#it hurts so much. to keep reaching out and offering it with trembling hands and tears in my eyes.

[bcbdrums]

.

[itsallyscorner]

At Fault | MV1

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Max invites his ex to a gp and upsets you. Soft and stubborn Max, but he’s a cutie. A mix between angst and fluff, but mostly fluff towards the end. Lots of reader just ranting. Plus a little cameo from the Ferrari WAGs <3.

warnings: Does Kelly count as a warning? Kinda of toxic, I’m not really sure? But who actually likes seeing their boyfriend’s ex girlfriend??

author’s note: Italics are flashbacks! This turned out longer than expected, but I hope you guys like it! It’s also been a while since I’ve written fics, so it there are any errors pls ignore them😭

The tension in the car was thick. So thick, Max believed he could cut it with a knife.

Your arms were crossed as you stared out the window while Max glanced at you wearily every other second. Thankfully, there were only three of you in the car. You and Max in the backseat, and the driver in front being separated by a divider. Though, Max was sure the driver was able to hear the current disagreement between you and him.

Max fidgeted with the lanyard of his paddock pass and stared at the side of your face. He knew he had upset you and honestly you had every right to be. You were biting the inside of your cheek in frustration trying to keep your emotions at bay. As much as you wanted to argue with Max about how you disagreed with his actions, he was due to race in a couple of hours and you didn’t want to add any more stress on his shoulders.

But Max wanted to talk about this now while you were both alone.

“Schatje, are you really mad?” Max asked quietly, leaning closer to you and trying to get you to face him. He truly didn’t mean to dampen your mood before the race. Most importantly, he didn’t like that he was the reason for you being upset. Your brows furrowed ever so slightly and a faint pout was on your lips, both indications that you were in fact not happy with him.

“Yes, Max, I am mad.” You answered, your voice trembling a bit. You had finally turned away from the window and were looking at him. Max felt a pang of guilt in his heart once he saw the look in your eyes. They weren’t glaring at him with the heat of anger, but they were soft and glossy, you were hurt—he hurt you.

Max cautiously reached out for your hand and tangled your fingers together, though your hand felt limp, like you didn’t want to hold his hand at all.

“I told you the truth.” Max said, leaning his head down trying to catch your eyes again. You took in a deep breath before turning to fully face him.

“Yes Max, you did and I absolutely appreciate it. I really do.” You began, grasping his hand between yours. “But that doesn’t make up for that fact that you’ve had this planned out for nearly a month and only told me thirty minutes ago!” You argued.

Thirty minutes ago, before your ride to the paddock can pick you guys up, Max had revealed that his ex-girlfriend, Kelly, and her daughter would be at the garage to watch the race. When you asked how they got passes to the garage, he shared that he had flown them out and provided them with passes for the weekend.

“So she’s been here all weekend?” You questioned him, arms crossed and a brow raised at him. The Italian heat felt even ten times worse as you grew frustrated with your boyfriend.

“Yeah, but they were at the Paddock Club, they’re going to watch the race from the garage though.” Max shrugged, as if it were not a big deal. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and grasped your hand in his free one.

You couldn’t help the feeling of insecurity seeping into your bones. Kelly was rich and gorgeous, she was a model, and you weren’t. You had a normal job that offered you stability, paid you good money, and you knew how to clean up nice. However, you were no where near her level of anything or any of the other WAGs at that.

“You’ve known this whole time that she was here?” You asked quietly, your brows furrowed at him. You hated that you kept asking him questions, it was like you were interrogating him.

Max looked down at you, confusion etched on his face, “I did, schatje. I flew them out and got them some paddock passes.” You acted before you could speak, and shook your head at him, rolling your eyes in annoyance. Your boyfriend was one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met, however, many people took that as a sign to take advantage of him. While it took him longer to realize it, you noticed it instantly.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset though, I told you the truth, it’s not like I’m doing anything with her.” Max defended himself, his hands wildly moving around. “She reached out telling me that P missed me and wanted to come to a race, it’s not for her, it’s for Penelope.”

“I understand that Max and as harsh as this sounds, Penelope isn’t your responsibility. I get that you helped raise her, but you guys broke up, you don’t need to provide for her anymore.” You threw a hand in the air, emphasizing your point. “Kelly’s fully capable of flying herself out and buying tickets to a race weekend.”

“I was just being nice.” Max raised his voice, also growing frustrated with the situation.

“And she’s still using you!” You fumed, tears welled in the corner of your eyes. “How many times does she have to use you for you to realize it? You guys broke up and she still manages to get what she wants out of you! Do you know how embarrassing it is to walk in and see her there?” You tried to reason with him. While many of his fans didn’t approve of Kelly, you knew Twitter would have a field day clowning you when they find out Kelly was present in the garage. Social media was never always a nice place and you’ve learned to ignore it, but that didn’t mean it stopped the hate from happening.

Max ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“This is ridiculous.” He muttered under his breath, you scoffed and leaned back into your seat, staring at the window again.

“Do you not trust me?” Max asked forcibly, staring at the side of your head again. You let out a defeated sigh and turn your head to look at him, “I do trust you, Max.”

Max’s shoulders slouched as he leaned on the seat sideways, his body fully turned to you.

“Then why do you not trust me with this?” He pushed, nudging your knee with his, trying to get an answer out of you. He knew he was at fault and he just wanted to make it right.

“I don’t trust her.” You simply answered, feeling done with the conversation. The car turned, nearing the entrance of the paddock. You sniffled as you untucked your hair from behind your ears, removing your sunglasses from the top of your head.

“You don’t have to worry about her, schatje. I want you not her, there’s a reason why we broke up.” Max reassured, trying to ease the tension between the two of you.

The car came to a halt, a knock came from the driver, indicating that you guys arrived at the paddock. Before you could leave, you turned to Max and said, “Yet, she’s still here.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Entering the paddock was always a frenzy. The moment you stepped out the car, fans were quick to recognize you, knowing that one of their favorite drivers were right behind you. You slid your sunglasses on and smoothed out the white maxi dress you wore. Max followed in suit and flashed a smile at the fans.

Shouldering his bag, he held his hand out to you, “I know you’re upset, but can I please hold your hand?”

You nodded and entangled your fingers with his. The two of you began your walk into the paddock hand in hand, as fans screamed and waved at Max. He gave your hand a squeeze before guiding you guys to some of the barricades and signing a few things for the fans.

After you guys scanned your passes, Max led you guys to the Red Bull garage. However, you came to a halt. Max was quick to look back at you, “You okay?”

“Yeah—I’m gonna meet up with Alex and Rebecca, if that’s okay? We were planning on seeing each other before the race.” You tell him. A small pout formed on Max’s lips, “Oh, okay, I’ll drop you off.” He offered, still holding your hand.

You and the girls decided to meet up at the Paddock Club. In front of the entrance, Max stood in front of you.

“You’ll come to the garage to watch, right? I need you there.” He asked quietly, so that people passing by cannot hear your conversation.

You nodded, “Yeah, I’ll be there before you’re in the car.”

Max mirrored your actions, “Okay, I love you.” He pulled you in by the waist and pressed a kiss onto your forehead. You squeezed his waist in response, “I love you too.”

Max watched as you entered the building, huffing to himself, while he watched you walk further and further into the building.

Placing your sunglasses above your head, you scan the room until you see one of the girls, Alex was the first to spot you, standing in her spot and waving at you to come over.

“Coucou mon amour!” She greeted you, (Hello, my love!) immediately wrapping you in a hug. You squeal as she squeezed you, “Helloo!” You giggled. You go to greet Rebecca, who is immediately giving you a knowing look. Being the older one amongst the three of you, she was often looked up to as the older sister.

She wrapped an arm around you and smoothed your back, “What’s wrong?” She asked while you got situated in the chair beside her.

You shook your head, “It’s just Max.”

Rebecca grabbed the bottle of champagne on the table and poured some into a flute glass. She offered you the glass, “Thank you, I needed this.”

She smiled watching you take a long sip from the glass, “Oh honey, I know.”

Alex pouted and nudged your foot with hers, “What happened with Max?”

“He invited Kelly to watch the race at the garage today.” You bluntly shared, slumping yourself in your chair.

Rebecca’s eyes widened, “Shut up.”

You raised a brow at her, “Oh, I didn’t even get to the kicker yet.”

Alex’s brows raised, “Which is?”

“He flew her out—he fucking flew her out and gave her tickets for the entire weekend.” You revealed through gritted teeth, still being aware of your surroundings. Rebecca cursed under her breath as Alex took your glass and refilled it with champagne.

Grabbing the glass, you continued, “She’s literally been here all weekend and he only told me this morning. I just don’t get it, they broke up, I don’t know why he’s still so concerned about her.” You took another long sip of champagne,

“What was the reason why?” Rebecca asked you.

“Apparently Penelope missed him—which I can believe, but did he really have to do all the providing when she can financially support herself? I get that he was trying to be nice, but still.” You grunt, fiddling with your glass.

Alex comfortingly rubbed your arm, “No, I get it, if Charles did the same thing with his ex, I’d also be upset.”

“I literally told him that she’s using him once again.” You threw your hands up. “If he wants her to be there so much, he might as well just get back with her. Like—am I crazy for losing my mind at the fact they were in contact with each other, even if it wasn’t in a romantic sense?”

Rebecca shook her head, “No, your feelings are absolutely valid. You’re just concerned and it obviously caught you off guard. He shouldn’t have been texting his ex in the first place.”

You groaned and held your head in your hands, “I hate feeling like this, it makes me question if he actually wants to be with me or not.”

Rebecca held her finger up, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Placing her hand on your shoulder she says, “Max might be acting very stupid right now, but one thing I know for sure is that Max loves you and absolutely adores you. Without a doubt.”

Alex nodded, agreeing with Rebecca, “Like have you seen the way he looks at you? He literally worships the ground you walk on. I’m sure he’s beating himself up right now for doing what he did.”

“He loves you, (y/n), everyone who’s seen you guys together knows it. I don’t think he’d put himself in this kind of position on purpose, you’ve got that man wrapped around your finger, babe.” Rebecca reassured you, throwing her arm around your shoulder and pulling you into another hug.

“Come on cheer up, who cares if she’s in the garage today? You’re the one he’s gonna be going home with tonight.” You laughed shaking your head at her teasing.

“Hey! Tonight and every single night!” Alex pointed out raising her glass at you.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Two hours. It’s been two hours since Max has dropped you off at the Paddock Club and he still hasn’t heard back from you. He’s been distracted all day. During a meeting with Christian and some of the engineers, he couldn’t help but constantly check for a text from you, earning himself a scolding from the team principal. Checo and a couple of people from the team tried talking to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes wandered wondering when you would enter the garage.

He did in fact see Kelly and P—obviously he was expecting to see them since he invited them, but all he felt while talking to them was guilt. Guilty because he remembered the look of hurt and betrayal in your eyes and how he was the reason behind it. He hated it, he felt grimy, and dirty for going behind your back and texting Kelly. Not even ten minutes into catching up with the mother and daughter, Max realized that you were in fact correct. Kelly had used him again, instantly making advances on him despite knowing he was happily taken. But for the sake of P, Max made sure to be friendly though kept his distance to not feed into her mother’s schemes.

It was nearing lights out and you were still not in the garage. He had gone through his warm ups with Bradley, had his fireproofs and suit on, and even laced up his shoes. Still, no sight of you whatsoever in the garage. He was beginning to worry about you, sending you a couple of messages to your phone.

The car was due to be on the grid and there was about half an hour left till lights out. Max looked around the bustling garage, checking to see if you had snuck in without him seeing, though to no avail, you still weren’t there.

“Max…Max…Max?” GP tried to get Max’s attention. Snapping a finger in front of the driver’s face, Max’s eyes flickered over to his race engineer.

“What do you want now?” Max groaned, throwing his head back. To onlookers, it looked like a typical interaction between Max and GP. Though, GP felt like he was babysitting a child whose attention span couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds.

“Mate, I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes.” GP claimed. Choosing to ignore the information he had just “briefed” Max on, he decided to be a friend.

“Where’s your head at?” GP asked Max. The Dutch man sighed, leaning against one of the storage units in the garage.

“I messed up with (y/n). I did something and it was my fault, I know it was. But she’s not happy with me at the moment and I just want to make it right.” Max summarized, not sharing any more details to protect the privacy of your relationship.

GP motioned towards Kelly who was talking to one of the other influencers in the garage, “Does it have to deal with that?”

“Unfortunately.” Max mumbled, crossing his arms and choosing to stare at the floor.

GP took a minute to stare at his driver. Max was deflated, he wasn’t as hyped for the race or over explaining some random fact about god knows what. Instead, Max kept to himself, greeting people when he had to and communicating with his team prior to the race. Other than that, Max chose to stare at his phone and look longingly outside the garage.

“Listen, I don’t know what exactly went down. But I’ve seen you with (y/n) and she clearly makes you happy, we’ve all see how lively you are with her around. You’ve got a lot of groveling to do bud, but it’ll be worth it.” GP advised, clapping Max on the back to wake him up.

“She’ll always be worth it.” Max quietly said, taking another glimpse at his phone. Only to be met with his wallpaper of you and him, with no notifications.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Christian Horner stared at his monitor at the pit wall watching as drivers and their teams gathered on the grid. He saw Checo by his car, taking a few sips of water before the race. When the camera panned to Max’s Red Bull, the driver was no where to be seen. Sparing him a second of wondering where his driver was, the camera cut to the garage where Max stood, race suit at his waist, looking no where near ready to participate in the race.

“Why is Max not in the car?” He turned to GP, stress evident on his face. GP turned in his seat and looked back into the garage to see Max pacing. Cursing under his breath, he excused himself from Christian and rushed to Max.

“Max, the race is literally about to start!”

Max stops his pacing and places his hands at his hips, “I need my girlfriend.”

“What?” Bradley and GP both stuttered out. Max deadpanned at the two men in front of him.

“(Y/n), I need to see her before the race.” Max demanded. Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose, “Max, she’ll be here after the race, you’ll be fine.” He pushed the balaclava towards Max’s chest, who simply let the mask fall at his feet.

GP sighed at Max, before calling one of the Red Bull employees.

“Please send out a search for (y/n), Max is refusing to get in the car.” He whispered to the intern. The girl looked at him confusingly but nodded and set out the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You rushed as best as you could in kitten heels towards the Red Bull garage. You were supposed to be at the garage at least half an hour ago. You and the girls got caught up catching up with each other’s lives that none of you realized it was getting close to lights out. It truly was a funny sight, the three of you rushing out of the Paddock Club and running through the paddock like a bunch of maniacs.

“(Y/n)!” You heard someone yell. You stopped in your steps and looked around, only to see a girl dressed in Red Bull uniform. You recognized her, you believed her name was Nicole and was an intern for the team this season.

“Hey! Is Max on the grid already?” You approached her, a little sad that you missed seeing him before the race.

“No, he’s actually waiting for you. They’re sending out a search for you because he’s refusing to get in the car.” Nicole explained, placing a gentle hand on your back and guiding you through the crowd of fans and towards the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

GP released a sigh of relief once he saw you enter the garage. He shoved Max’s shoulder to avert his attention to you.

“What—oh,” Max began, only to stop himself and rush towards you. You met him half way, placing a hand on his elbow.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant to stay there for too long.” You quickly apologized. Max shook his head, “I don’t care, I’m just happy you’re here.”

Your brows furrowed at him, “Why are you here? Why aren’t you in the car yet?”

Max placed both his hands on your waist with a faint blush on his cheeks, “I need my goodluck kiss.”

You paused your actions, “You’re kidding me. Max, the race is about to start in five minutes!” You scolded your boyfriend.

“Please, schatje.” He pleaded, leaning closer towards you. Other team members and guests watched the both of you, the scene in front of them peaking their interests.

You gazed up at his stormy eyes, giving in because you knew he was stubborn and wouldn’t stop until he got his way. Plus, the team would hate you if you lowered their chances of scoring points this weekend.

“Just because I kiss you doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you anymore.” You clarified quietly. His forehead nodded against yours, “I know schatje. I promise to make it up to you, I really do.”

A small smile forms on your lips, “I know, Maxie.”

Max takes that as his sign to crash his lips onto yours. One of his hands support the back of your neck while the other rests on your lower back. You smile against his lips, pulling back and placing a peck right above the small mole on his upper lip.

“I love you.” You whispered to him.

“I love you too.” He whispered back. Before you can fully pull away from him he quickly adds, “I’m serious about my promise.”

“I know, baby.” You squeeze him comfortingly. “Now get out there and win the race. Stay safe.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead as both you and GP ushered him towards his gear that’s been waiting to be put on.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

A man of his word, Max won the race. With at least a five second gap between him and Lando, your boy was top step yet once again. As much as he won, the thrill of seeing him win and crossing the finish line never got old. You celebrated every win of his as if it were his first. You’d always be proud of him, whether he got pole or not.

Many of the engineers and members of the team began to rush towards the grid, eager to greet Max once he got out the car.

Looking around, you suddenly make eye contact with Kelly, who seemed to have been sizing you up. You weren’t really sure what look was on her face, but the hints of a snarl were on her lips. With her nose stuck up in the air, you watched as she carried her daughter and began to follow the rest of the team.

“Don’t mind her. You’re the one he wants to see when he gets out that car.” A voice said from beside you. You jumped, coming face to face with Christian. Your eyes widened at your boyfriend’s boss. Prior to the race, he was informed of the search party the entire team had for you to get Max in the car. While he was annoyed earlier, he thought it was rather cute that Max was so fond of you.

“You know, he’s never begged her for a good luck kiss.” Said Christian, a knowing look on his features. “You on the other hand—he can’t seem to function whenever you’re not around.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was gonna put that much of a fight earlier today.” You apologized, feeling a bit flustered. “He’s a bit stubborn sometimes.” You added, to which Christian chuckled at.

“Oh, I know. Max and I have worked together for years.” He stated. He glanced out the garage and motioned towards it, “C’mon now, I’m sure he’s already looking for you.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You make your way through the crowd of Red Bull members, many of them recognizing you and helping you squeeze through till you were at the very front of the barricade.

Max was already out, helmet in his hand, while his other embraced GP and a couple other engineers. You watched as he high-fived Penelope, barely sparing a glance at her mother. A little burst of pride went off in your stomach, you couldn’t help it.

His blue orbs scanned the crowd of red and blue, looking for you. You yell his name, his eyes immediately finding yours. A smile breaks out on his face as he rushed over to you, dropping his helmet in the process. Despite the barricade between you two, he wraps both his arms tightly around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Max!” You squealed, your arms wrapping around his neck. His large hand found your cheek, slightly pulling you away from his neck so he can connect his lips with yours. Naturally, your lips moulded perfectly against his moving in synch. The team erupted in cheers around you.

“I’m so proud of you!” You tell him once your lips separate.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” He grins, gently pinching your bottom lip between his pointer finger and thumb.

He couldn’t stay long, being told that he had to get to the podium for the trophy ceremony.

“I’ll see you after the podium, schatje!” He yelled with a wink over his shoulder, causing a blush to form on your cheeks.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

The ceremony and the media tent took a while, you finally got to see Max an hour later. You were sitting in his driver’s room, when he bursted through the door already looking for you.

You stood up, smiling at him, “Hey.”

He mirrors your smile. Placing the trophy on the couch he opens his arms for you. You walk into the comfort of his hold, burying your head into the crook of his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso.

Finally it was just the two of you.

“I’m sorry.” You said, though it came out muffled against his skin. Max’s hands stopped the circular motions they were rubbing on your back.

“For what?”

You pulled back looking at him, “I overreacted about the whole Kelly thing. I should’ve taken your word for it.”

Max immediately shook his head, disagreeing with you. “No, you were absolutely right about her. I should’ve listened to you from the beginning. The moment I said hi to them she was already trying to come onto me—I avoided her by the way, I just entertained P.”

“I’m also sorry for what I said about P. I was in the wrong for that comment.” You said, a small grimace on your face when you remembered the off hand comment you made about the poor child.

Max chuckled, “Schatje, seriously, it’s okay.”

His calloused hands were rough against the soft skin of your face. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and cradled your jaw in his hand.

“I may have a soft spot for P, but they’re in my past. You’re my future, (y/n). The future that I only want and see myself in.” Max admitted. Your eyes gleamed at him, “You’re the future I want too, Maxie.”

“Good because you’re not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me.” He joked, squeezing your cheeks.

“I love you. So much. I know it seemed like I didn’t trust you today, but I want you to know that I do. I fully trust you with my life and I mean it.” You said, your fingers playing with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.

Max nodded, “I believe you. I love you too.”

The two of you basked in the silence and comfort of being in each others arms. Max was the first one to break the silence, “You don’t have plans after this right?”

You hummed against his neck, “Besides celebrating your win, nothing. Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out on a date.” Max proudly announced, a goofy smile on his lips.

“Don’t you wanna celebrate with the team?” You asked him. Max shook his head, “Nope, the only person I want to celebrate with tonight is you.”

You giggled at Max’s antics, “Whatever you say, Champ.”

[charliemwrites]

Part 2 of Woof Woof Konig

Content: Animal Injury (Non-Descriptive)

The walk back to your home is slow. Johnny stays glued to the new pup’s side - as much as he can given how the other towers over him. Ghost pulls ahead to patrol the path, always circling back to press his nose to your hand.

The new dog is so big that his head nearly reaches yours. He keeps his chin down, though, almost ducked, eyes flicking shyly to you. His eyes are big, one sky blue and the other deep brown.

When you reach the house, you nearly have to push his big butt in the door as he hesitates on the porch. Ghost stands watch behind you while Johnny tip-taps on the other side, and you pat at flanks breathing like bellows.

Finally, he inches far enough inside that Ghost can squeeze in and you can close (and lock) the door. You take a deep breath once you do, feeling the last hour crashing over you.

“Jeez, bud,” you sigh, offering your hand to your newest charge. “What a day, huh?”

A quiet, almost shy “snarf”. You grin and scritch gently at his chin, then flick your eyes to the bloody cut over his eyebrow. You click your tongue sadly.

“Alright, baby. We gotta take care of that. Then you can be done for the day, okay?”

You should probably take him to the vet - big fuckoff sized dog with an injury. But you can’t imagine trying to bundle him into your reasonably sized car. Even getting Ghost in there is a struggle the two times you’ve had to do it.

So you leave the pup awkwardly standing, trembling, by the door and collect the dog first aid. You also grab the jar of dog-safe peanut butter. Even Ghost loves that shit.

When you come back, the dog seems to droop when he sees the kit in your hands.

“I know baby, it’ll be okay. I got something that’ll make it better.”

You approach slowly, carefully, watching for any signs of fear aggression. Issue is, there’s every chance he could snap without warning, but you’re praying he’s not one of those. Your boys would go ballistic.

Thankfully, he lets himself be bribed with globs of peanut butter while you clean up the cuts around his head. There’s a chip taken out of his ear that nearly brings you to tears. And the poor boy only whines every once in a while, pressing his face into your chest while you work as quickly and gently as you can. No aggression, no lashing out.

In the end, you press your face to his neck and scratch gently at his shoulders.

“No one is ever going to hurt you again, honey. Not here, not with me.” You press a gentle kiss to his muzzle. “I take care of everyone.”

You get him settled with some blankets and a fresh bowl of food while you check on your boys. Ghost leans into your side while you cry a bit, whispering that you love him and he’s been so good.

Johnny whines and licks the tears away (smelling a bit like peanut butter of course) when you turn to him, pressing his face up under your chin.

“Such good boys,” you sniffle. “Dunno what I’d do without you.”

They practically baby you for the rest of the evening. One with you, one with the new pup, who’s resting and warming up by the heater, bowl empty. They don’t even bark too much when you decide to order food and the delivery comes - perhaps sensing that you’re too drained for their overprotective antics.

When it’s time for bed, you cross over to your new boy and scratch at his hind leg.

“You wanna come to bed, sweetie? You don’t have to, but I don’t want you to be alone out here.”

He stares at you, mismatched eyes way too big. You make one last kissy noise at him and then head to your room, Ghost and Johnny following as usual. Just as you’re about to turn off the light, a big form lumbers into your doorway.

“Hi bud!” you call softly, patting the mattress. “You wanna try coming up?”

He seems to consider it, eyeing the bed and the space available between you and the other two dogs, before politely walking to the dog bed. It’s technically Ghost’s bed, though he only uses it when you’re getting ready to go out.

“You can sleep there, sweetie. I’m sure Ghostie boy doesn’t mind.”

You glance at him as if to confirm, but Ghost is predictably pretending that you’re not talking. Grumpy boy hardly ever responds once he’s tucked into bed.

You smile as the new dog carefully climbs onto the cushion.

“Alright, good night boys. I love you.” You pause, make eye contact with your new pup. “Even you, bud.”

Late in the night, you could swear you hear voices. The low rumble of men talking. Even dream of someone kissing your forehead.

Main Story | Konig pt. 1 | Happy Birthday!

Masterlist

[queenimmadolla]

𝐍𝐨 𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐬

Summary: Eddie being sleep deprived because his three month-old baby won't go down for a nap.

A quick little blurb that's been bothering me since last night so I just had to jot it down. More of Eddie and Penny here.

“C’mon, sweet pea. You’re killin me.”

  Eddie sighed, placing his three month-old on her back, alongside him on the bed. 

  Just as she had the last seven times he’d tried to lay her down, his baby began grunting, straining herself as she attempted to sit up on her own, neck muscles working overtime. She wouldn’t be able to sit up, of course. Still smaller than his forearm, Penny was much too little, nor did she have that kind of control over her body, but still she tried, wrinkly fingers curling into fists, face darkening as she trembled and her upper half tensed.

  She could hurt herself, though. So once more, Eddie sighed, carefully lifting her up and settling her on his upper torso, her little head bobbing clumsily in the crook of his neck as she continued to grunt and squeak.

  Penny wasn’t supposed to be awake, she was fighting sleep and doing so fiercely. Twenty-seven minutes past her nap time and she was trying to stare at the world around her in wonder rather than rest as she should so she wouldn’t be up through the night and keeping the two of you up. But this was now Penny’s world. And they were just living in it and caring for her, completely at her mercy.

  He’d set the sleepmosphere; turned off the lights, closed his blinds, and was playing a lullaby that came from the giant baby monitor that stayed above her crib. Plus, his little baby had a plump tummy full of breastmilk and no gas to upset her. Eddie had rocked her until she got quiet, but everytime he so much as peaked around to see if her big brown eyes were open, they were. Wide open and flickering to everything in the room, little mouth parted in awe. She even had the audacity to struggle against his hand, cradling the back of her soft and dainty head.

  Penny was getting stronger and stronger every day.

  “Okay, why don’t we make a deal? You go to sleep right now, and I’ll convince your mom to up the ounces of your bottles and distract her with conversation when she’s breastfeeding you. Look at that, you’d get more food and more rest. It’s a win-win because then you wouldn’t be screeching at daddy in the middle of the night while he’s sleep deprived and warming up a bottle for you.”

  And when he felt his baby’s bobble head whack into the side of his neck, “That’s unnecessary. I made you a fair offer with no cons on your part—violence is not the answer.”

  He waited a beat, eyes staring at the wall as he became overly aware of the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion that had settled over him that he’d since learned to run on. Eddie had reached the manic state already, now it was just acceptance.

  Penny let out a particularly protesting squeak, loud and demanding as she seemed to finally run out of strength, face rubbing into his collar bone until she could replenish it and lift her head again.

  “Fine. You win. Just know, when I’m old and senile and you’ll have to change my diapers, I will be returning the favor.”

[razorblade180]

A Quiet Home

Jaune:*walks in* Hey, I’m back.

Weiss:*writing*….

Jaune:I umm, got some food. Saph said she always makes too much so-

Weiss:You should’ve turned it down. Your nephew is a growing boy.

Jaune:She wouldn’t have offered if she couldn’t help. How’s rent looking?

Weiss:Despite my colossal fuck up on the mission, it’s covered.

Jaune:Hey, what’s important is-

Weiss:Jaune, don’t patronize me. I screwed up, got my leg hurt, got the client hurt, and lost the target. *puts pen down* Thankfully I found another high paying one. It’s a three weeks long and I’m-

Jaune:Actually…I put in a request to take that mission too. Client said he’ll think it over.

Weiss:*turns around* Excuse me? You’re taking my job line ups? You went in the last two missions. It’s my turn to-

Jaune:You need a break.

Weiss:Tsk, not this shit again. I just had a break!

Jaune:Crunching bill numbers is not a break. Weiss, your head isn’t in the game, and that’s fine. After all, your mom…

Weiss: “My mom” nothing we aren’t talking about this. There’s nothing to talk about. She lived drunk and died drunk. Predictable ending.

Jaune:Weiss-

Weiss:Give me space! And cancel your request while you’re at it. You’re in no condition to go on another assignment so quickly.

Jaune:…I’m not letting you go on that mission.

Weiss:Sorry, you’re not letting me? *stands up* I don’t remember needing your approval.

Jaune:That’s not what I-

Weiss:No it was, or else you wouldn’t have applied for the same mission despite our agreement. I made one mistake and now it goes out the window?

Jaune:You’re angry.

Weiss:Of FUCKING course I’m angry! I’m trying to keep these lights on and not burden others while you’re bringing in leftovers and stopping my job!

Jaune:You’re not doing your job! You’re running away from your problems!

Weiss:Oh you’re one to talk! The only reason why you’re here is because moving back in with your folks would be too much to handle.

Jaune:I moved in with you because you needed a roommate! My girlfriend was cutoff and alone and I could help! All I’ve been doing is trying to help!

Weiss:I didn’t ask for your help! I was handling things just fine!

Jaune:You were struggling.

Weiss:AND I’M NOT NOW!? Does it make you feel a little better to say you tried. Can’t help but I want to fix things huh?

Jaune:That’s not fair.

Weiss:Oh now we want to be fair? After intentionally making my job harder? For someone who is “trying to help” it never really works out for you now does it!? Not for me not for P-

She immediately covered her mouth, scared and shocked from the venom that almost slipped past her lips; this carelessness was given back with a stare of contempt that ate at her.

Weiss:I-

Jaune:There was a never a second I thought you were broken, or needed to be fixed. Guess that was my fault. Looks like your father did a number on you after all.

Her blood went cold. Weiss’s cheeks began to burn red as her anger boiled over.

Weiss:And yours never cared to do a swing to begin with.

Jaune:Speaking from experience?

Weiss:Get. Out.

Jaune:….

Weiss:I SAID GET OUT! I DON’T NEED THIS FROM YOU! I DON’T NEED YOU!

Jaune:…Good, cause you don’t have me. Sell my stuff for all I care.

He reaches in his pocket and throws his key at her. Weiss catches on reflex before hearing a thunderous boom as Jaune slams the door on the way out that shakes the room and cause a picture to shatter. The room is deathly silent as Weiss stares at the door.

Weiss:F-FINE! RUN BACK TO YOUR FAMILY!

………..

Not knowing what to do, Weiss simply grabbed her broom to clean up the mess Jaune made. Glass was half hazardly swept aside as she picked up a broken frame holding a photo of her laughing with Jaune, their face covered with cake from their house party with a banner overhead.

“A year of memories and miracles”

Weiss’s hand began to tremble until the picture slipped from her fingers. A giant pit filled her stomach and threatened to gag her as her knees fell to floor and her hands covered a ghastly wail. Finally, her breath was robbed and tears broke through shaking eyes filled with dread over the reality that was flooding in. The miracles were gone, and the memories, now bittersweet.

[gemstone-roses]

I've got you

Geralt x Reader

Summary: geralt comforts you in the middle of the night.

Warnings: general anxiety themes, anxiety attack, fear, bit of sad, crying. Fluff. Bit of Size kink if you squint (whoops) can't help myself can I.

Huge hurt/comfort vibes, I need it okay.

Note: I'm having a bad week okay,�� reblogs and comments much appreciated ❤️ reminder this blog is 18 plus and so are all my works, including the sfw ones.

Hope this helps someone if they need it 🖤

Flames dance in front of you. The heat from the fire the three of you had made at your camp that night had stopped feeling warm a while ago.

Jaskier slept soundly in his sleeping bag by a tree, the dense forest you found yourselves in provided more than enough safety for you to rest for the night.

And of course, geralt too.

He sits opposite you, legs spread wide, hands falling in-between them. He's keeping watch for any danger.

You wrap your arms around yourself. Habit, when you feel like this.

You'd felt it coming when you woke this morning. It starts in your throat, your chest.

Jaskier struggled to get on his horse this morning.

Usually you'd make a sarcastic comment at his expense, earning an eye roll from him and a small chuckle from geralt.

Today you stayed quiet. You knew irritation would lace your words without actually meaning it.

Leaves rustle beside you as the witcher moves from his spot and sits back down on the log you were sitting on.

Geralts thighs touched yours, he was so big it couldn't be helped.

The slight touch comforted you though.

"I can hear your heart racing over the noise of the fire"

Of course he could.

"oh, sorry?" You say softly.

You feel your chest tighten, you try to swallow but your mouth is dry.

Geralts brows furrow, he's heard your sharp intake of breath, your heart picking up.

"fuck" he whispers, getting up.

You startle slightly when you feel two hands on your thigh, geralt kneeling in front of you. His Amber eyes laced with concern for you.

"Y/n" he says gently, giving your thigh a squeeze.

"Look at me sweetheart" he continues. He gently grasps your chin and turns it towards him.

Tears pool in your eyes as his gaze feels like it's seeing right through you.

"You need to breathe, okay?breathe with me y/n" he reaches for your hand, places it on his chest.

Your hand trembles, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on him. One of his hands holding yours on his chest, the other is still holding your face.

"Keep looking at me, good, it's okay, that's it , your safe, ive got you". He soothes, caressing your cheek as he speaks.

The tears pooled in your eyes spill free

"Geralt" you choke out

"I know" he swipes your tears away, his calloused hands still gentle.

"Just keep breathing with me, hm?" He keeps stroking your face, until he feels your racing heart calm slightly.

You stay like that for what feels like hours. His touch not leaving you. Your still trembling slightly.

"Im s-

"Don't" he pushes up from the floor , wrapping his arms around you and leaning down to place a kiss to your head.

"Come" he says offering his hand

You take it, standing up

"Let me hold you tonight, hm?" He brings your hand up to his lips and places a feather light kiss to it.

You nod, and geralt wraps his huge arm around you as he guides you to his sleep bag.

"I've got you" he whispers, pulling you tighter into his embrace.

[whateveriwant]

Choice

Summary: Simon forces you to choose. Him, your husband… or the other man he found in your bed.

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k

Warnings: ANGST

A/N: Forgive me.

“Simon!” you gasp, bolting upright in bed.

There, darkening the doorway to your bedroom, stands your beloved husband. You thought you'd spotted something lurking in the shadows of your periphery, but rather than it being a mere figment of your imagination like you'd hoped, you've come to find out that's not at all the case.

Simon’s brows are knitted tightly together, the lines framing the sides of mouth deepening as he begins to scowl. “Fuckin’ knew it,” he grits out. “Knew you were a fuckin’ liar.” His eyes flit back and forth between you and the figure lying beside you in bed, and if looks could kill, you'd both be six feet under.

“Simon, no, wait–!” You're quick to shoo the other male from your bed even as your husband storms away. Jumping to your feet, you chase after him, tugging your shirt into place from where it had ridden up. Simon’s just reached the living room when you manage to catch up with him. “Simon, please just–”

“When will enough be enough?” he cuts you short as he whirls around to confront you. You've never seen such anger rippling from him before, and it makes you recoil, stopping dead in your tracks. “When's it gonna end, huh? You promised me you were gonna fuckin’ stop this.”

“I-I-I know I did, Simon,” your voice trembles under the weight of your shame.

He's right. After the last time, you’d told him that was it, that it would never happen again.

So much for keeping your promise.

“I'm– I'm so sorry,” you try to offer him, for whatever it may be worth.

Apparently, it's worth very little as he proceeds to scoff right in your face.

“You’re ‘sorry’?” His expression pinches to show how he takes offense to that apology. “That’s three times this month I've caught you. Three. Let alone how many other times I'm sure have been behind my back.”

Again, he’s right on the target. You’ve been dishonest with your husband, been deceiving him more times than you can even remember at this point. Though you're in no place to feel as if you're the one that's been hurt in this situation, you can't help how his biting words feel like daggers plunging right into your stomach.

Simon sighs and brings a hand up to rub his forehead, the self-soothing gesture doing nothing to soften the lines creasing his skin. After a while, he asks, “Why?” his voice much calmer than it was a moment ago. “Why d’you keep doin’ this? Lyin’? Sneakin’ around?”

When he drops his hand to look at you again, you can see how quickly his emotions have shifted from fury to sorrow. The sight of his grief almost wrenches your heart in two, and you swallow the lump in your throat, your own emotions threatening to spill forth and choke you.

“I… I don't know,” you tell him, yet another lie.

You know the truth behind your actions, the real reason you can't break this bad habit. It's because you're selfish; because you're spineless; because you're fucking weak.

Your answer, the unconvincing slop that is, isn't good enough for Simon, and his shoulders rise in a show of perplexity. “Am I not treatin’ you right? I've been withholdin’ from you? Is that it?”

You're shaking your head before he even finishes the inquiry. “No, Simon. It's nothing like that,” you say.

“Well then, explain it to me.” He tosses a hand into the air, the frustration in his tone palpable. “Because I'm tryin’ to understand what makes him so bloody special. What is it about him that makes you treat me like a fuckin’ afterthought?”

“I don't–!” you begin, the accusation immediately putting you on the defense. But then you pause and intake a deep breath, trying to rein yourself back in. The last thing you want is to strike a match against this highly combustible conversation. If ignited, this powder keg runs the risk of taking you both out with it.

You take another moment to collect yourself before releasing an audible exhale. “Yes, he means a lot to me–”

“Oh, well, I'm bloody well aware of that, thank you.”

You ignore the derisive comment as you continue, “–but you're my husband, Simon. At the end of the day, I always want you,” you emphasize. You can feel a stitch forming between your brows as they slowly pull together. “I know you're upset with me – and I understand, truly – but I… I-I just…” your voice trails off as you consider your next words.

You know what you want to say, what niggling thought you want to express. But you're not sure if voicing it aloud is the right move to take. You're trying to cool down the tension here, not potentially add fuel to the fire.

But as Simon prompts, “What?” you realize there's no backing out of it now.

You sigh. “I just think you're blowing this whole thing out of proportion.”

The way your husband's eyes immediately widen tell you it was probably better to have kept your mouth shut.

“Blowin’ thi–?!” Simon blinks wildly in disbelief, his anger from earlier surging back tenfold. His voice is venomous as he spits, “I catch you lyin’ to me, catch you continuously goin’ behind my back.” He points an accusatory finger in the direction of your bedroom. “I catch you with that filthy shite in our bed–”

“Hey, don't call–”

“–see him lyin’ there, sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow, and you think I'm ‘blowin’ this out of proportion’?!” he's fully shouting now, his volume having risen alongside his fury. Simon lets out a dry chuckle that's entirely devoid of humor. “Do you even hear yourself? Do my feelings mean nothin’ to you anymore? Do you– Do you even really love me?” his voice peaks as a wave of despair washes over him.

“Wha–?” Now it's your turn to blink wildly as you're caught off guard by that last sentence. “Of– Of course I do, Simon! Of course.” How can he even ask you such a thing?

“You just love him more, then, right?” The question stings like a punch to the gut.

You shake your head vehemently, asserting, “No. No, of course not!” even as you feel a twinge of guilt pricking the base of your skull.

Just as you're slightly skeptical of your own words, so too is Simon, and he brushes you off with a, “Pssh, right.”

The heightened emotions of the last several minutes persist even as you and your husband lapse into a tense silence.

As you stand there, you watch as Simon begins to harshly run both hands through his hair, not sure what you should say – if there's anything to say in this moment. Though you and he have had this same argument more times than you'd like to admit, something about this time felt different to you, felt like there were higher stakes in the mix. And as you reflect on the quarrel, you can't help how one line in particular sticks out in your mind. ‘You just love him more, then, right?’ he'd accused, bluntly, bitterly.

The idea is ridiculous to you, loving someone else more than your own husband. It sounds like something only a fool could believe.

But if that's the case, why did Simon say it so assuredly?

And why does the thought of it make your stomach clench like there could be some truth behind the claim?

After another few moments of him tugging at his roots, Simon releases a billowy breath. He briefly closes his eyes and shakes his head to himself, before dropping his hands back down by his sides.

“I don't know how much longer I can keep this up,” his voice sounds as exhausted as his body looks. As he peels his lids open to once more lock with your gaze, you feel your own eyes narrowing in your confusion.

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice quiet, timid.

“I mean you need to choose,” he tells you. “Me or him.”

That statement has you balking, the cords that hinge your jaw shut practically snapping. “Si, you– you're not serious.” This has to be some kind of sick joke, right?

“I am.” He nods resolutely. “I can't keep doin’ this – goin’ back and forth with you, wonderin’ if you're really all here with me or not,” he says, frowning. “So you need to choose. Right now. Me… or him.”

It's like you've just witnessed your worst fears materialize before you. Simon, your loving husband, has just asked you to do something that was once completely inconceivable to you. He's asked you to make a world-altering choice: pick between him and someone else.

The decision should be easy – should be obvious – and yet, you find yourself frozen, unable to speak the words you know you should say.

Simon is your husband, the first and greatest love of your life. But this other man he's making you choose between is… well, he's something else to you entirely.

When you're having a rough day and feel like the world is collapsing in around you, he's the first one you want to run to when you need a shoulder to cry on. And conversely, when you're feeling on top of the world, feeling so high up you could reach out and touch the clouds, he's the one you want to call so you can share your joy.

From the moment you met him, you knew he was one of a kind. He's got a smile that could rival a thousand suns, a kiss that could warm the coldest of nights, and the way he looks at you – like you hold the entirety of his universe in the palm of your hand – you think it could keep your heart beating long after it's chosen to stop.

He's your best friend, your other half of a whole, your personal ray of sunshine that cuts through all the gloomy rain. Simon is your husband, yes, that’s true. But this other man is your soulmate, and you know that however long you both shall live, you will love each other until you take your final breaths.

Tears start to bead in your eyes as the answer to your predicament reveals itself to you. And as Simon eventually pushes, “Well? Who's it gonna be?” you know there's only one thing you can tell him.

“Him,” you mutter, feeling the first tear spill over. “H-Him, Simon. Him. I choose… him.”

It's like the planet ceases to spin for a moment as your choice floats in the air like a ghost. At first, you think Simon must assume you're bluffing, what with the way he has no immediate reaction to your response. But as the silence stretches between you and you've yet to renounce your decision, you watch as the realization hits him like a slug to the chest.

Simon's face falls, the color zapping from his skin, and as his eyes start to shine with tears, you find your cheeks flooding with your own.

Simon blinks rapidly, his nostrils flaring as he tries to keep his emotions at bay. His brow furrows like he wants to say something – to argue something – but when he opens his mouth to speak, no words escape. He closes his mouth for a second but then opens it again soon after, once more nothing leaving him but the sound of his breath.

Open then shut, open then shut, he repeats the cycle over and over again, never once managing to get a word out. Finally, after several minutes of waging an internal battle with himself, Simon eventually lets out a low sigh of defeat.

“Then go,” he mutters, gaze falling to the floor. “Just… Just go.”

Your own heart shatters at seeing the pain you've caused your husband. But you can't take back what you've said now, and even if you could, you both know it'd be a lie.

Thus, all you can offer him is a whispered, “I'm sorry.” Any louder and your voice would break from the strain of your cries.

The room falls quiet again as you both let everything sink in. Simon, your husband, the man you'd promised forever to, just put his heart on the line, practically flayed himself open for you… and you didn't choose him.

“I'm sorry,” you say again because you don't know what else there is to do.

Simon waves your apology off with a dismissive hand, still refusing to meet your eye.

Over the next few moments, you continue to sob softly, the sounds of your sniffles puncturing the otherwise quiet house. After a while, you feel the faucet behind your eyes gradually slow to a trickle, and you wipe your face with the back of your shaky hands, swallowing down the last of your tears.

You take another minute or so to compose yourself, still standing before your forlorn husband. Once you feel somewhat well again, you clear your throat, then tip your head back to let out a short, high whistle.

Almost immediately, you hear the telltale noise of feet moving against the hardwood floor. Then, not a beat later, you see the man you'd just chosen rounding the corner to the living room.

“Come here, pup-pup. Come here,” you encourage Riley, your fourteen month old shepherd-mix, forward.

Like the good boy he is, Riley trots closer at your beckoning. But before he reaches you, he makes a pitstop by Simon, shoving his cold, wet nose into the man's empty palm.

Riley gives him a couple boops to the hand, politely asking him for pets. And Simon, for his part, despite still being obviously disgruntled, obliges and gives him a brief, dispassionate rub to the snout.

Having received his desired scritches, Riley then continues over to you, and you crouch down so you can meet him at his level.

“You wanna go cuddle with me some more? Yeah? Do you?” you pitch your voice up in that babyish way Simon pretends to hate.

Riley, however, absolutely loves it, and his tail wags back and forth in a way that says he's all too eager to agree.

“Okay, let's go!” You wave him after you as you take off down the hall.

As you both walk back to the bedroom you'd been occupying earlier, you hear Simon speaking behind you, muttering angrily to himself.

“Mangy fuckin’ mutt. Knew he was gonna be trouble,” he murmurs as he makes up a spot for himself on the couch. “First he steals my bed, then he steals my cuddles, next he'll be stealin’ my fuckin’ car…” his voice peters out the further away you walk.

“Don't mind your daddy. He's just being grumpy as usual,” you stage whisper to Riley as you approach the door to your bedroom.

Letting yourself inside, Riley quickly follows after. You shut the door and then waltz over to the bed, patting the empty space beside you as you settle in.

Swiftly, Riley jumps up to join you, taking the side normally reserved for your husband. He moseys all the way up the mattress until he reaches Simon's pillow, where he proceeds to lay down.

You roll onto your side and start to pet him, scratching that spot behind his ears you know he loves. As you do, you see that infectious smile of his slowly take shape, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth as his eyes drift closed.

The sight of him so content makes your own lips upturn into a smile. He is so sweet, so perfectly innocent, that it makes your heart want to burst inside your chest.

And as you continue to cuddle Riley, making little kissy noises in his ear, you know you made the right choice as you grin and ask him, “Who's my favorite boy?”

__________

A/N: April Fools! Hope I didn't break your heart too much lmao!

As always, I'd love to know what you thought! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

[revelboo]

can I just say how much I love! your!! writing!!! I wasn’t really a Starscream or Bluestreak fan before because I have a tunnel vision on Bumblebee but stumbling upon your account made me adore them so much!! I like how neat your writing style is even though you make it as bullet points because I’m usually not fond with bullet points style, however! Something about how you focus on the description and “show not tell” the most is sooo tasty idk how to describe it. Thank you for your wonderful writings 😔🙏💕

Thank you! The bullet points were mostly a way to clearly demarcate a view point shift since these are snippets rather than anything fully fleshed out. Normally, I’d only head hop every other chapter in a paranormal romance manuscript, but that wouldn’t work here.

Also: Pleasure to Meet You by Motion City Soundtrack is my theme for this fic

Everything is Alright pt 34

IDW Starscream x Reader

• Watching you walk over to your stash of human things on his desk, a little more tension eases. Everything right again, even though he’s fully aware of how fragile it is. That worry still there eating at him, a dark tide just waiting to crash down on him. But not at this moment. You offer him a little smile as you drape that old cleaning cloth he first gave you about your shoulders. Like a ghost, Soundwave’s disdainful ‘inadequate’ floats through his processor.

• Somehow going back with Starscream feels more like reality than going home to your actual life had. Like everything else was a dream, less real than this. Because this has become home. Well, not quite if you’re being honest. It’s not this place at all. It’s him and it’s a curious new feeling, fragile. Breathing in the scent of him from your blanket, something settles inside you and you look up as he runs a big hand over his helm, wings fidgeting. “After my rotation, we’ll refuel together,” he says, optics flicking to your dwindling supply of stolen junk food. It’s not a request to share a meal, but a certainty that you will do this. You smile anyway.

• “I’d like that.” You’re smiling at him, happy to be near him. Glad to see him and it almost hurts, a bittersweet ache that he’d almost given this away. Let you slip out of his hands. Reaching down, he runs the tip of a servo over your soft cheek, the touch lingering as you reach up to lay a hand on him. Such a small thing, but it means more than you can ever realize. It takes an effort of will to break that contact instead of curling his servos around you and bringing you to cradle against him.

• There’s an impulse to call out after him when he leaves, and your fingers fist in your blanket to keep yourself still. To not run to the edge of the desk and reach out. He’s not leaving you again. You know it, but that jangling uncertainty is still there. That he might leave and not return.

• You’re back. Soundwave hesitates, feeling that now familiar tangle of emotion at the back of his processor. When you’d just disappeared from his awareness, he’d assumed Starscream had accidentally killed you. It had always been a possibility with the Seeker’s temper. Thought that you were just gone and that loss has twisted about his spark, because as frustrating as the chaos of your mind is, he’s gotten to where it’s familiar. Always just there at the back of his processor, a warm presence he can’t shut out like music softly playing. He’s pushing up from his desk, aware of his cassettes looking up in surprise.

• When the door slides open, you stand up expecting Starscream, but it’s Soundwave. His helm turns, visor flaring slightly as he spots you and strides over. Head tipping back as he reaches a huge hand for you, almost not noticing the faint tremble as his servos curl around you and he lays his other palm on the desk, big frame bowing over you. Silent aside from the ragged sound of him venting. One of his servos slides against your neck over your pulse, but otherwise he’s still aside from that strange shivering. You lay your palms on his hand, staring at that unreadable, hidden face. Had he been worried about you? That fragile feeling you don’t dare examine too closely stirs as you wish you weren’t so very small so you could wrap your arms around him. Around them both, because they’re yours. And it’s worth fighting for.

Previous Next

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter II

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 12k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), More tags to be added (!)

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

thank you all so much for the love on the first chapter. we delve a little bit into their backstory now (gladiator II is set around 211 AD). feel free to let me know if you are interested in reading how these two get to where we picked up before <3 i also have a little acacius playlist that fits the vibe of this fic very well. feel free to check it out here!

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house palla - a traditional mantle for women paludamentum - a cloak worn by high ranking military officials

Chapter II

209 AD

The domus sits just on the edge of Palatine Hill, on the side opening towards the Forum Romanum and Via Nova. You have passed below it more times than you can count, though you have rarely walked the small street that weaves up the hill and leads to the edge of the property.

Many of the neighboring houses are too harsh for your taste, with columns twice as wide as your body and barely a shrub of greenery in front of them. A supposed sign of strength, no doubt. But when passing the house with the large garden, you like to take as much time as you dare, occasionally catching a whiff of the lavender that grows all around it.

It reminds you of the shadowy figure you often saw walking those same gardens after dark, many years past. A bereaved woman, shrouded in dark cloth, keeping her head down as she tended to the plants with dainty fingers, decorated with a thick gold ring that framed a green stone. You remember lingering too long on your way past the iron fence once, fascinated by the way her dress flowed in the wind. She had called out to you, beckoning you towards her.

Lucilla was not a terrifying woman but you knew that every misstep could cost you, especially in your position as a vestal. She had knelt down in front of your trembling form, brushed your hair out of your face and looked at you with an expression you did not understand. But she had whispered words that you did. Asked you not to collect the water after dark, to stay with the older vestals. Then she had offered you a small bundle of lavender.

You stuffed it under the linen of your bed later that night, breathing in a scent that felt like a world where a woman could freely roam her garden and the city beyond, who did not have to be afraid.

The guard at the gate gives a small bow of courtesy when you reach him and moves to the side, allowing you to tread the stone path that leads up to the house. “The General is inside. Please, knock.”

A gentle “Thank you” escapes your lips as you reach to lift your stola just enough to not step on it. The torches lining the way are extinguished, not needed during the day. A short glance down the hill allows you to spot your own home, right beside the rounded building that is the Temple of Vesta.

When you reach the wooden door, you raise your hand and will yourself to knock with enough force to make it heard.

You can hear someone calling out from inside and a few seconds later, a man with broad shoulders opens the door. His gaze flies over you briefly–taking in your white tunic and the palla wrapped around your shoulders. The thin veil attached to your headdress and all the linen of your clothes tucked neatly into place are usually enough indication for whoever is stood in front of you to understand your status.

“General Acacius?” You ask softly, your eyes taking in his brown eyes and the curve of his nose, one that looks like it belongs on a statue rather than a living man.

“Vero, that is me. Please, come inside.” He gives a small bow, gesturing past himself and you nod at the invitation, gracefully stepping into the house and finding yourself in an atrium that renders you speechless. The columns that line its sides are slightly worn, flowers stretching along them towards the upper floor. Stone basins and pots holding a variety of plants stand at almost every corner of the open space, making it feel more like a garden than the stuck-up room you would have expected in a Generals home.

Acacius’s hand hovers behind you, guiding you past the fountain that holds a few orange fish and to the opposite end of the open room, though he never actually touches you. “Please. Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” you repeat your earlier words, lowering yourself onto the chair he indicated.

“Would you like some wine? Perhaps some grapes too?” He waves to one of the servants, who promptly places two glasses on the table, though Acacius takes the carafe and dismisses him with a small nod as he begins to pour you some of the dark red liquid. You make to reach for your glass to hold it steady but he shakes his head quickly. “Allow me. Please.”

You nod at that, leaning back and waiting politely while he pours himself a drink as well. It allows you a moment to take in his form up close, the white tunic and his red paludamentum wrapped around his body. A cloak fastened with a gold brooch, one that–similar to your headwear–makes him a respected man no matter where he goes. You wonder if he feels the same about it, that some days it's more like a heavy curse weighing one down. Then again, he is a General of Rome. You are a priestess of Vesta. Your paths may cross today but you are certain they look very different from one another.

He sits down across from you, a small sigh leaving his lips as he toasts in your direction and takes a sip of his wine. Then, he leans to the side and produces two rolls of parchment. “I had to make some adjustments to my will. It was kept by one of the other priestesses, but I believe she has finished her service with the Vestals since I last saw her.”

You give him a small smile as you take the parchment from him, nodding. “Yes, she left the year before last. But of course I will be just as happy to keep the will for you.”

His eyes fly over your face briefly and he gestures to the rolls on your lap. “I crossed out the old version. I married, you see.”

You stare at him for a moment before nodding a little too quickly. “Of course. Yes, I–The lady of this house I presume–” You break off, realizing your mistake. If he indeed married Lucilla, he is now the head of this house. “What I meant–” you add hastily. “–is that it is your house now. And the house is beautiful, I mean–” It’s the second time you stop in the middle of the sentence. But this time, it is because you have dared to look back over at the General. And he is not even trying to conceal his amusement.

You bow your head in another silent apology and he tuts softly. “You are quite right, you know. As far as I am concerned, she is the woman of this house.” A smile plays around his lips. “And I would not have it any other way.”

It’s clearly not his atrium that surprises you. He is not what you would expect a General to be. Especially not one that is about to entrust you with his will. “I give my word that I will see it is stored safely,” you reassure him, carefully taking another small sip of the wine.

Acacius nods. “I appreciate that. You have my thanks.” He pauses briefly, his gaze darting around the atrium for a split second before landing back on you. “You seem uneasy. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No. No, of course not, General.” It is not a lie, per se. But you are all too aware that it sounds like one.

“Is it your first time taking a will?”

You do not know how he does it. He seems to have read you so easily–or he is just very well connected to know such a thing. “Yes. It is, but I promise–”

“I trust you,” he states almost casually while reaching for the grapes and offering you some as well. You politely decline.

“Forgive me but … you met me mere moments ago. How can you know I am trustworthy?” Your eyes catch his and this time you hold his gaze, not missing the small glint in them.

“All of Rome trusts the Vestals. If not you, who would we put our faith into?”

“The gods. You should put your faith in the gods,” you say quietly.

“I prefer to put my faith in people,” Acacius responds, though his voice is slightly lowered as well. “The gods do not fight our wars.”

You stand up so abruptly that you almost drop the scrolls. “I should go.”

He seems perplexed for a moment but quickly catches himself and nods, standing up before leading you back the same way you came. You allow yourself a quick sideward glance at his face and are met with a professionally neutral expression. At the door, you turn towards him, giving a last, small bow. “My General.” His title falls off your lips like the silk they sell at the market, flowing effortlessly. His brown eyes lingering on you as you address him–even if normal custom–as yours, make your stomach clench slightly.

Acacius lets his hand hover beside you again, never quite touching you. Yet you almost seem to be able to feel his touch. “I did not mean offense.” His voice is much softer than it was when he greeted you.

“Of course.” You force yourself to smile and step away, shaking your head at the brief moment of confusion you allowed yourself. He is a General, you are a Vestal. He has sworn his vows and you have sworn yours. And both include promises that are enough to keep you at a few feets distance for several lifetimes. “Please, call for me if you ever need to make adjustments to the will. And–” You force yourself to smile a little wider. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

You turn around before he can speak again, suddenly wanting to put some distance between yourself and the house you so longed to see from inside–until you did.

***

211 AD

“You have to go, dulcissima.”

Acacius' voice is quiet, the back of his head resting against the stone pillar as he watches you drag the chaise lounge across the atrium, muttering under your breath when you have to maneuver it around the small fountain in the middle of the space.

“Please.”

You shake your head just as you reach him, gesturing for him to sit down. His begging breaks your heart–it always has. But the thought of leaving him here with open wounds is worse.

“Let me see your arm.” He doesn't move, forcing you to become a bit more stern. “Acacius. Let me see the arm. I am not leaving until you do.”

A curse slips out under his breath but he does as told, sitting down and allowing you to inspect his wound. The rustle of the chain on his ankle breaks the quiet as he moves and you pointedly ignore it as you crouch down in front of him.

You let your hand hover above his skin for a moment, taking a small breath. It is still difficult to break the rules you have been taught for so long sometimes. You tell yourself that this is not even a sin, that you are merely caring for a wounded Gladiator. It tricks your brain enough to lower your hand onto his skin. You do not believe it tricks Vesta.

“He should not have fought you,” you mumble quietly, thinking back to how Lucius was swinging away the moment he entered the arena.

“He did not understand. And it is how the Colosseum works, you know this.” Acacius mutters back, tensing slightly when you run your finger over the cut the sword left on his arm. It doesn't seem too deep but you know Acacius must be in much more pain than he lets on.

“I hate that place,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the force of your words. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you stiffen when you feel a calloused hand tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before brushing over your cheek.

“Oh, sweet,” he mutters, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “I am fine. I made it out, see? I promised I would.”

“They were going to shoot you,” you choke out, trying and failing to hold back the tears now slipping down your cheeks. You feel his lips touch the crown of your head briefly.

“But they didn't. Now, please, I will take care of this. But you have to leave.”

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and shake your head again, blinking a few times to clear your vision and shift your attention back to his wound. “How would you take care of this? They have sentenced you to death. The Emperors have called for it, in front of the whole empire.”

“I can talk to them. I have things to offer, even now. They do not know how to lead an army. But they need someone who does. And–”

“You would sell your soul to stay alive,” you whisper as you reach for a piece of cloth and begin to wipe down the crusted blood.

Acacius sighs. “No. But I would sell my soul to stay with you.”

! when commenting or reblogging, please make sure to hide spoilers from others !

[corpsekiller]

consumption of a heart unloved — dabi

PAIRING. dabi/touya todoroki x genderneutral!reader (sorta healer!reader)

WARNINGS. hurt/comfort, descriptions of scars and burns, slight gore, but i promise it's still sweet at the end

SYNOPSIS. dabi's body deteriorates after another mission, slowly meeting its inevitable end. you're able to offer him a fleeting sense of relief, an escape from the pain, even if it's just for a short while.

AUTHOR'S NOTE. so, this is one of the two fics i wanted to finish before i go on a two weeks break to focus on my upcoming exams! i've never written healer!reader before, but it just seemed to fit the plot of this fic... and with that, i'll officially log off for the next 14 days (besides reblogs and the other fic), so wish me luck on my exams🖤✨️

LENGTH. 2.072 words

MASTERLIST

It's getting worse.

He can feel it beneath his skin, breathing, pulsing, feasting on his churned flesh and brittle bones like a fuckin' parasite, consuming every inch of his sickly being with a lethal appetite.

The burns have started to spread across his torso and the staples at the seams of his discolored scars have burst open, barely able to piece his frail body together any longer as the fresh wounds tear him open from the inside out, crawling over what remains of his untouched skin with blistered heat that pulls a scream out of his throat — raw and utterly broken — like a dying animal writhing in the dirt.

It echoes through the abandoned building and fades into ever-lasting nothingness, a desperate cry that remains unanswered as he sinks further into the cushions of the old couch he found in the new hide-out of the League, hoping the cold leather might soothe the unbearable ache that keeps tormenting him.

It's a futile attempt that reminds him how pathetic he's become — unable to control his quirk and forced to suffer with the shame of it.

Dabi is convinced ripping his failing organs out of his own abdomen would feel more pleasant than this. It would be easier to bear, removing parts of this pathetic body that is causing him so much pain, dismantling himself into small pieces like a puppet — without a heart that feels and a brain that thinks — and putting them back together until everything fuckin' works how it's supposed to do.

Until his body obeys.

He's too delirious to remember when the pain started, doesn't recall what he was doing before it began to unwind in the pit of his stomach earlier that day, but he's still capable of noticing how his skin begins to feel like it has grown too tight for his bones — a prison of flesh he can never escape.

And it's not like he wasn't expecting this day to come. On the contrary, he was always aware of the ticking time bomb buried behind his ribs, the can of gasoline pulsing through his veins, waiting for the light of a burning match to blow everything up and engulf the entire world in a hailstorm of violent destruction.

That's how it was always supposed to end.

Dabi knows his fire will seal his inevitable demise in a blaze of cerulean blue, swallowing him whole and wiping him off the surface of this godforsaken earth. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the torture he has to endure until that day arrives.

His fingers twitch, blackened at the tips and trembling unsteadily, reaching towards the ceiling as if he'll find something to hold on to or perhaps someone who'd reach back and grasp his hand to pull him out of the delirium that fogs his usually so clever wit - he finds nothing but a shattered lightbulb hanging above his head, the lampshade covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, a single spider dangling from it in the corner.

He faintly wonders, if it feels just as lonely as he does.

The pain caused by his movement twists through him like barbed wire, slicing into every muscle and every nerve until his mind becomes a blur of feverish thoughts, jumbled together until he can barely form a word.

Oh, he's awfully aware he's burning out — a collapsing star on the verge of a supernova. He expected his life to end this way, should have made peace with the fact that he'd never get a happy ending, but—

The sound of footsteps pulls him back from the brink of his madness, light and deliberate, like whoever is approaching is trying not to disturb him as if he's a mere child slumbering innocently in his crib. The door creaks open, rusty hinges protesting as a figure silently slips into the darkened room.

Dabi doesn't have to look up to know it's you — he'd recognize your presence anywhere.

He always does.

"Hey," you whisper softly, your voice cutting through the haze of his pain, soft and steady, like the soothing caress of calm waves washing over his frayed nerves. Carefully stepping into his line of sight, your features deepen with a certain kind of concern — through his blurred vision he can still make out the fine line between your cinched brows, your lips curved into a small frown as you brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Though there's no pity in your eyes.

There's never pity.

It's the only reason he lets you stay.

Immediately, he grits his teeth and tries to sit up straighter, digging his fingers into the cushion for some kind of support, but the effort causes his skin to scream in protest. Before he can even realize what's happening, you're already rushing to his side and crouching beside him on the dirt-stained floor, your hand hovering near his face like you want to touch him but aren't sure if he can take it.

"You look like shit," you mumble as he catches his breath, a weak attempt at humor that coaxes a ragged chuckle from his coarse throat despite the searing heat pulsing through his entire being.

"Feel worse," he rasps, his voice barely above a whisper. The corners of his chapped lips twitch into a half-hearted smirk, a ghost of the maniacal grin he wore earlier when he watched his flames consume another one of the inglorious heroes he always despised so much.

You don't laugh.

Instead, you reach out and tentatively brush the tips of your fingers against his unscarred skin, right above the silver staples that glisten faintly in the dim light creeping through the wooden planks nailed across every window of the room.

It's the barest touch, but it sends a wave of something strangely comforting through him — something that seems to extinguish the fire for a split second and settles deep in his chest, cradling his stuttering heart like a fragile butterfly with broken wings.

You're using your quirk, he notices far too late, the realization crashing down like a sledgehammer to his skull, leaving his thoughts shattered and bleeding. His body stiffens beneath your careful touch, a primal instinct to recoil sparking somewhere deep in his aching limbs, though even as his pain screams for him to move, he stays frozen in place.

He's certain now because he can feel it — the subtle, almost imperceptible shift as your energy flows into him, soothing the jagged edges of his agony. It's not enough to heal him completely - nothing could undo the damage he's done to himself - but it dulls the worst of it, like a cool cloth pressed to his fevered brow.

You’re taking it from him. The pain that is meant for him to feel, the agony that is his to own (or perhaps it owns him).

Then Dabi sees it.

The faint crease of your brow, the way your jaw ticks and clenches to stifle a sharp inhale of breath as your fingers tremble against his mangled skin, ever so slightly, before you finally press the palm of your hand over his sweat-slicked forehead in a motion so gentle that it almost reminds him of a mother tending to her sick child.

"Shit," he croaks, his words nothing but a cracked brittle thing climbing out of his mouth as he tries to jerk back. "Stop, you're–"

"Don't move," you interrupt, quiet but certain. Your voice breaks just enough to betray the strain you're under, though your hand stays firm on his face, even as your breaths start to come out quicker than usual, shallow and uneven like your lungs have unlearned how to function properly.

He supposes that's what his pain does to someone who isn't used to suffering the kind of torment he feels every day.

"You’re feeling it," he growls, though the argument dies somewhere in the back of his throat when his eyes look onto yours and find a glimpse of what is going on in your head — determination, stubborn and unyielding, even as the pain he’s spent years burying himself in bleeds into you.

"I know," you murmur shakily and tight with effort. "Just let me... let me help."

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Dabi watches the thin sheen of sweat gather on your temple, the way your muscles twitch and your shoulders cave in like they're trying to hold back a scream, and he hates it.

More than that, he hates the way you’re looking at him. Not with pity, but with something far worse: care.

Fuck, he wants to tell you to stop — he needs to yell at you, push you away, do anything to make you let go, yet he can't, not when your touch feels like the only thing anchoring him to reality, the only thing keeping him from slipping into the abyss that’s been pulling at him for years.

"You can’t fix me," Dabi whispers after a moment, his voice trembling as his hands twitch uselessly at his sides. A certain kind of guilt cuts through his chest, sharper than any flame ever could and it's strange because he can't remember the last time he ever felt remorse for anything he's ever done, for anyone he's ever hurt. "You can’t—"

"I know," you cut him off again, your tone firmer this time. "But I’m not leaving you like this."

Your words slam into him harder than the pain ever could. Reeling for another argument, he swallows thickly around the stone that has settled in his throat, heavy and suffocating, as he feels the edges of something unfamiliar awaken in the depths of his mind- it isn't anger nor is it hatred.

No, it's smaller, softer, fragile like a flickering candle trying to survive amid a raging storm.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he mutters, his voice cracking with defeat and his eyes dropping to where your other hand has moved to rest against his collarbone. "You're gonna kill yourself."

"Not today," you reply, your lips twitching into that faint, stubborn smile he's grown to like so much. "And neither are you."

He hates how much he wants to believe you, how much he wants to let himself lean into you, let you carry some of his burdens even if it burns you, but as he watches you endure it — every stab, every flicker of heat and pain his body throws your way — he realizes something he’s never let himself think before.

He doesn’t want to lose you.

Not now, not ever.

"C'mon, stop trying to fight me," you mutter, tenderly brushing some tousled strands of hair out of his forehead before you lean forward to press a kiss to his temple, letting your lips linger there for just a moment. "I'm not going to leave you, I promise... Touya."

The sound of his name falling from your tongue so sweetly feels like a soft ripple across still waters.

It seeps into the cracks of his fractured soul, cooling the blistering heat beneath his skin and quieting the flames that have consumed him for so long. His shoulders drop, the tightness in his chest easing as he finally exhales a shaky breath. It’s not a miracle, not a cure — but for the first time, it doesn’t hurt quite as much.

He doesn’t have the strength to answer, so instead, he leans ever so slightly into you, letting your presence hold him together where his broken body and soul cannot.

Finally, Dabi allows himself to lose this battle, letting his muscles relax for the first time in what feels like hours, days, maybe even weeks as your energy shifts around the room and the burning pain has simmered down to a dull tenderness. Cautiously, your hand leaves his forehead to find his and he lets it stay there, lets himself savor the warmth of your touch.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, the thought of surviving doesn’t feel like a punishment. It feels like a promise. Something worth fighting for and it terrifies him.

He doesn’t say it out loud — he can’t, not yet — but the thought burns brighter than his flames and he silently wonders if maybe, just maybe, he can hold on just a little longer.

For you.

Taglist: @justwolosers @jaerang @dabislittlemouse

(@redr0sewrites tagging you because you loved my other fic so much, i thought you might like this one too <3)

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Another celebration ficlet. The ask for this one somehow got deleted from the inbox, but I know it was sent by @weirdandabsurd42 - hope you enjoy! 🥰

On being seen

Rated: T

Words: 990

Tags: Post-Vecna; Injury; Hospitals; Hair loss; Referenced parental death; Hurt/comfort; Steve Harrington is a sweetheart; Pre-Steddie

“Brought you these,” Dustin says, stacking some books on the bedside table. Eddie spots The Hobbit at the top of the pile. “They’re mine, but you can keep them until …” 

“Until what?” Eddie asks. His voice is a thin rasp, grating on shredded vocal cords. “Until they unearth my home from that interdimensional sinkhole? Fat fucking chance, huh?” 

Dustin swallows, hiding his face under his cap. Guilt churns in Eddie’s gut like acid. His left hand - the one that’s not hooked to the beeping machines - flies up to fiddle with his hair, only to come up blank. 

Oh, right. They cut it off during the surgery. It’s gone, just like half his face and jaw. 

“You should go,” he says. “s getting dark and your mom will want you home.” 

Dustin looks up, eyes bright. “But-” 

Eddie shakes his head as well as the bandages will let him. “C’mon, I need my beauty sleep. I promise I won’t go anywhere.” 

Dustin hesitates and Eddie’s afraid he’ll start to argue, or worse, plead. But then, the kid sighs, rising from his chair. 

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” 

Eddie raises his hand for a wave, pausing when he catches sight of his bare fingers. 

“Henderson?” 

Dustin turns in the door, face gaunt in the sterile light of the hospital corridor. 

“You haven't heard about…?” 

Eddie wiggles his hand. Dustin’s expression morphs into one of regret.

“Sorry,” he says. “I asked the nurses, but there were so many emergencies. Maybe they got thrown in the trash or something.” 

Eddie nods. Tries to tug at his hair again. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Dustin shuffles uncomfortably. “Listen, I could-” 

“I said it's okay, Henderson. Good night.” 

Dustin sighs. “Night, Eddie.” 

The beeping of the machines follows Eddie into his dreams, where it turns into the shrieks of the swarm.

*

When he startles awake, it's dark outside his window. 

There's a figure in the chair beside his bed, backlit by the heart monitor.

“Fuck, Henderson,” Eddie groans. “I told you to go home.” 

The figure jerks upright with a snort. 

“Shit,” it mumbles. “Sorry, ‘m awake.” 

It’s not Dustin.

Eddie freezes, terror sinking into his every limb like lead. The noise of the machines drowns under the roar of his own blood in his ears. 

“Hey,” says the figure, voice low and soothing, and he realizes a bit belatedly that he made a sound - a raw, terrified thing, like a trapped animal. “Hey, it’s okay. Eddie, it’s me. It’s Steve.” 

A hand reaches for his. It’s warm and strong and so much bigger than his own. He jerks away so violently he almost pulls the iv-cord from his arm. 

“No,” he rasps. “Don’t touch me. Get away from me.” 

Steve flinches, hand falling limply into his own lap. Eddie can’t see his expression in the dark. Doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want Steve to see him, not like this. Hurt and bare and small with nothing left to hide behind.  

Neither of them speaks or moves for a while, the slowly calming heart monitor the only sound in the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says at length. “I just … I’ll go. Just wanted to give these back.” 

He rummages for something in his pocket, then holds out his open palm - carefully, like an offering. Eddie’s breath catches in his ruined throat. 

“Where’d you find these?” 

“Um,” Steve shuffles in his seat. “Saw them lying on the nurse’s desk the other day. Sorry I didn’t return them sooner, things have been sorta crazy out there.” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just snatches the rings. He attempts to slip them on, but he can’t use his right hand, and his fingers haven't stopped trembling since he first woke up. Nerve damage, the doctors said. He fumbles and drops the rings, but Steve is there to scoop them up before they can fall to the ground. 

“Here, let me.” 

Eddie watches, frozen in place, heart in his throat, as Steve slips the rings onto the fingers of his left hand. Cross on the index finger, boar in the middle, skull on his ring finger. His breath tickles the skin of Eddie’s wrist. 

“This one's special, right?” 

Eddie blinks out of his stupor. Steve has taken a hold of his right hand, infinitely careful to not disturb the needles and cords, and slipped the last ring back on. The delicate one with the dark, oval stone.

Eddie nods. His voice won't obey him, but this time, it has nothing to do with his injuries. 

“My mom's.” 

Steve hums in understanding, and Eddie knows he doesn’t need to say more. 

“Tell me about her?” 

Not a request. An offer. Eddie squints at Steve’s shadowy face as he settles back in his chair. 

“Why?” 

Steve shrugs. “You’re one of us. I’d like to know more about you.” 

Eddie can’t help it, he needs to laugh. It burns in his throat and sends tears to his eyes. He tries to tug a strand of hair in front of his face to hide them and grasps only at thin air. 

“Not sure what to tell you, big boy. Not a whole lot left of me, is there?” 

“You’re brave and kind and tough,” Steve says, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “You’re great with the kids, and an amazing musician, and you were willing to die for a town that hates your guts. I think that’s a whole lot. The outside stuff will come back.” 

Some of it already has, Eddie thinks, fingertips rubbing against the familiar shape of his rings. 

“Her name was Elizabeth,” he says. “She died when I was seven.” 

Steve listens for a long while, not interrupting once. He doesn’t switch on the light. He doesn’t need to, Eddie thinks. He feels more seen than he has in a long while, sitting here in the dark, allowing Steve to get to know him. 

Somehow, it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

More celebration ficlets

[its-avalon-08]

bound by heartbreak (cl16)

✦ pairing - charles leclerc x female!reader

✦ genre - coping with death, angst, alot of tears, happy ending

summary: bound by tragedy, charles leclerc and y/n bianchi, sister to the late jules bianchi, find solace in each other. on the somber anniversary of jules’ passing, their grief collides, pushing them to the brink. as they navigate the complexities of loss and guilt, their love and support become their only lifeline.

The weight of the world seemed to press down on Charles as he stared out of the Monaco apartment window. The city, usually a vibrant tapestry of lights and life, appeared muted, a reflection of the somber day. Today was the anniversary of Jules Bianchi’s death, a scar that wouldn’t heal, a wound that reopened with every tick of the clock.

His phone buzzed, pulling him from the abyss. It was Y/N, Jules’ younger sister, his anchor in the storm. "Hey, are you okay bebe?" her voice was a gentle caress, a soft whisper in the chaos of his mind.

"I’m trying cherie," he managed, his voice barely audible.

There was a long pause, the kind that held more meaning than words. "I know," she replied, her voice trembling slightly. "I know charlie. I just want you to know that Maman is having a lunch tonight to celebrate Jules. He would want you to come." Charles swallowed a lump in his throat and then agreed. The loss was unbearable but Y/N made everything better.

They had shared a bond forged in grief, a silent understanding that transcended words. Y/N was more than just Jules’ sister; she was his confidante, his solace, his love. Their relationship, born from tragedy, had blossomed into an oasis of support in the desert of their shared pain.

Later that evening, they sat on the terrace, the city lights twinkling like distant stars. A gentle breeze carried the salty scent of the Mediterranean. Y/N reached out, her hand finding his.

"Remember that time Jules taught us how to make pasta?" she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

A wave of nostalgia washed over Charles. He could almost hear Jules’ infectious laughter, see his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "He was a terrible chef, but we had fun."

They laughed, a bittersweet sound that echoed the complexity of their feelings. Sharing memories of Jules was their way of keeping him alive, of honoring his spirit.

As the night deepened, a silence fell between them. It was a heavy silence, filled with unspoken words and unyielding grief. Y/N stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace. She looked out at the vast expanse of the sea, her silhouette a stark contrast against the city lights.

Charles watched her, his heart aching. He knew that look, the mask of composure slipping, revealing the raw pain beneath. He stood up and joined her, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"It’s okay to not be okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Y/N leaned into his embrace, tears silently tracing paths down her cheeks. "I miss him so much, Charlie, it's not fair. Why was he taken away so young? He never got to see me grow up, fall in love with you or make a family. I'll never get to see him again and it hurts." she sobbed, her voice muffled against his chest.

He held her tighter, offering silent comfort. Charles spoke up after a moment, "You know cherie, Jules spoke about you every second he could. He loved his little sister and I know for a fact that he is looking down at us smiling, knowing that you'll be okay. Maybe even wanting to chase me with a broom for dating you." They laughed as they cuddles closer. They stood there for what felt like an eternity, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of emotions.

Later that night, as Y/N slept peacefully, Charles woke with a start. A cold sweat drenched his body, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The nightmare, a recurring visitor, had returned. It was always the same – the car, the crash, the helplessness. He remembered watching the screen, as Jules's car went under the safety vehicle and the pure agony on Y/N's face.

He stumbled out onto the terrace, the cool night air providing a momentary respite. He leaned against the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The pain was overwhelming, a physical ache that consumed him. He was strong, he was Charles Leclerc, but even he had his limits. His body trembled, a silent earthquake within. The memory of Jules, sharp and vivid, was a relentless tormentor. His mind replayed the accident on an endless loop, a horror film he couldn’t escape.

He was alone, or so he thought. The weight of the world was crushing him, and he couldn’t breathe. The guilt was a suffocating fog, a constant reminder of his own survival. He was a Formula 1 driver, a man of speed and precision, but in this moment, he was nothing but a broken vessel.

A soft touch on his arm startled him. He turned to find Y/N standing there, her eyes filled with concern. She had woken up, sensing his absence from the bed.

"Charles?" Her voice was soft, a gentle anchor in the storm.

He tried to compose himself, to mask the turmoil within, but the facade crumbled. Tears, hot and uncontrolled, streamed down his face.

"I’m so selfish Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the city's hum. "I’m the worst kind of person. You lost your brother and I'm crying and making this about me. What kind of person does that?"

Y/N stepped closer, her arms opening wide. Without hesitation, Charles fell into her embrace, his body shaking with sobs. She held him tightly, her warmth a comforting shield against the storm raging within him.

"You’re not selfish, Charlie," she said softly, stroking his hair. "You’re hurting, and that’s okay. We’re hurting together. You lost Jules just as much as I did. He was your godfather bebe. You loved him and he loved you. Of course you're in pain."

"But it’s different for me," he protested, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I survived. I’m still here, living my life, while he... he’s gone."

"And that’s incredibly hard," Y/N acknowledged, her voice filled with empathy. "But that doesn’t make you selfish. You’re grieving, Charles. You’re allowed to feel everything you’re feeling."

"I just want to make it stop," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper.

"I know," she replied, her voice steady. "But it won’t stop overnight. Healing takes time, and it’s a journey we have to take together."

They stood there for what felt like hours, the city lights a distant blur. In the quiet of the night, they found solace in each other's presence. It was in these shared moments of vulnerability that their bond deepened, a testament to their resilience.

Eventually, the intensity of Charles’ emotions began to subside. Y/N continued to hold him, her presence a constant source of comfort. Slowly, the storm within him began to calm.

"Thank you Y/N, I don't know what I could do without you." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Always cherie," she replied, squeezing him tighter.

They stood there for a few more moments, the silence between them filled with unspoken understanding. And as the first light of dawn touched the horizon, they returned to the apartment, hand in hand, facing the new day with a renewed strength, born from their shared sorrow and unwavering support.

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, a sense of calm washed over him. He took a deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs. He would face the day, one step at a time. He would be there for Y/N, as she had always been there for him. Together, they would carry on, honoring Jules’ memory by living their lives to the fullest.

The sun rose, casting its golden light on the city. A new day was dawning, filled with hope and resilience. And as the world woke up, so did Charles and Y/N, their hearts heavy but unbroken, their love for each other a beacon in the darkness.

[hotluncheddie]

for the @steddie-spooktober day 5 prompt : "Did you hear that?"

rated: T | cw: weed | tags: pre s3 events, pre relationship, Steve Harrington has PTSD, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart

( please also remind yourself of this gem first - take note of the hotdog on a stick uniforms pls & ty )

🍃🍃🍃🍃

‘Did you hear that?’ Eddie asks, sitting up from his slouch in the back of his van, hat discarded and vertical striped vest untucked from his shorts.

Steve tenses, blood rushing and adrenaline pumping his heart faster. He wades through their hot box mist to look through the front window, taking in the parking lot. Looking for people, monsters, anything that could make a sound.

‘What. What did you hear?’ He asks, short and direct. This could be bad. ‘What kind of noise was it Eddie.’

Steve scopes the deserted Star-Court lot once more, turning to Eddie, confused by his silence. ‘Eddie? What did you hear?’

But Eddie just stares at him, eyes red and sleepy and concerned.

‘Stevie.’ He says softly. They got too high, they smoked too much. Steve doesn’t even know what time it is, he can’t loose his wits like that. Cant keep sinking into the solace Eddie’s drugs give him. The solace the man himself seems to offer, friendly and understanding and somehow so so kind under everything.

‘What?’ Steve’s voice is raising, he can’t be high and fight, in his stupid sailor uniform. What if it’s back? What if it comes for Eddie this time?

Eddie shuffles over to the back doors, throwing them open and slipping down onto the concrete in just his socks.

He bends down and scoops something from off the floor.

Turning back to Steve with a black cat in his arms.

‘S’just Miss Noire Stevie. Just the parking lot cat I see sometimes.’ And Eddie smiles at him, sweet and small and still so achingly concerned.

Steve realises then that his fists and jaw are clenched. That his shoulders hurt and his knees ache from being crouched and wound so tight.

He laughs shakily, crawling over and reaching out a trembling hand for the little black ball of fur.

The cat sniffs him, taking her time to decide if he’s friendly or not. But eventually her little head bumps up against his palm and Steve giggles breathlessly, his eyes stinging. The tension seeping out of him again. His high mostly gone and the stress leaving a bad taste in his mouth, but it’s okay. They’re okay.

The monsters are gone.

They’re gone.

It’s just him and Eddie again, in the back of a van after their shifts at equally shitty jobs.

Him and his now good friend Eddie. Who gets it. He doesn’t get it, but he gets Steve, or wants too, tries too.

‘Sorry.’ Steve says, eyes on the cat.

‘You’re good man. Sorry for not explaining quicker.’ Eddie whispers.

Glancing up their eyes meet. Steve feels vulnerable and open under Eddie’s stare. His neck heating.

But maybe if it’s Eddie. Just Eddie looking. Maybe he doesn’t really mind.

🍃🍃🍃🍃

Tag list (message to be added/removed): @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @marvel-ous-m

@thecatkingsthrone @chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor

[marsbutterfly]

Need domestic Hanji x reader type sht. Does reader cut hanji’s hair??? Does Hanji bring home every stray?? Hanji never gave a crap about interior decorating until Y/N??? Slay??

Headcanons: Domestic Life With Hanji Zoe

a/n: i love them, your honor. i want to give them the entire world and stars and everything else this universe has to offer and then some more.

warnings: none, just fluff. you know the drill: not beta read, we die like men ♡

/ hanji never really cared about the way that they look. Sometimes, they would wear the most atrocious outfits known to men and not brush their hair for days. It wasn't until they met you that they decided to put in the effort to look their best.

/ though, they never really got the hang on how to do their hair. eventually, they just let it grow. it was nearly down to their hips and it became too hard to manage when they sheepishly ask you to cut it for them.

/ by the blush on their face and a couple of tears in their eyes, you could tell that this whole thing was just too overwhelming for them and a sensory overload. your heart was aching so badly from seeing them in such a state, you didn't even hesitate.

/ so, at 3am, you grabbed a pair of scissors and began snipping away. one inch turned to two, turned to three... turned to eleven. by the time you were done and looked down at the ground, a wave of fear washing over you as you pull away.

/ your fingers shake their hair, making sure there aren't any uneven strands and that all the loose hair would fall from their head. the first thing they say when you are done? "wow, my head feels so much lighter."

/ they look at themselves in the mirror and fall silent. you can feel the pit in your stomach forming, your breath begins to tremble as you look at them, helplessly preparing to mumble a long apology. that is until they turn around, arms wrapping around you, "I LOVE IT!!!!"

/ after that, you start trimming their hair every so often, just to make sure it would always be at this manageable length. and even then you started learning new styles, buying small clips and headbands, anything to make them look even more adorable than they already are.

/ hanji is a very hard person to wake up. opening the blinds, countless alarms, pulling the covers, not even water will work. but do you wanna know what will? the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the promise of kisses.

/ "haaaaanjiiiii" you call out every morning and, immediately, you can hear rushed footsteps coming down the stairs, their feet tripping over one another as they desperately throw on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top.

/ they drink their coffee black with AT LEAST four spoons full of sugar. do they eat in the morning? a piece of toast and then they go about their day, not drinking a single sip of water until you DEMAND that they do. they only agree because the energy drink is making their kidneys hurt, which is why you have so many variations of cranberry juice: crangrape, cranapple, just plain cranberry.

/ they don't like going to the grocery store. it's too crowded, too loud and too bright. so you are used to doing the shopping by yourself most of time, but sometimes, every so often, hanji finds themselves feeling a bit too clingy to let you go by yourself.

/ so you offer to hold their hand the entire time. and you have to keep the promise, otherwise you'll find them a sobbing mess, like a lost child almost. usually, when you get to the store, you can see how much the environment is already affecting them, so you wrap your arm around theirs as the two of you work together to push the cart.

/ when you need something from a tall shelf, hanji will hold your hand with one hand and reach up with the other. they are relatively tall so it doesn't take much but their hand must be touching yours at all times.

/ you will often try to make up fun games, like "who can pick out the most veggies in a minute?" or "how many cans can you stack in the cart before they fall" or "$1 dvd hunt and snack baskets." silly things to take hanji's mind away from the anxiety and it works like a charm every time, as long as your hands are still linked together.

/ it is a constant struggle having to keep hanji from bringing home every stray they find. the two of you already have two cats and a dog, but they insist on feeding every neighborhood animal, always building warm outside houses for them during the winter, leaving clean water outside for them every day.

/ one time, they tried to bring a racoon inside, pretending it was a cat and hoping you wouldn't notice. you screamed so loudly that both of them ran outside.

/ in past relationships, hanji was never allowed to decorate anything, or even leave a single toothbrush at their ex's house. so when you asked about colors for the walls and the curtains, they were a little shocked, maybe even a little scared.

/ at first, they try to go along with things you like or what they think you might choose if it was up to you. they do it until you get annoyed and give them only options they might like. it turns them into a blushing mess when they realize but the simple knowledge that you are so determined to make them know that this is your home TOGETHER makes them even more sure that you are the one.

/ hanji is a heavy sleeper but they roll around in bed so much that it was actually hard for you to get asleep when the two of you first started dating. at the point where you move in together, you aren't even bothered by it anymore.

/ they have a little compartment for their glasses on their bedside table, but they never use it. instead, they just throw the pair anywhere before jumping into bed with you, their eyes fixated on you, even if they can't actually see you other than the shape of your body.

/ hanji has a massive garden in the back of your house. every time the two of you travel somewhere, they gather seeds to bring home and figure out what will grow and what won't.

/ the two of you travel a lot. when it's by car, hanji is usually the one to drive while you are the one to pack the bags and snacks for the road. you are also in charge of the songs but you make sure to choose songs both of you enjoy. unless hanji pisses you off, in that case you always choose that one band they can't stand.

/ if it's by plane, you are the one who has to wake hanji up, make sure the two of you have everything, that their passport is in their hand, that there is nothing missing, that they have medicines, chargers and everything else.

/ hanji is fascinated by planes but also scared of them. they can't quite explain why, but a simple look at it causes them to freeze in place, almost like.. it's a memory. a bad one. so you make sure to hold their hand the entire time, nuzzle your head on their shoulder and just shower them with love.

/ the two of you always cuddle. even when it's burning hot, you just ditch the covers and clothes, the need to be touching each other is much higher than anything else.

/ you and hanji are always together. and when they propose, there was no other answer you could give. it was an immediate "yes ♡"

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝕽𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | Teaser

Hang the sinner by his wings.

Tags/Warnings: Demon!Jungkook, Human!Reader, Modern fantasy AU, Angst, slow burn, mature themes, hurt and comfort, Tags vary for each chapter

Length: ~4k words per chapter

There is no taglist for this fic.

-> Masterlist

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

He can't even get you to drink anything at all, but he has to if he wants even the slightest chance at getting that rogue demon out of you.

He tips the cup of water against your lips to aid in getting you to drink anything and replenish what your body so desperately needs during this time- but he knows, deep down, that you can't keep this fight up much longer than you already have. Your soul might be strong, but your body is already hitting its limits- muscles trembling from the force of the most recent attempt made to possess you.

"There you go.." he hums to you in gentle reassurance, unable to contain his affection for you even if you're incapable of returning any of it. He can't help the way his hand runs over your back to try and comfort you, even though he knows it means nothing to you.

You feel nothing for him but indifference. You don't even hate him.

Knowing what he does now, he's aware of the fact that this entire situation is partially, if not entirely, his own fault. When he saved you centuries ago, he also made you very much horribly attractive for houseless demons like the one currently attempting to use you as more than just a host, but even if he knew back then what he knows now, he would've still gone through with it.

He'd save you any chance he'd get. And maybe that's the sickest part of his whole curse.

The knife on the table is another way out for you, of course. A dead vessel is worth nothing to a demon of this kind, and maybe, it would let you rest for once as well- but he knows that even if held against the prospect of eternal punishment, Jungkook wouldn't ever be able to be the one to take your life. After all, he did what he did many lifetimes ago to save it, and not have it taken either way.

He didn't just buy you time.

He bought you the guarantee of a full life, with every reincarnation.

Jungkook helps you back into bed after letting you calm down for a little bit, before he opens the door to let your friend back inside. At the sight of him, you immediately begin to reach out and cry, and the sight alone has his heart in a chokehold.

Or whatever is left of it, in this case.

Your tears are salty in the open scars he has inside of him, but the fact that you can even shed them at all makes the sting feel a little less harsh. He can deal with this, as long as he knows you're getting the life you were almost denied. He can see you smile, and cry, and love-

Even if it's in the arms of someone else.

"She's a lost cause." Yoongi mumbles from a corner, watching Jungkook who closes the door behind him.

"She's not." Jungkook denies.

"You barely made any progress." The fellow demon shakes his head at him. "You're torturing her."

"I'm saving her." The younger demon denies. "Any progress is progress."

"And how long can you stand this, I wonder." The cat eyed man asks, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall behind him. "Let me-"

"No." Jungkook instantly denies. "You'll kill her."

"And maybe that's for the best, my friend." He offers in sympathy. "Why are you chasing after someone who cannot even love you?"

"Because if I don't,.." jungkook mumbles, turning to look at your closed door.

"...then everything I sacrificed has been for nothing."

[munariplans]

hey! Could you make reader and Natasha as parents? reader being that type of mother (or another gender I don't know) who takes her children to all their games and teaches them how to play tennis and Natasha being the worried mother who is afraid of their children getting hurt

one-shot of forty, love

synopsis: a combination of the different requests above, and below, of natasha and R as parents :) lmk if you guys are interested in seeing more of these two!

natasha romanoff x tennis player! reader

word count: 3.5k words

warning: smut below, skip if you're under 18 or uncomfortable reading!

masterlist

“almost hit it, a little closer!” 

thwock. 

“there we go! you can do it, let’s do a last forehand, sweetheart.”

thwock. 

“another!” this time, the voice came from the tiny girl far across the court, shouting out to you as you kept the last of the tennis balls. you shouted back that it was nearly time for dinner, and that you didn’t want to make her mother wait, but she was insistent, just like her mother was. 

you relented, sighing as you prepared the serve, and hit. but this time, the hit was just a slightly bit ill-timed, off the pace of the usual strength you would serve to a kid her size. but she was already running, and before you could call out that it was going to be too far for her to hit, she had dived, trying to hit the ball desperately with her racket. unfortunately, she lost her balance, and the next thing you remembered was your own feet carrying you as fast as they could to the other side of the court, rushing to the aid of the crying child. 

your daughter instinctively reached out for your arms as you bent down to pick her up, face already red from her tears. she was in as much shock as you were, as you looked down towards her scraped knee, the abrasion causing little trickles of blood to run across the broken skin. natasha’s going to kill me, you thought, as you began rocking the little girl and apologising profusely. 

“i’m sorry, so sorry, my love, mummy’s serve was too far,” you consoled her, her fingers gripping the ends of your shirt as tightly as she could. 

you let her calm down for a bit, before taking another look at the injury. “is it bad…mummy?”

you looked back up at her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “nothing a band-aid and a kiss can’t fix.”

with her lips still trembling, you brought a bottle of water to wash off any debris from the abrasion, and began patching the wound up. then, right after, your lips landed on the band-aid, and said, “there, boo boo is gone. my brave girl.”

her mood considerably lifted when you offered her a piggyback ride all the way home, and when the both of you walked past an ice-cream shop, you offered her a sweet treat in exchange for her not mentioning a word to natasha. 

–

“you’re both late for dinner,” a voice called out from the kitchen as you entered the house, the smells from dinner in the oven already enticing you further and further in. 

you looked towards your daughter nervously, her mouth still a little sticky with leftover chocolate, but her smile back towards you indicated that she was intending to keep her promise. but you didn’t even get a chance to say another word to her, for in the next moment, natasha had rounded the corner, carrying a deep dish of lasagna in thick oven mitts. she glanced towards the both of you, and beyond glancing at the sweat that glistened on your daughter’s forehead, her keen sense of observation from her years as a reporter instinctively caught the anomaly in the form of the band-aid. 

the girl happily munched on with dinner, as she watched in curiosity, and slight amusement, natasha angrily pulling you away to the kitchen again. 

“what did we just talk about yesterday? what did i just tell you?” 

you pursed your lips, head hung low as you kicked the floor ashamedly. “that i was training her…a little bit tough.”

“too tough!” she exclaimed, hands on her hips this time. she was a sight to behold, nine months pregnant with your second baby, face scrunched in annoyance, but still looking absolutely glowing. it was unfair just how beautiful she was, even standing a head shorter than you were and stance ready to bite off your head. “and look what’s happened! she injured herself!”

on the other hand, natasha was fighting off the urge to forgive you right away, as you pouted and reached out for her hands, saying, “sorry. i promise it won’t happen again. please don’t be angry, please…?”

you watched her roll her eyes, before sighing. “you are such a child.”

“sorry,” you said in a cuter tone. you were playing to her weaknesses.

“let’s just eat dinner. i’m starving. baby is too.” you smiled, knowing you won when natasha allowed you to kiss her in appreciation for her forgiveness.

afterwards, when natasha still had worry lines pertinent on her forehead as she inspected the scrape on your daughter’s knee while the three of you watched a movie, you caught yourself being webbed into a danger zone again. you knew better than to say it’s not that bad to a very hormonal, very pregnant woman who was fighting the urge to scream i told you so at you. 

so when your wife got up for a toilet break later on, and was making her way back, she caught you on your knees in front of the girl, speaking lowly to her. “–you have to tell her, okay? you have to tell mama that mummy is very sorry, and to not be angry at her. tell mama that if she stays angry at mummy, mummy will be very sad.”

that alone was enough for natasha to finally forgive you, almost scoffing with how cute she found the scene in front of her was. 

–

natasha was waiting outside when you shut your daughter’s room, safely tucked into bed, injury forgotten as she hugged her teddy to sleep. you raised your eyebrows in question. usually she would have already been in bed, the strain on her back too much to remain sitting and standing for long. however, this time, even though her features looked exhausted, she came to you. 

you instantly knew what was bothering her when her arms seeked out for yours, just like her daughter’s did. you enveloped her in an embrace, when she muttered, “i’m in so much pain right now.”

nearing the end of her third trimester, you knew this second pregnancy was taking a heavier toll on her than your first one had. most nights you felt terrible that you couldn't help to shoulder even an ounce of the physical pain she was enduring by herself. but you could help her, at least.

“turn around,” you guided her to have her back towards you, and natasha knew what was coming. still, when your hands found the bump underneath her, and gently lifted it to rest the weight on you instead, it didn’t stop the cry of relief from escaping her lips. her body instinctively rested against yours as well, feet thanking the heavens for the lightness she was suddenly experiencing. 

“i love you, i love you so much,” she whimpered, and you kissed her neck tenderly as you muttered that it was the least you could do. 

you held on as the both of you kept each other in that intimate embrace, when natasha muttered, “i had such a bad day today too, and with the baby being like this, i’m sorry i got annoyed at you for nora’s scrape.”

“it’s alright, it was my fault,” you replied, “served too hard. tell me about your day, my love.”

“i–” natasha suddenly felt tears springing to her eyes, hearing the soothing tone of your voice. but she pressed on, “–jenny, from the crime division, she yelled at me today. said i gave her the wrong tip-off, led her down the wrong path and losing the lead. in front of everyone in the department. and you know what’s the worst part?”

you kept silent, feeling small droplets of tears on your skin already, “...i just stood there, and took it. stood there…and i cried. like i was a new hire, an intern, for fuck’s sake. i let her step all over me like that.”

she felt your lips on her cheek this time, kissing away the angry and frustrated streaks down her face. “natasha, it’s normal to feel like this. she was being a bitch, and very unprofessional.”

“still! i…i…stupid hormones,” she cried, clearly more vexed with herself than anything else. 

but you were there to reassure her that she didn’t deserve to berate her own body for having heightened emotions. “her outburst reflects more on her as a person than it does on you. you did nothing wrong, everyone makes mistakes, and it wasn’t your fault she lost the lead. your feelings are valid, and there is nothing wrong with crying, baby. with or without the hormones, you shouldn’t be embarrassed for reacting in that way, and i’m sure your colleagues all know that she’s unreasonable for lashing out at you like that.”

natasha didn’t look convinced, pent-up emotions still simmering in her chest, and you knew it. she believed you, but not so much of herself. so you kissed her again, to gain her attention, and coaxed her to a hot bath that the two of you would share, knowing that it would alleviate both her physical and mental ailments.

– 

the hot water was calming, almost liberating, to almost every fibre of her body. with the water taking the weight off the shoulders, she found it easier to relax against you, the skin to skin contact soothing her even more. she was lucky that she still had you, even after the day she had, she thought.

“better?” your smile made her mirror one herself, nodding as you began massaging shampoo into her wet hair. 

“better.”

with your fingers in her hair, her body almost weightless in the water, natasha could finally let her guard down. she could finally tell you, something that you knew had been bothering her for a while. 

“i feel like this one is going to be bigger than nora was,” she quietly said. 

“i think so too.”

she sighed when your hands came to massage her shoulders. “...what if my body doesn’t return…to my usual size…after this? what if i can’t lose the weight?”

the massage stopped briefly, you sighing behind her. “you know it won’t matter to me. as long as you and the baby are healthy.”

“i know, i know,” you had told her, even in her first pregnancy, that you didn’t care if her body changed, if her looks changed, after the pregnancy. it was only understandable, you thought, for all that she was doing for you both by carrying the child, “but i just–i feel–i won’t be attractive to you anymore, after all this. i’ll just be a mom, and nothing more. what if the station ousts me, because i can’t chase around stories at their beck and call anymore? because i have to be home early most nights, to pick up the kids, because i can’t work so many weekends in a row, because i have to spend time with my family?”

“natasha,” you quelled her worries, “first, you shouldn’t feel guilty for making more time for your family, for being a mom. besides, we can always afford to hire help, and if i don’t have matches, i’ll be there to attend to the kids. you’re amazing, you’ve always been amazing, the station can’t kick you out just because you decided to have a family. if they do…you know i’ll have a strongly-worded email from my team sent to them in the next second. and if you do decide to take a little time off to spend more time with the kids, i’ll support you, i’ll support us, no matter what. whatever you want, i’ll be there to support your decisions, i’ll be there to back you up through it all.”

“and second…” slowly, natasha felt the hands that were on her shoulders travel lower and lower, “...only a madman would ever think that you are any less attractive, any less sexy, with the beautiful body you are graced with from pregnancy. in fact, i think i find you even more sexy with how you looked after giving birth to nora, and if possible, even sexier than that now that you’re pregnant again.” 

your fingers had entered the soft, spongy walls that they had memorised their way around, working expertly at natasha’s gasp of the intrusion. your other hand on her breasts, natasha let out a soft whimper when they began working miraculously together, her brain already turning to mush. “i must be insane to ever have the thought of you being unattractive cross my mind. when that happens, shoot me.”

another finger entered her, your mouth travelling from her neck, to the valley of her breasts, pressing open-mouthed kisses until she felt them latch on to her nipples, making eye contact with her as you let out a sly smirk, sucking. natasha broke eye contact when another thought crossed her head, “you’re crazy. so many years together, then so many years apart, don’t tell me–don’t tell me–you’ve never found anyone else that caught your eye. a player, a reporter, the celebrities that come to your matches…i’ve seen them–trying to get your attention–your number. i’ve seen–”

natasha was cut off with a yelp as you moved to the other breast, biting down slightly. “–the way they look at you. and it’s hard to get angry, when i know i would do the same, because you’re so…hot.”

you finally let go, letting up a small chuckle as your fingers quickened their pace. “natty, natty, natty.”

“what’s so funn–”

another gasp escaped her throat as you found her g-spot, where she needed you most. “–is it so hard to believe that you’re the only one i want, the only one i’ve ever wanted? nobody else comes close, you are all my eyes can see.”

she was writhing and moaning in your hold now, fuelling the ego that had been steadily growing as you started worshipping your wife. with the bathwater sloshing and her hands gripping the edge of the bathtub, you whispered, “careful. we don’t want to wake the baby, do we? let mama have her fun for a bit.”

“oh my god.” at the final roll of her hips, “i’m gonna cum.”

“then let go, sweetheart.”

the moan natasha let out sounded almost otherworldly, earth-shatteringly delicious to your ears, as you felt her squeeze in and crumble around you, trapping your fingers in her while she came undone, head in the space between your neck and your shoulder, eyes shut in pleasure. you met her lips with yours, assuring her, “i love you, i love you, i love you.”

it was almost unfair how ethereal she looked, post-orgasm and looking up with you with her eyes glazed. you could only meet her with the kisses she so badly craves after nights like these, each time marvelling about how pretty your wife looked in your arms. 

–

“you don’t have to come for the match tomorrow if your back still hurts, baby,” you reassured her later on, after carrying her out of the tub and helping her dress, as natasha slowly dozed to sleep with how tired she was, and how comfortable she felt. 

but your words seemed to stir her awake. “no, it’s okay. i’ll come. i want to come.”

your smile to her was almost patronising, to which she scoffed at and held your hand to drag you into bed. “i’m serious. i’ll be there.”

“it’s only a semifinal.”

“still important to me.”

“tomorrow’s your only day off this week. don’t you want to spend it resting?”

“i want to spend it supporting you.”

“and if i don’t win?”

“still important to me. all the more important to me. means you won’t be away for the finals in france, means you can be with me for a few more weeks until your next tournament.”

at your sigh of relief, and contentment, natasha let the ends of her lips curl upon feeling you kiss her cheeks lovingly. “i don’t deserve you. i’ll make sure you’re comfortable tomorrow. it’s going to be a long game.”

sleepily, she replied, “you better.”

–

it was your daughter that won your attention first, as you approached the stands after the semifinals win to thank the crowd. her little hands reaching for your embrace from the first row, natasha watched as your eyes positively beamed as she felt you take over her hold from her. the crowd roared even louder, if possible, seeing nora balanced on your hips and celebrating your win with you. it was a scene to behold, and one that natasha knew would be etched in her mind for a lifetime. 

this was all she ever wanted. this was all she could ever ask for. even as you invited her down to the court to take pictures with your family, even as the photographer almost blinded her with the flash as you wrapped your arms around her and your daughter.

–

thumbing over the printed photograph of the match earlier, safe in your arms in bed again, natasha couldn’t help but realise it; you really did only have eyes for her. your team and coach were in the frame along with the family, and in the candid shot that had become natasha’s favourite, your eyes were only on hers, gazing at her lovingly as she kissed your daughter’s cheek in the shot.

said daughter was beside her in that moment, the skies outside thundering loudly and her crawling into bed between the both of you just minutes before. her heart pooled into a puddle when she woke up to you comforting her and wiping away her tears. she looked almost exactly like natasha, so alike that she felt she was given a second chance with her life in nora. her chance to love you right. 

she only felt you again a few hours later, returning from bringing nora back to her room after she decided she wasn’t scared anymore, and accidentally falling asleep holding her hand in her own room. you slipped into bed with her, and reached for her touch again. 

your eyes were closed, but you weren’t asleep, sleepily rubbing circles on natasha’s back. you had earlier given her a massage and spoiled her rotten, even though you had a match earlier in the day, even though she knew you must have been more than exhausted.

“baby,” she called out, readjusting her position, “i know you said we could have as many kids as i am willing to push out of me.”

“mm, of course. we could even have an army if you wanted to.”

“well, if you ever catch me saying that i want one more after birthing this one, please slap me.”

there was a mirthless chuckle from your end, when suddenly, your hands were caught in a death grip, natasha nearly crushing your fingers. shooting up out of bed, you screamed, “ouch! natasha, why–”

then you saw it. but even if you hadn’t seen it in the dark of the night, you definitely felt it; the rush of wetness that had gushed onto the bed. natasha had her eyes shut in pain, still, allowing the contraction to pass, and you knew they were definitely not false alarms this time. her water had broke. 

“okay, okay,” you had been through this once before, but the panic, and anxiety, settled in all the same. “okay, you stay right here, i’m getting the hospital bag, then i’ll call the hospital, and then i’m calling steve to come over to pick up nora, just…wait here.”

“can’t–really–go–anywhere,” natasha gritted her teeth. she sounded murderous. 

you scooped her up just minutes later, settling into your arms as you carried her bridal style, just like you had the night of your wedding, and so many nights after. only this time, natasha was struggling to control her breathing, trying not to suffocate you with how hard she was holding onto you. she couldn’t wait to get the baby out and get it over and done with already. 

–

“aaargh!” she screamed as you carried her through the hospital doors, the team already prepared to wheel her in to prep her. still, she refused to let go of your hand, insisting on you staying by her side even as she changed into her hospital gown, and especially as she faced contraction after contraction. 

you were almost worried she was going to destroy your playing hand, but thought it was worth it; ending your career to ensure she safely gave birth. it was a fair tradeoff. you even joked, “guess i’m not going to france for the final after all.”

if natasha wasn’t in so much pain she would have strangled you. you were supposed to catch a flight the next day. “if you even dare step out of this room before i pop this baby out, i am divorcing you, you hear me?”

the doctors struggled to hide their amused grins, as you quickly reached for your phone to call your manager to cancel the flight and the match upon hearing her words.