most of it has to do with actual canon and the fact that it's always what i wanted, and it was just fun enjoying buck kissing a boy for a while, but now i feel like it's time for him to be kissing THE boy, ya know? like tommy helped him get here, but eddie is his person. like really for real his person, and i won't apologize or feel bad for feeling that way and thinking that's what the text is telling me.

IDK if any of that makes sense. I just hope I don't lose any buddie followers for any of what I'm saying. lmfao

did that even answer your question?

[dammit-tazmuir]

TLT Theory: Pyrrha was the Necromancer

No get back here, hear me out. I'm not saying Gideon didn't become one as a Lyctor. But I've been noticing a lot of things adding up weird here...

In Ch6 of HtN, when preparing for the first trip through the River, they call it Pyrrha's trial.

Much later, when Pyrrha is mad at Palamedes for the soul fuckery he and Camilla are doing, she refers to it as one they designed together, but that doesn't negate Mercy calling it Pyrrha's first and foremost. And...

She's worried about Camilla's brain, and okay, sure, they only have Camilla's body. But with Cris and Mercy, it was Cris getting cracked open. With Harrow and Gideon 2, it was always Gideon in danger, not Harrow. And with Gideon 1 and Pyrrha, it was Gideon's skull, Gideon's brain, getting the testing done. No mention of the same kind of testing or Mercy or Pyrrha. The principle of it is the necromancer's consciousness being overlaid onto the cavalier's brain, right?

But okay, maybe Pyrrha just doesn't mention herself, and Gideon's "a control variable" to compare herself to? But there's more.

Pyrrha fights with guns, prefers them. Gideon fought with not just a sword but a whole ass massive spear for an offhand, and has easily more physical prowess than any other necromancer we've ever seen. His stomach is still desiccated in typical necromancer fashion, he's dehydrated and not a scrap of fair fat on him, but he's a wall of muscle and sinew. Yes he looks "like an idiot's construct", probably because John regrew him from an arm when he was still getting the hang of using that level of power, but he's distinctly not built like other necromancers. If he wasn't a necromancer prior to being a Lyctor, his build might make more sense. Moreover, we've seen other cavaliers turned into sort-of-constructs, with both Protesilaus and Kiriona.

I also want you to look at the Saint of Duty and tell me that man isn't the walking essence of what it means to be a Cavalier.

And he rarely uses necromancy. He can travel in the River, and he drains thanergy, but he never really uses theorems or sets up wards. His necromancy is used pretty exclusively in passive ways or to remove obstacles between himself and his weapons. But Pyrrha is extremely knowledgeable about all kinds of necromancy. She tells Harrow fresh thalergy is harder to drain. She sees Ianthe's brilliantly inventive combination of wards creatively mimicking the effect of Mercy's trial and can accurately tell what they're going to do, as well as how to break them. Among other things. She also says she walked the Eightfold. Maybe that means being led willingly as a cav, but what if she was in control of the process?

With Harrow, Gideon was constantly in and out of awareness, watching from Harrow's subconscious, things that Harrow was fully conscious for. Palamedes doesn't have that with Camilla, and both of them being conscious is rare and dangerous, as detailed above. Pal and Pyrrha are frequently compared with their situations. How did Cam and Pal work out how to do the switcheroo, especially while Pal had extremely limited ability to move or perceive? How did they work out a safe time limit before too much irreparable damage was done? Could they have had guidance from someone who's done it? Done it with a necromancer's knowledge, letting him know where he can safely go under in the brain, how to come out at will, what to watch out for?

On a separate note:

Lyctor names are sacred, but the Houses were founded before Lyctorhood was achieved. Anastasia did not become a Lyctor, so her name was not removed from history, and became common in her House. Judith and Marta are part of the Dve Territorials, and while that doesn't prove anything or could even be evidence against, I feel like it would make sense to have named prestigious military groups after the House's "main" Founder, before there were Saints and the decision to erase the Saints' names.

On a more meta level, I think it would be weird to have "their names were meant to be forgotten", history knowing jack shit about the cavaliers of old, and even emphasis on the Lyctors forgetting each others' House names, only to have a cavalier's House name in active use somewhere, if that information wasn't supposed to be serving a narrative purpose. If we weren't meant to question why.

"But they call her his cavalier. She calls him her necromancer."

Sure. And maybe that's straightforward; this is a theory, I could be wrong. But switching titles after Lyctorhood doesn't sound too out of the question to me. What's a bit of revisionist history in TLT? John knows where memory lives in the brain, and on Pyrrha's end, at least after Lyctorhood Gideon was the necromancer, after all.

(Edit to add: Augustine calls attention to how astonishing it is that Pyrrha never divided opinions, that not one of them has ever had a single bad thing to say about her. She's great but we've met her. We've seen John rant about her calling out his bullshit, in the dream. Not one bit of annoyance or criticism, from anyone? I'm just saying, if Something Happened that led to John needing to tweak memories, making everyone remember her nothing but fondly feels plausible.)

"So why can't she do necromancy when she's in control?"

"He took more from me than got taken from you" feels like explanation enough to me. He got her aptitude and more. She's a partial soul. If anything, she could even still has an ounce of it, to retain the body's healing capabilities. If Gideon was fully giddy-gone and the soul that was left had zero aptitude, what would the furnace be burning? But if Gideon's consciousness is dead and what's left of his soul is in the furnace with a (partial) necromancer at the helm, well, that's not far off from Lyctorhood working as intended.

"Why though?"

And there's the part that gets really tricky but interesting. My best guess short answer is, one of them was dying, and it was an act of desperation.

Maybe Pyrrha was dying and so brutalized her body wouldn't have healed right even becoming a Lyctor, but given what they're like and the Cam/Pal parallels, I feel like an even more likely answer was that Gideon was dying. Cris and Alfred had already put Mercy and Augustine in that position, and they took their souls to preserve something, but Pyrrha would have seen how well that worked, assuming the third ascension wasn't immediately after the first two. So perhaps in her own desperation, with endless adoration for the man so willing to burn for what he believed, she said no. You don't get to throw your life away. If you're going to keep throwing yourself on things, I will make sure you can survive it and keep surviving it, even if it kills me instead. And then walked the path in reverse, pinning her own soul to his instead of pulling his into her.

I've seen a post around here pointing out how when Pyrrha tells Nona about her first tantrum, she's laughing with her mouth but not her eyes, and it looks like it reminds her of something her brain doesn't want to bring back, and the post proposes maybe Alecto killed Pyrrha. And I do think there's a solid possibility it was Alecto's tantrum that mortally wounded whichever (or maybe even both!) of them and prompted them to ascend. If Pyrrha didn't blame Varun for Gideon recently, I doubt she'd hold it against Alecto either.

Either way, wouldn't something like that more than earn the title of Duty? Wouldn't it be beautiful that they both fit the title if both had in ways been the cavalier? Wouldn't it be fitting to allow the name Dve to stand in the military as a monument to such a woman?

I know this might still be a long shot, but I definitely think there's enough little things sprinkled around to at least to warrant some solid suspicion. And it honestly would explain a lot.

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. “ r/am I the asshole !? ” : 

﹙ multi monsters x gn reader. ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . multi characters x gn reader ( fem on xiyang ) !! 🍓 : ﹙ pasquale: adrenaline addict ˖ racer ˖ inhuman character ˖ seong-jin: grim reaper ˖ detective character ˖ rishen: director ˖ spy ˖ assassin character ˖ xiyang: grim reaper ˖ mercenary leader character ﹚

your lover takes to reddit to ask if they've been an asshole in relation to you recently . . .

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﹙pasquale 781. ﹚. . . pretending I don't see the ghost !? 🍒 : "Let's start this off by saying I can see ghosts. Yeah. OoOoOoOoo. Always been able to. Anyway. So just my luck! I landed with a pookie who can do the same. Great right?

Yeah. If I wasn't shit scared of half the fuckers I see. Ghosts aren't little kids standing in nightgowns. FUCK NO. They're demons. Weird lil shits. And that's saying a lot, my brother's satan.

Not so bad you say?? Until pookie decides they wanna mention every time one's in the room! I don't mind them clinging. Course not. But the problem comes in when I pretend I can't see a damn thing. Lowkey gaslighting them that there's nothing there. Is that bad?

Well they got angry at me over it yesterday and for fucks sakes what am I supposed to do man? 'AH! A GHOST!' Do I look like fucking ghostbusters??? I'm italian. This ain't Luigi's Mansion! If I see it ( AND I REGRETABLY FUCKING DO ) - no i don't!

This came off a lot more frantic but how the hell do I tell pookie that their big, strong, kinetic user-punk-racer-boyfriend is afraid of ghosties?

Edit: to everyone calling me a pussy that's so funny cause your mom called me that too when I was ball's deep -"

 

﹙seong-jin 9948e. ﹚. . . being too honest !? 🍓 : "I'm a bit too honest with my partner. Before anyone writes about me being insensitive or being an asshole ( I know ). I would like to preface that my honesty is the reason we are even together. I flat out asked them if they wish to date. They agreed. Now we're two years into a relationship.

I've never hidden this part of me. If it comes to mind, it is out my mouth. That's how it's always been. If I don't like the way they're acting, I say it. If they ask me a question, I answer honestly. It's been this way for years. With everyone. Not only can I not stand bullshit, I simply do not have the energy to sugarcoat anything. They have been fine with this. While we do clash every now and then, I always make it known that I do not come from a place of malice. That is how we have made it work for two years.

How was I supposed to know answering, truthfully, that I did not like their outfit — was not appropriate?

I understand that there can be some sensitivity. I try to compensate for them like they do me. But they asked me a question, what was I supposed to do - lie?

Now I am at work. Feeling as though I really did it this time. I apologised before I left. Sent a text too. What the hell am I supposed to do? I even told them just because I don't like it does not mean they do not have to wear it.

How do I get around this?"

 

﹙rishen 1311. ﹚. . . not inviting them over !? 🍒 : "Get the gist of how this works. I'll be brief. I have been dating this person for about a year or so. 'One whole year' as they prefaced this morning in their frustrated slew.

I simply do not think it has been long enough. I feel as though we are moving too fast. Before anyone goes calling 'commitment issues' or 'what are you hiding?' : a gun. Under my pillow. Every night.

Yes, I denied them access when they showed up by surprise. I led them back to their home and spent the night with them. Yes, I didn't let them walk me home from the bar. Yes, I bled all over my floor from a stab wound and still told them to not show up while they panicked over the phone. Is it so wrong?

I assumed they would understand that it has nothing to do with them. I have my reasons. None of it involves them. But I suppose we simply can't have nice things. Fucking fantastic.

Is it to hard to understand that I'm just shit scared to wake up to someone every morning? Or have them in my kitchen cooking me food?

I'm fine. I don't need their help. I am fine. I just need to know that I'm not losing my mind over this. What do I do?"

 

﹙xiyang 9819. ﹚. . . not telling her I'm infertile !? 🍓 : "This feels a bit more bizarre than the other entries. But guess we're all dealt a different hand. My girlfriend and I have been in a happy relationship for five years now.

I love her to bits. Everything about her. Express that in whatever way I can. Just be honest with her, I'm sure you're typing. Yeah. Cept for one damn thing:

She's got a huge fucking breeding kink.

Don't laugh. I'm constantly fighting for my life. I'm off the hook for now. Told her I just can't commit to a baby with my job and hers. So she's on the contraceptives thinking they'll fucking matter. Bouncing on me like a pogo-stick telling me to breed her!

Hunny! If I could I would! I wouldn't hesitate to just give you every baby you want and more but unfortunately my lil swimmers are fucking defected.

Maybe I should mention that I indulge her. Can I be blamed? She gets so into it. I don't mind the fantasy one bit. I'm just a guy who loves his girl and wants to give her whatever her pretty little heart desires.

And if that means making her believe I can pop one in her whenever? So be it. We'll just get a puppy or something I don't fucking know. I'm typing this in panic."

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[kagaintheskywithdiamonds]

oh I'm glad I'm seeing this post again because I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT A LOT and what it would mean the rest of other stanley's upbringing would look like. and honestly the rest of ford's life too

like maybe at some point the baby calls him "dada" and ford gets all flustered like "what? no no no, I'm not our father-" but then, he mentally adds, "even though I'd be a better father to you than filbrick was."

and that's when it kinda sinks in that like. he's going to be the one to raise this version of stanley. up until that point he'd sort of been thinking of himself as some kind of babysitter, but babysitting is temporary. this isn't. he'll be watching over new stanley until he's an adult, probably. for all intents and purposes, he basically is new stanley's dad

and that's weird, he realizes. it feels weird and kind of wrong. but what else is he supposed to do about it? obviously this stanley would be too young to understand if ford tried to tell him the truth. so, he'll let new stanley grow up thinking that he's ford's son, weird as that feels, and tell him the truth when he's older. because he's definitely going to tell him the truth... eventually. he deserves to know the truth

"I'll tell him when he turns 10." Ford tells himself. But new Stanley's 10th birthday comes and goes and Ford doesn't have the courage to say anything. besides, he's still so young. just a child. this would be too much for him to process. "I'll tell him when he's 13," but that day passes as well. "I'll tell him when he's 16," and so on. he keeps pushing it off

because how is anyone supposed to start that conversation? "Hi, son. Actually you're my twin brother. But you died so the time police brought me a younger version of you from a different timeline because you're destined to save the world apparently"

and Stanley does believe that Ford is his father. he has no reason not to believe it. this is the man who cared for him as far back as he can remember, and the family resemblance is undeniable. Stanley's the spitting image of his old man. if Ford tried to tell Stanley he was adopted (which was technically what happened, Ford supposes), Stanley would never believe it

and Stanley loves Ford as a father, too. At one point Ford thought he would never get used to hearing young Stanley say "I love you, Dad". but as the years went on, it came to feel as natural to him as any other father-son bond. and Ford loves Stanley, of course. he isn't sure anymore if he loves him just as a brother or sort of also, weirdly, as a son. but that doesn't matter, he tells himself. they're family, and they love each other as family, and that's what's important. he'll explain the details of their strange relationship to his not-son... someday, for sure.

And he knows he definitely won't abandon this version of Stanley. His heart still aches for the original. And fate gave him... a weird second chance, but a second chance nonetheless. He would make sure this Stanley never doubted that his family loved him.

Ford proved to be a much better father than Filbrick. Granted, that bar was so low it was practically in the earth's core. But he raises new Stanley with more love than Filbrick ever could've. And he was much gentler with his punishments, of course. He might have to give Stanley a stern talking-to now and then. At his worst, if Stanley somehow made him really angry, he might yell. But he would never physically punish him. And even after an (exceptionally rare) father-son shouting match, Ford made sure to check up on Stanley after they had both simmered down. And he would apologize, and assure Stanley that he loved him, and that everything he did and said was because he loved him.

Ford was somewhat of an over-protective parent. That might've been the biggest flaw in his parenting style, aside from the secrets he was keeping. But who could blame him, knowing what he knew? The Stanley from his childhood with had been tossed out on the streets and suffered a slow, agonizing death, scared and alone, locked in the trunk of a car. And the Stanley he'd been given to raise was apparently destined to save the world. Well, really, the Stanley from his childhood was supposed to do that, until he died young. And Ford never knew what sort of world-ending threat Stanley was destined to defeat. And he never told Stanley about this supposed destiny, either. The circumstances of new Stanley's upbringing were strange enough without Ford throwing a "chosen one" narrative into the mix to loom over the boy's head. And Ford never knew how Stanley was supposed to save the world, but he had the sinking feeling that it would all culminate in some heroic act of self-sacrifice, and Ford's heart ached at the thought...

I COULD GO ON but I don't have any coherent way to wrap this all up. But this has been bouncing around in my brain for like 24 hours and I had to get at least some of it on paper (so to speak)

Stanley has an important role in the grand scheme of things, specifically saving the universe. His role is so crucial that if anything were to happen to him it could lead to not only the destruction of his universe, but also lead the destruction of others. So what would happen if Ford had lost Stanley somewhere during the ten years they spent apart, only for Ford to be met face to face with the time police and what appears to be 2 years old Stanley.

His ears feel muffled as he’s handed the toddler.

Death by asphyxiation

Trunk of the car

Far too late

Paradox

The child’s timeline was already gone

The fate of the universe

His hands

The baby coos in his arms babbling as he grabs Ford’s pinky.

[atamascolily]

So was anyone going to tell me they put the "Prologue in Heaven" sequence at the beginning of Magia Exedra (though after the CGI remake of the Homura vs. Walpurgisnacht battle from episode 1 and the Exedra OP) or did I just have to watch the video myself? Definitely did not have that on my bingo card.

The runes say "Magia Exedra" and the central logo is a star (aka the Memspark macguffins, which I cannot say with a straight face) and the moth/astrolabe wings of Infinite Iroha. So she's definitely involved in this somehow.

The lighthouse and a new mandala, because of all the cosmic worldbuilding symbolism. And then they do the projector thing, just like the beginning of the anime, before the frame narrative kicks in.

I keep seeing lots of speculation about Namae's true identity, but the whole point of the character is that she's literally a blank slate onto which the players can project themselves as well as taking on the forms of established characters to fight the battle sequences. The whole "you can find your true identity" thing is a great premise, but as soon as it's realized, the story ends (or at least has to find something else to do), so I don't expect resolution any time soon since presumably the game is going to go on for as long as possible.

Also, because the character is so nondescript, I have a hard time caring about this particular plot point, so to be honest, I'm fine with leaving it a mystery.

This guy, on the other hand...

Can you tell me what the hell your deal is, then? Who is your god? What master do you serve? ... No? Didn't think so.

Green Kyubey has a great personality, which is important because Namae has very little to work off of, so he's got to do all the heavy lifting in this partnership. He's literally an emotional support Incubator, which I find hilarious. I've seen theorizing that the lack of rings = ability to feel emotions, and while the sample size is limited (Kyubey, Mokyuu/Little Kyubey from Magia Record, and now this one), it certainly sounds plausible.

Green Kyubey's dialogue also implies he was created specifically for his current job as guardian of the lighthouse (by whom? Well, probably Madokami and Infinite Iroha), so I don't think there's going to be a dark plot twist where he turns out to be evil, actually. I mean, that could be a lot of fun, but I don't think that's where the game devs are going with it--the whole point of Magia Record was to make a lighter and softer version of Madoka Magica and go on indefinitely, and I think Exedra is going to continue with that. I also don't think he's secretly a character we already know, but they pulled that twist in Magia Record, so who knows.

Narratively, Green Kyubey's function is to guide and instruct the player, so while I'm very curious what his deal is, I suspect that backstory is also unlikely to be addressed for a while as the game seems hell-bent on recreating every single major Madoka Magica storyline in the franchise in CGI cut scenes/visual novel remakes.

Thus far, all of the stuff I've watched so far outside of the Namae-Green Kyubey interactions has been pretty derivative. Even the "Prologue in Heaven" segment above comes off as copying something that already existed rather than organic or as a homage. I mean, I'd love to be wrong, but given the game's fundamental premise is "revisiting the memories/experiences of every story we've already done", I'm not holding my breath.

I also suspect that while WnK's plot will inevitably get an event/level in Exedra, I don't think the two are connected much in terms of story outside of that. The two works serve two fundamentally different purposes, and Exedra's is to be a perpetual story machine and go on forever. I also don't think the creators would drop any hints/spoilers for WnK's plot by putting them in the backstory/premise of Exedra. But I guess we'll see.

Suffice to say, there's no shortage of material, but my primary interest is in the new stuff, so until we get to some original content, I'll probably tune out. But the image of the lighthouse in the void speaks to me on a deep emotional level and I would love to know more about it.

It's such a great image! Fingers crossed they do something interesting with it!

[halfway-happyyy]

My Sun, My Moon, and All of My Stars {Mikey Berzatto}

summary: recalling the first time you and mikey met results in lots of soft feelings.

warnings: none. cotton candy clouds of fluff.

pairings: mikey berzatto x female reader

an: listen people. i've visited chicago in january. i said what i said, and i will die on that hill. happy reading!

You’d be hard-pressed to find a more miserable place than Chicago in the winter. 

The wind and the cold found creative ways of settling into your bones, often staying there until the May thaw occurred, and even then… Well, even then it wasn’t always enough to drive the chill away for good. While you loved the city's aged and gothic architecture, the inherent gloom that pervaded it tended to follow you around like a specter or an old friend. January wasn't entirely blameless in all of this, either. A month that held only thirty-one days often felt like it dragged on for thirty-one years. And yet, you could never fully bring yourself to loathe the first month of the calendar year, because on the 17th day of it, you met Mikey Berzatto for the first time- and suddenly, winter didn’t seem so awful after all.

“On a scale from one to that time you had to hide in the bar bathroom until I could rescue you, how bad was it?” 

You fiddled with the zipper on the front of your jacket, replaying the night’s mostly disastrous second date, and sighed. “Definitely not that bad.” 

“I mean, you did technically get a Michelin-star meal out of it, so it wasn’t all a complete write-off.” Your best friend Olivia pointed out, and then asked whether you wanted to go home and pound back a pint of frozen custard, or if you were still hungry. 

You eyed the green glowing digits of the clock on her car, which read ‘8:07 P’ and shifted in your seat. “Still hungry.” 

“Perfect,” She cast a smile your way and slid the car into drive. “I know just the place.”

You had been expecting Portillo's or something similar, but when she parked in behind the Original Beef of Chicagoland, you were dubious. 

“I know, I know. But Benny took me here two weeks ago, and when I tell you I’ve been thinking about this sandwich every day since, I’m not lying.” She led you by the hand to the front door, holding it open for you so that you could wander in first. “I mean, they say you know you’re in love when you go to bed and wake up thinking about the same thing, and for me that’s the italian beef here so, pretty self-explanatory I guess…” Her voice became drowned out in the din of the still-bustling restaurant. 

It was chaotic to say the least; a complete assault on the senses. Noise seemed to clamour out of every corner of the small establishment, and somehow the thing that hooked you in the most was the pervasive scent of onions frying in fat on the flattop. Though the restaurant was only open for another hour, it was packed inside, and there was a line-up at the takeout window that snaked around the back of the place.

“Jesus Christ, someone ask for mayonnaise one more fuckin’ time, I’m beggin’ for it. Watch what’ll happen!” A tall, short-haired man yelled loudly, causing peels of laughter to erupt from the line cooks behind the busy counter. The sheer size of his grin, paired with the way his blue eyes glittered merrily, told you that the man was exactly where he was supposed to be in life.

“Order up for Peter! Peter, Peter pumpkin eater! Your orders’ up!” 

“Nikki, come get your order, mama!”

“Got one hot and sweet and one dog comin’ up!” 

Olivia tugged at your sleeve and gestured to the menu. “You wanna get the same thing as me?” 

You nodded, at an entire loss of what else to say, and knowing wholeheartedly that she would never lead you astray anyway.

“Good evening ladies, how are you both on this fine, Friday night?” 

Olivia grinned at the man and rubbed her hands together in excitement. “We’re much better now that we’re here, thank you.” 

The man laughed at that. “Excellent, that is good to hear. What can I get for ya?” 

She ordered two original beef’s and two cokes to stay and told you to grab a table in the quieter section of the restaurant while she waited for the food. While the back room wasn’t necessarily quieter, there were only two other tables occupied, and you settled into a seat by the wall of vintage arcade games.

“Wow, you are uh… you’re awfully dressed up for a trip to the Original Beef.” 

His voice had caught your attention first; the timbre of it immediately soothing in comparison to the chaotic din around you. And then you glanced up at him and it was all over before it had even really begun. His smile was so warm and inviting, the complete opposite of the one you had just spent all evening with, and it caused your breath to hitch in your throat. Delicate creases next to his dark brown eyes spoke novels of how much time he spent laughing, and it was all you could do to keep from blushing.

“I'm sorry, I mean no disrespect, you look amazing. I think it’s been so long for most of us that we forget what it’s like when a beautiful woman graces us with her presence around here.” 

Where it might have been off-putting in any other instance, or from any other man, you found yourself blossoming under the sunlight he shone above you. 

“I uh… just came out of a date, actually,” Your tone was sheepish, but you managed to maintain eye contact with him. “We were at Alinea.” 

His dark brows furrowed together in a mild frown. “Alinea, Alinea… why do I know that name? So damn familiar.”

You tilted your head to the side. “It’s a Michelin star restaurant downtown, super fine dining.”

His eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open in a silent, a-ha! 

“My baby brother, he’s a chef. Super talented, annoyingly so, ya know? I can't get him to shut up about Alinea.” Silence settled between the pair of you before he asked how it was. 

Your eyes widened, and you blew out a puff of pent-up air. “It was uh… an interesting experience, to say the least.” 

He nodded and sat down at the table opposite you. “And the date?” 

You laughed. “The date sucked.” 

He clicked his tongue, and shook his head. “Onto bigger and better things, then hm?”

“How’s your night going?” You asked, by way of wanting to change the subject.

He rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed. “Eh, it’s been a night, I’ll tell ya that much.. But it’s been good. Certainly better now,” He leaned towards you with his hand outstretched. “I’m Mikey Berzatto, by the way.” 

You took his warm hand in yours and introduced yourself back. It had been on the tip of your tongue to say something else, but just as you were about to, Olivia wandered into the room balancing a tray full of mouth-watering food.

“Richie gave you yours on the house, on account of this being your first time here!” She exclaimed excitedly. 

Mikey’s eyes widened, and a warm smile lifted his lips skyward. “First time here, huh?” 

“First time for everything, right?” 

“Mikey, we need your ass out here now! This fuckin’ pop machine ain’t gonna fix itself!” 

He rolled his eyes and rose from the table with a quiet apology. “You ladies need anything- anything at all, come find me.” 

He gave you a small wave and stepped into the main room. 

“How many times do I gotta tell you fuckers not to yell all the damn time, huh?” 

Olivia turned to you, a familiar mischievous glitter blazed in the depths of her eyes. “Okay, he was cute.”

You shrugged, unwrapped half of the sandwich and took a bite, savouring the flavours on your tongue. While you had been used to your best friend’s antics and dramatic flare for a while now, it became apparent immediately that she was absolutely right about this place. You swallowed your first bite and gawked at her, eyes wide. 

“Oh, I know. This place is legendary.” 

You ate your meal in silence, and pondered over how lucky you were to have Olivia in your life; someone you could call night or day, that would get you out of a bind, no problem. You hoped with every fibre of your being that she felt the same about you. 

“I owe you one for tonight, Liv.” You murmured. 

That caused a frown to pull the edges of her mouth downward. “You definitely don’t. But you do owe it to yourself to get back on the horse, so I think you should ask Mikey out.” 

“Ha! You’re joking.” 

She passed a napkin over her mouth and shook her head. “Not at all. Tell him we’re going to Kingston Mines tomorrow night and see if he wants to meet us there.” 

It had taken you until the end of the meal to pluck up enough courage to do as you were told. Mikey was at the other end of the room stocking napkins when you approached him. 

“So, your first time. How was it?” 

You cleared your throat. “Uh, it was incredible. You won't be able to keep me away, from now on."

Mikey’s laughter, and the small smile that followed it, warmed the ice around your heart, and gave you the confidence you needed to continue on. “Hey listen- Olivia and I are headed to Kingston Mines tomorrow night for drinks, and I was wondering if you’d like to join us?” 

Mikey’s smile faltered slightly. “Uh- shit, tomorrow night?” 

You nodded. 

“I’m stuck here tomorrow night, until 11 at least but-

You shook your head. Of course he was. He owned the place.

“No problem, I totally get it.” 

He shook his head. “No, what I’m saying is that I’d like to come. I want to. I can be there around 11:15 if that works?” 

Holy shit. 

“Yeah, that absolutely works.” 

Mikey grinned to himself and reached out to take your hand again. “It’s a date, then.” 

~

Mikey’s eyes opened, and a small smile lifted the corners of his lips. 

“What's goin' on in that beautiful head of yours, baby? You’re lookin’ at me like I hung the moon.” 

You brought the back of his tanned hand to your lips and kissed it. “Because you did. You hung my moon.” He leaned in to your touch, craving more of it always. “I’m thinking about the night we first met.” 

“A good night indeed. I’ll never forget the way you looked in that dress and your leather jacket,” He chuckled softly, the sound of it reverberating deep in your chest. “Never forget the stones you had, asking me out the way you did.”

A blush flooded the apples of your cheeks. You traced a fingertip down the length of his uneven nose, and marveled at how he smiled into your touch. 

“You know I love you, right, Mikey?”

He pressed his lips to your hand and murmured an almost inaudible, I know, baby. 

He tapped your hip twice, a silent command for you to turn around and snuggle back against him, which you did. Your favourite part about being with him like this, was that you were so close you could feel the subtle beat of his heart against your shoulder blade. 

“Mikey?” 

His lips ghosted the shell of your ear. “Yeah, baby?”

You swallowed hard and wrapped a hand around his forearm. “Never leave, okay?” 

He hummed softly against the nape of your neck.

“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together, okay? Just please stay.” 

Pressing his lips to the crown of your head, he agreed. 

“I love you, Mikey.” 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

“Love you too, baby.” 

[ninadove]

Do you have any tips for writing Felix? I've been writing a sentitwins fic where he's the main focus, and I keep wondering if I can get his characterisation right, like making him too mean or not mean enough, if that makes sense?

I do, actually!!! Thank you for giving me an opportunity to talk about the boy!!! 💜🦚

Obviously, this is just one way to write him — the Felix corner of the fandom is full of wonderfully talented people who all portray him a little differently. I highly recommend going through their works on AO3 to find the characterisation you resonate the most with (I have bookmarked my favourites here)!

The way I see it, Felix is intimidating to write not because he is a very complicated character, but because of the “delayed” way his real personality was introduced to us. Obviously, there’s the issue of his debut episode, which plants the seeds for a lot of his later actions (ex: he immediately tries to strike a deal with Hawkmoth, which we later understand was not to get the twin rings back, but rather to obtain the Peacock) while also introducing plot elements that don’t fit quite well with the later seasons (ex: Felix and Amelie’s obsession with the twin rings, which seems completely decorrelated from Adrien’s amoks at this point). I tend to think of S3 Felix as a first draft of the character we know today — it’s possible to retroactively find a watsonian explanation for many of his behaviours, including that unfortunate scene with Ladybug, but I don’t think it’s the most interesting episode to work from if you want to understand his character.

To me, things get really interesting (and consistent) starting from Gabriel Agreste (S4 E9). There, we get our first proper look at a few of Felix’s personality traits, namely:

He’s smart!

He sees knowledge as power. As such, he will do anything to uncover the secrets around him — while also keeping his own close to his chest.

He’s resilient to a frightening degree, which is best illustrated by his little akuma rejection speech: “I’m not afraid of your threats, and I don’t need your powers.” This is our first real hint that the adults in his life have subjected him to threats and manipulation before and that he’s had it. No one can get him to doubt himself anymore! Unfortunately, this is also what makes him so certain he is on the right path, all the way up to Emotion…

And that’s where it gets a little complicated: one of the most frequent complaints you’ll see about Felix is that his characterisation starting from Emotion is not consistent with what we saw in S3 and S4. “How can he say he loves Adrien, when he’s pushed him under the bus so many times?” “Why does he suddenly care about this girl he’s just met??” “Who’s to say he wouldn’t turn evil again at the drop of a hat???” (S6 please don’t)

But… all of this actually makes a lot of sense when you consider Felix as a child abuse survivor, something we don’t even brush on until Pretension and only fully dive into in Representation. His entire life, Felix has been punished for simply existing — so he’s not going to show his true colours to other characters, nor to us, the audience, from the get-go. He’s been consistently cut off from the people he loves the most, likely even made to hurt them on multiple occasions — so he’s not going to be openly warm and friendly, even when he actually cares. He has one objective, to build a better world for himself and Adrien, a world where he can show us who he truly is — but until then, he’s going to keep his personality where he keeps the brooch: close to his chest. He’s going to do whatever it takes to survive, including pushing his cousin/twin/brother under the bus (something that unfortunately happens a lot between siblings who grow up in abusive environments), with the confidence that this immediate damage won’t matter in the long run. That it will all be worth it in the end.

Because the Felix who is open about his secret identity from the get-go; who tells Kagami, and even Marinette, about the Sentilore so quickly; who flirts and sings and declares his love, both romantic and platonic, with all the flare of a peacock; who openly mocks his abusers; who draws hearts on windows; who gets all that nice golden/sun symbolism I love so much — that’s who Felix truly is! A child who braved the horrors, and is now free to show us all the passion for life he has in his little heart. Look how happy he was to offer this new world to Adrien! Look how head over heels he is for Kagami! Look how soft he is with Duusu! Look how tender his relationship with Amelie has been from the get-go, because she is the one character who’s always had his back!

Not that he can’t still be wary of other characters, of course — but if he can be part of the Miraculers now, and not back in Strikeback, it’s because of what he has secured for himself in the meantime.

The issue, of course, is The Secret. We haven’t really gotten a chance to see how Felix is faring in this new world, with the threat of Tomoe still looming over Kagami and the persistence of his estrangement with Adrien. It’s very possible he’ll be Marinette’s best ally, because hey, if anyone understands lying to protect Adrien, it’s him; but it’s equally possible he resents her for forcing him back into his lies. To say nothing of what happened in Werepapas! S6 could take Felix’s arc in a number of ways, which I’m both excited and scared about. In the meantime, we get to explore these paths ourselves!

TL;DR: To determine how mean your Felix should be, you first need to determine how safe it is for him to be kind. Never forget that he is starved for love and light and happiness and that he will do this at the first occasion:

The question is: will you let him? 🪶