#not my problem for foreigners to be missing out on something wonderful | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

no-144444 · 8 days ago

Note

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations.

And apparently this.

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there.

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks.

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.”

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you.

Lando Norris

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that.

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated.

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done.

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it.

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left.

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t.

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right.

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed.

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.”

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind.

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit.

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him.

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you.

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself.

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt.

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say.

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him.

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you.

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising.

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving.

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head.

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.”

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant.

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem.

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship.

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week.

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives.

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky.

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away.

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.”

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument.

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you.

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him.

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there.

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt.

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid.

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved.

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on.

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while.

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles.

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted.

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long.

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend.

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes.

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset.

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze.

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip.

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand.

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand.

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him-

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered.

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry.

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance.

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms.

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate.

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were.

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion.

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge.

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.”

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell.

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure.

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much.

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable.

Hey baby, where are you? (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright? (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really?

Work is more important than this? Than me? (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared. (20:07)

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49)

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50)

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions.

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes.

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up.

He picked up on the fifth ring.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up.

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you.

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame.

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed.

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.”

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end.

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days.

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away.

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort.

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice.

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.”

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful.

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you.

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love.

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer.

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love.

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image.

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less.

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave.

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.”

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins.

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes.

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him.

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable.

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it.

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left.

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist.

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.”

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child.

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes.

“Y/n-” he started.

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.”

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it.

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms.

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping.

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight.

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room.

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier.

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’.

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away.

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name?

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him.

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself. “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.”

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again.

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily.

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.”

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.”

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth.

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.”

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.”

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat.

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week.

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you.

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t.

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were.

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this.

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou.

haas:

Ollie Bearman

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked.

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over.

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of.

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off.

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.”

His world stopped. “Y/n-”

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.”

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work.

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love.

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague.

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.”

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more.

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain.

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43.

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long?

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you.

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering.

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.”

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart.

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you.

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love.

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away.

And he let himself go.

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued.

But he missed it.

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time.

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh.

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.”

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.”

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened.

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up.

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring.

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you.

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care?

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.”

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.”

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far.

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so.

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it.

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him.

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud.

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed.

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone.

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third.

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten.

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument.

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life.

He loved every second of it.

Franco Colapinto

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home.

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking.

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please.

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up.

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper.

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.”

Jack Doohan

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you.

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice.

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant.

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him.

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back.

“Did you talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind.

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was.

Over.

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it.

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly.

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?”

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did.

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

mclaren masterlist (OP81 &LN4)

ferrari masterlist (CL16, LH44 & AL65 )

williams & mercedes masterlist (GR63, KA12, CS55 LS2 &AA23)

redbull & vcarb masterlist (MV1,IH6 & LL40)

alpine masterlist (JD7, PA17, FC43, PG10)

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luveline · 1 year ago

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bombshell finds tickets to a russian movie thing sitting in spencer’s desk at work and they’re about to like run out (?) so she presents them to spencer and asks him on a date and pretends that she didn’t just pull them out of spencers desk in that bombshell way

You’re looking for gum. If Spencer were at his desk, you’d politely beg for a stick and he’d give it to you, but he’s not here, so you must search.

You sit in his seat, slinking down as he does with poor posture, your kitten heels hitting the spine of a book kept under the desk. Your dress’ skirt rises up your thighs, the fabric at your neck pulls, but you have bigger problems. You’re feeling the weird franticness of unspent energy and only a stick of gum is gonna fix you.

He has a drawer full of things, neatness traded for space. Blue and pink paper clips in an arrowhead shaped box. Push pins of all colours, their box more ordinary. He has a travel book on indigenous North American birds with stamps held between the pages, a plastic bottle cap, train stubs from Quantico to the station outside of his apartment and a bottle of ibuprofen missing half of its contents.

Your fingers dig around for the familiar shape of a packet of gum, hesitating thoughtfully against the thread of a thicker cardstock.

You pull a cream envelope from the desk and, perhaps wrongfully, unveil the contents: two tickets to see any Russian flick at the foreign language theatre free of charge (if you buy a large drink). They expire tonight.

You press them to your chest and spin in Spencer’s chair without any regard for whoever might see you slouching. Across the office with his hair out of his face and a smile bordering lackadaisical stands your favourite. He even has a pencil in hand. He likes to underline things in the books he reads for your benefit. It’s the pencil that decides your next move.

You stand up, brushing down your nice dress that he seems to like, a black cotton with thin pinstripes settling nicely just above your knees. You check your lipstick in the black reflection of his sleeping monitor, buzzing.

He’s watching you when you turn back. You hide the tickets behind your hip and begin a light walk to his side, the chug of the printer a constant hum you can feel in your shoes.

“What’s up?” he asks.

You tilt your head toward your shoulder ever so slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” He squints. “You’re acting strange.”

“Suspicious,” you correct.

“That, too.”

“How come you let me hold your hand?”

Spencer doesn’t hide his surprise at your question very well. His eyes turn deer in the headlights, then down to the printer. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“When we first met, you wouldn’t shake my hand. And that’s okay,” —your smile is loving in the hope that he finds your question as the curiosity it is and not an interrogation— “I’m just wondering what changed.”

“I was distracted.” He’s talking about the first time you took his hand, the two of you on the way to the office. “You stopped me from being late.”

“Right, but I should’ve asked and I didn’t. And now we hold hands all the time.” You take a half step back. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, I’m just wondering.”

“Nobody’s held my hand in a really long time. And you’re mostly clean.”

“Mostly!” you laugh, giving him a guilty smile. “I’m super clean, I just forget how gross door handles are sometimes.”

You have embarrassed him, in a way. It’s really not what you meant to do, not when you’re about to ask him on a date.

Ever since you started your official position at the BAU, you and Spencer have grown closer, but there’s a difference between flirting because he’s lovely and flirting because you want him to be your boyfriend. (Not that he knows what you want.) You shouldn’t have started with the hand holding thing.

“Spencer.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you go on a date with me?” You present him with the movie tickets. “Got these, they expire tonight…”

“Are those from my desk?” he asks, taking the tickets from you to look over closely.

“I’d love to go with you, unless you’re gonna take someone else, which is fine.” You embarrass yourself a little, even though you’re not, hoping it makes up for the hand-holding investigation. “Yeah, they’re from your desk. Sorry. I really wanted a stick of gum, my– my nervous energy is through the roof today.”

Spencer frowns at you again. “How come?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know. It just happens sometimes.”

And that’s nothing you’ve ever admitted to him. Your perfect mask is broken, and Spencer doesn’t look at you any differently. “Do you actually wanna go to the movies?” he asks.

“Only if I’m not stealing you away from somebody else.”

“There’s no one else.”

Spencer abruptly turns his attention to the printer, where he collects his copies and shuffles them into a straight, neat pile.

You recover quickly, though inside your heart is a stuttering mess. “I should hope not,” you say. “Okay. Awesome. I’ll bring hand sanitiser and you can hold my hand through the previews.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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meiguicha · 1 month ago

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Report - University student so touch starved that petting passing dog causes tears

Phainon x Reader - Uni AU

If you had a penny for every time you cried while petting a fluffy white dog in a foreign country, you would have two pennies which isn't a lot but is a little sad it happened twice.

Note: cussing

//i wish a dog came up to me and wanted me to pet it. doesnt even have to be phainon i just wanna pet a dog. sorry if this doesnt make sense my brain is all t-tests and null hypotheses now.

Previous - Masterlist - Next

Its only been two weeks since the semester started, and you already want to kill yourself.

To the people who believe that business units are easy and don’t take much brain power, you would very much like to sit them down in any one of the horrid, horrid units you’ve been forced to take and make them take the ten million tests you seem to have every week.

Everyone has their struggles! Stop putting down one major to elevate another’s suffering! How would you like to slave over an excel sheet for six hours wondering why your abatement graph looks like a rat got high on cocaine and was told to walk in a straight line?!

Well, this is just a very convoluted way to say that you didn’t feel like you were doing very well right now.

Your social life has taken the biggest hit in all honesty, and with more and more assignments piling up, you’re starting to miss the best comfort of them all.

Giving your little shits of dogs back home all the kisses you can give them.

Yes dear observer, you heard that right. The only cure to this painful existence is to carry a dog in your arms and coo at them until you’re permanently speaking in a baby voice.

Alas, the woes of international studying only grows ever the heavier and everyday you spend away from them is another day your mental stability wears down.

And with your morning tutorial done and another two hours to kill before your next, here you sit in a sparse field, with a cold bottle of tea and a brain leaking from your ears. In the distance, you can hear conversations of piles and plenty, from the group sitting on a blanket in the field, from the couple walking past you and the ten million friend groups loudly laughing all around you surround-sound style.

You want to pet a dog so bad, half your problems could be solved right now if you could just pet a dog and kiss it.

But for some god knows reason, the only non-academic reason people are here right now is to get their overly energetic children to run around a little bit. Which isn’t an exaggeration, you just saw a father run after his very, very small child across the field.

Walk your dogs in WU people! It's big! It's kinda nice to look at! It's pretty convenient to get to!

Taking a swig of your tea as if it can magically turn into alcohol upon will, you remove your glasses and squeeze your eyes shut, desperately praying the pain in your eyeballs is from staring at a screen for too long and not anything else.

Your hands reach for your bag, digging through its contents to look for your earbuds, and when you feel a soft surface, you pull it out to remove them from the handmade case. All your playlists in your music app are too depressing for this, absentmindedly, all you can do is tap on a familiar golden icon as an upbeat piano fills your ears.

Seriously, your life can’t be this sad right? Your feed is just filled with people going out partying or hanging out in some bougie ass cafe, and you’re here on a Saturday night doing notes for your next lecture. Even now, you’re just kind of… existing.

As you shift between glancing at the people passing you by and your phone, trying to look a little less sad with your lack of social life, your eyes spot a certain something you hadn’t been expecting, much less on such a sunny weekday.

In the distance, meandering in the soft grass and rays of sun, is a large, fluffy dog. Maybe you’re going blind, or maybe it really just has that much fur, but you can’t quite see any collar on its neck, nor do you see a panicking owner chasing after it. Well, it does take the occasional glance at some bench with some guy so you guess that he’s letting his dog run around for a little bit.

It's really fluffy, just looking at it makes you want to pick it up and run off, you can already imagine what it would be like to stick your face into it.

A samoyed, you think, you’ve never seen one in real life before.

As you’re mentally beaming ‘pst pst pst’ towards it in an attempt to get it to come closer, it looks up to meet your gaze with those beady dark eyes and starts to bound over. The sheer and sudden sense of fear that fills you is indescribable, once more snapping your focus back to who you’re praying is the owner only to find zero goddamn reaction! Buddy! Your dog is fucking running away!

And yet all you can do is watch in abject horror as this living cloud runs all the way up to your feet, obediently sitting in front of you as it pants and cocks its head. Ahh, but when it looks at you like that, so smiley and happy and innocent…

Well, you can’t say you didn’t try. If this is heaven's response for your horrid hand, then you’ll take it, happily if you may add.

Bringing a hand to its head, you tentatively give it a rub. It's so soft, oh it's so soft you can’t even believe it's possible for a dog to be so soft.

“Hiii, did you smell something?” Your voice pitches higher instinctively, almost cartoonishly so.

The dog leans into your touch, pressing its nose into your wrist and sniffing along the length of your arm. As it does so, you notice how hard its tail is wagging, like it's about to take off from sheer excitement. Still no collar, maybe its owner are those people who don’t believe in collars?

“Little boy– are you a boy?” Your eyes crinkle as you coo, hand migrating to its soft body to stroke along a patch.

For a moment, it—he— stops his greeting to cock his head once more, then nods. It's a quick motion but you’ll take it for an answer, especially since you don’t think it’d be very polite to check the other way.

A hum of surprise leaves your lips, “So smart!”

His tail wags harder, and that smiley expression greets you back ten times brighter than before. Too bright! Too bright!

He lifts a paw onto your lap, as if asking for permission to climb up, and though the rational part of your brain says that letting a stranger’s dog climb all over you isn’t a good idea, that part shrinks in the face of such a good boy. So you let him, watching as this living cloud climbs up onto the bench to lay on your lap. Cautiously, he rests his head on your thigh and stares at you, body going entirely limp.

Bad idea sure, the weather is like living in the ass crack of hell but dog. There’s a dog on your lap and he is looking at you with those kind, innocent eyes and you swear to yourself that you could have a heat stroke right this very moment and you would still let him lay on top of you.

You place your hand on his head again, thumb finding the dip between his brows to stroke, “You’re so smart you know?” His tail is wagging again, lightly tapping against your bag as he closes his eyes. To call once more, the thought doesn’t even have the time to register before it falls from your lips once more, “Little boy.”

As your music plays in your ears and the soft breathing of your new companion hums in the background, something in your chest tightens. It's an odd feeling, one that you’re certain predates something but you just can’t place your finger on it. Nevertheless, you ignore it and continue petting him, he’s such a good boy, it’d be a shame to stop.

Something drips into the mass of snow white fur, then another. Instinctually, you look up to check for a passing bird but find nothing, and no rain falls onto your skin. Warmth streams down your face and when you reach for, embarrassingly, all you find is your own tears.

Crying? Seriously? Crying just because a dog came up to you and wanted to be with you?

Removing your glasses once more, you futilely wipe away your salty grief with your free hand, and when that doesn’t work (of course it doesn’t, you’ve never been a particularly clean crier), you settle for both of your hands.

He notices, perhaps far earlier than you realised because you now find said fluffy cloud removing himself from your lap, sitting upright to nose at your hands and face with a curiosity only animals can really pull off.

“Sorry,” Your voice cracks, sniffling your snot as you let him push past your hands, a smile already pulling at your lips upon his insistence. Absolutely helpless in the face of such urging, you put your hands down only for him to start licking at your jaw, that familiar dog smell filling your senses. Another stray tear squeezes past, trailing down your cheeks to exactly where he’s licking, inadvertently lapping it up. Moving your head away, you laugh when he only whines at your moving away, “It’s dirty!”

With that, you take the chance to glance at your watch, noting the long hand dangerously close to 1’o o'clock. You were born to pet dogs and be silly, not stare at data sheets and nonsense equations. And yet, the allure of money is far too tempting to resist so you must.

Softly, you place a hand on his head once more, giving him one last pet before sighing, “I need to go to my class.”

The saying puppy-dog eyes never really made sense to you, despite owning two dogs, but the look this one gives you, the sheer urging and aggrieved pleading, it’s too much. He even whines a little bit, makes that sad ‘woo’ noise and presses against you in all its fluffy glory.

“I know, I know but I have to go.”

Loosely wrapping an arm around him, you press a chaste kiss to his forehead, an act that seems to appease him as the heart-tugging mewling stops almost instantly, wide eyes staring at you as his tail starts to wag rapidly again. Your dad would say he’s ready to take off with how fast he’s wagging it.

As you heft your bag back onto your shoulders, you smile, “Be good, okay? Your owner must be so worried with you gone so long.”

As if he could understand you, he nods, another quick act you’ll take as an answer. There’s an expectant glimmer in his eyes, the way he cocks his head and blinks those beady dark eyes. You can tell what he wants, you already knew the moment he sat himself upright on the bench.

Helplessly, all you can do is laugh, feel the corner of your eyes crinkle as you coo, “Good boy.”

At that, this bundle of energetic joy smiles. Head-empty and blissfully living in the present, he smiles with such joy that you can’t help the one that stays on your lips.

Yeah, you were right. Half your problems really can be solved by petting a dog.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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irachki · 24 days ago

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cuetes

pairing: simon 'ghost' riley x latina!reader warnings: canon compliant violence. no beta so whatev a/n: i wrote this for @hahaifolded after we were talking about the lack of good latino representation in the fandom. hope you like it folded 🥺💕

There is something to be said about how easily Simon Riley can be bribed. Off the field, of course. He’d never put his team at risk on the field.

But with his third tamal in hand and the half drunk jarrito next to his elbow, Rudy can see how little it takes to sway him. He doesn’t get to sit with the realization too long before another body steps into the doorway.

“Who brought the ghost?” You lean your shoulder against the doorframe as you survey the stranger that’s sat in the midst of all your family members.

Rudy snorts, the unintentional pun missed on your part, while he shrugs. “You know me, always catching strays.”

Your gaze shoots over to Rudy and you raise an eyebrow, “Stray?” The incredulous tone of your voice is amplified by the once over you give Simon. “Aren’t strays supposed to be scrawny? Hanging on by a thread, pure skin and bone? He seems to be real well fed.”

Rudy shakes his head, laughter carries in his voice, “Well SAS does a pretty good job of keeping their boys working at full throttle.”

You shift, slightly, but enough for your uncle to see the way your body loses some of it’s ease.

“SAS? What are the brits doing on Mexican soil? They never venture this deep into latam.”

He grimaces, one of his hands sliding out of his pocket to rub across the face, “You know I can’t tell you that Mechas.”

You roll your eyes before turning from the party and trudging further into the orange colored kitchen, “And when the hell has that stopped you from telling me about what’s happening.”

“It’s different this time mija. We’re dealing with unprecedented circumstances.”

“Unprecedented?” Your hands grip the edge of the ceramic tile, white and blue cover the kitchen island that separate you and your uncle, “You had no problem telling me about the routes the mareros setup but you have a problem with this?”

“Mechas.”

Whatever Rudy is looking to say next is left unsaid as the pale stranger ducks into your grandmother’s kitchen. Despite the doorframe being a bit too small for him he has no problem standing at full height in the room. The home fitted with raised ceilings to allow for hotter air to rise and helping with the circulation of air during the heat waves.

He looks out of place in the room. In this whole ordeal, really. Family had travelled from all corners of the continent to gather at the matriarchal home, bringing with them the different flavors of Spanish. It made the English speakers scarce, and those who were there were easier to spot, especially with an accent that’s not heard around Las Almas often.

Your eyes narrow, eyebrows drawing together, “What are you doing here?”

Simon’s eyes meet Rudy’s before they’re on you again, “Eating.”

If it’s an attempt at a joke it falls flat, annoying you further.

“If this is what the SAS considers their best I worry for the state of that island.” You scoff and turn around towards the pot holding the warm atole.

You focus on pouring yourself a cup of the warm liquid, missing the look exchanged between the two men. The creases around Rudy’s eyes deepen as his worrisome gaze settles on you.

Simon can’t help the clench he feels in his gut at the sight. He’s thankful there’s no one to worry for him the way you worry for your uncle. He wonders for a split second if Rudy can feel the weight of your worries on the field. A constant weight and anchor pulling him back to this house. To his family.

“Does Yaya know?”

“She doesn’t need to know my every move Mechas.”

Your back is still turned to him but he can still see you shaking your head, “Foreigners mean trouble. Yaya knows that better than anyone. So either you told her outright or you let her connect the dots himself by bringing him here.”

You turn, not bothering to look at either of them as you cross the kitchen in search of a spoon. Simon follows your movements across the kitchen, keeping Rudy in his peripheral as he observes the tightness in your shoulders.

“Mechas,” Rudy starts but he doesn’t get far before your glare cuts him off.

“Stop.” You place your cup down on the island with force. The liquid sloshes around the cup, circling the edge of the cup as if deciding if it wishes to spill. In the end it doesn’t, settling into itself again as the energy disperses.

“Don’t give me some bullshit promise you’re not even sure you can keep. Don’t tell me you’re coming back if there’s even a possibility you won’t.”

Simon’s been in Las Almas for a short amount of time, but he knows Rudy. Trusts this man with his life, he’s saved it a few times already. So it’s easy to follow the minuscule reactions of hurt at your words. He knows empty promises are one of the only things that keeps a soldier going. The belief that they’ll be able to make good on those promises.

No matter how many times others aren’t able to.

“I’ll bring him back.” The words slip out before he understands what he’s telling you. An idiotic thing to promise someone who he just now met.

You’re thinking much of the same if the way you glare at him is anything to go by.

“And who are you to promise anything to me?” The softness of your face is deceptive to the bite of your tongue. Simon has heard worse from men bigger than him, meaner, and yet your words slice at him the way a blade slices at skin. Quick, deep.

There’s molasses dripping down his throat, choking him, his words stick to it.

You scoff, “Your words are no good to me.”

Rudy leaves him no room to respond, stepping in and attempting to mitigate your concern. None of the words Rudy says tamp the fury in your eyes or the strange tight sensation Simon feels between his ribs.

Bringing Rudy back to you seems like the only solution for both.

—

The stranger brings Rudy back. Bruised, battered, and bloodied but alive. And in the end that’s all that matters.

There’s no words spoken between the three of you, a heavy silence fills the kitchen as you get to work on cleaning up your uncle. You pull rags from cabinets and fill shallow pails with cool water to tend to wounds. It’s a silent endeavor, only the straining of the rags filling the room with sound. You don’t know how long you tend to your uncle for, but by the time you turn to face his strange companion his water is murky too.

Rudy must have told him the rules of Yaya’s home because there’s no trace of military gear on him. The only evidence of the violence he’s experienced is the dark stain on his shirt. Whatever liquid soaked into the shirt darkens the black cotton even more. His jeans are caked in the familiar light brown color of the soil around Las Almas.

You stop the analysis as soon as you feel the bile rise in the back of your throat.

Instead, you busy yourself with grabbing both batches of murky water to drain out in the pila outside. You don’t have the energy to talk to your uncle right now, much less deal with the look he reserves for you when he comes back from missions. You just lather up the rags with zote and scrub them against the ribbed cement.

The water runs red for sometime before it slowly morphs to pink and then a slight cloudy view, until finally it’s clear. The hens cluck around you, Chancho also waddles nearby to investigate your movements as you wash.

You’re too focused on washing and not trying to think that you miss the stranger stepping out into the backyard with you. The hens don’t scare off, instead they cluck at him, winding themselves between his legs as they inspect him. Chancho does the same, slowly approaching him and sniffing around before the spotted pig decides there’s nothing important for him there.

“Questioning is the family trait then, yeah?” His voice is low, raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in days. Hasn’t had a drop of water in weeks.

You spare him a glance, not wanting to look at him for long, when his face catches your attention.

No new wounds, plenty of old ones, but the area around his eyes is covered in black. Giving him the look of a child with face paint on him. Instinctually, you wring the rag before stepping to him and starting to blot away at the black.

Whatever he’d come out to do is put on the back burner as he freezes at your movements. He barely breathes, eyes focusing on the focused look on your face as you drag the multicolored towel across his cheekbones. You don’t ask for permission as you gingerly take his jaw into your hand, moving his head every which way to get the eyeblack off of him.

“Is being pushy a family trait too?”

You scowl at him, the grip on his jaw tightening, “Is that what this is to you Europeans? We call it hospitality out here.”

“Invading someone’s personal space?”

“Taking care of someone’s son.”

He knows you don’t know anything about him, let alone the tragedy that was Manchester, but the words still manage to dislodge something in him. The idea that kind hands and homes are offered to children, no matter who they are.

He tucks that away to sit with in the future. Not now.

Now he focuses on the feel of your hands against the scruff on his jaw.

–

You’re on the outskirts of the room watching the conversation that swirls around the big wooden table. The extended that was local had gathered at Yaya’s to discuss El Sin Nombre’s capture.

It was a pointless conversation that you had no interest participating in. Win or not, the work was pointless. One narco falls, a vacuum opens up, another takes their place. Tale as old as time, something the Mexican government surely wont fix with this singular capture.

Simon is next to you, sitting silently as the low conversation fills the rest of the room. He’s watching the table while you stare out the window at the stray dogs circling the street. It takes them a minute to find the food you’ve left for them but when they finally do you make a happy noise.

“Not interested in the familial debrief?”

You snort at his question, not even bothering to look at him directly, “This family has lived through the capture of dozens of narcos. I already know how this conversation goes.”

Simon doesn’t respond, just shifts his attention to you while you continue to pay him no mind.

“Honestly would be cheaper if you would stay longer to come and catch the next one. Saves you a flight.”

“This your way of asking me to stick around?”

You can’t help the noise you make at that, “If you stick around here longer than you need to I don’t think you’ll be of any good service to the force. I hear men incapacitated by the heat don’t do well.”

He huffs out a laugh, bringing the Modelo up to his lips for a swig. The cool malty liquid cuts through the heat that seems to have invaded his mouth, much like the rest of the city. He glances around the quaint family home, heat pressing into him in a way that never has before, and realizes just how deep Las Almas has sunk it’s claws into him.

He spares you a glance, still engrossed in the activities of the strays, and studies you for a second. Your body rests against the cushions, not at ease but not tense. Always alert, he thinks to himself. The same way he is back home. Never letting his guard down, assured in his own abilities, but never wanting to get caught off guard. It’s how he’s been living his whole life.

You let out a small sigh, cheek pressing into the cushion, the pressure of your cheek pushing out your lips just a bit.

He takes another drink.

Yeah. He can stick around for a little more

#ki writes #in the midst of everything that is going on it's more important for me to portray my latina readers as complex as possible #we are not stereotypes #we have incredibly diverse cultures that we carry with us everywhere #anyways i started writing this when i saw a piece where someone leaned so hard into the stereotypes i feel like we regressed thirty years #so i came to set this shit straight #ANYWAYS #okie dokie general tags teehee #ghost x reader #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #latina!reader

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girlofthesunxoxo · 2 months ago

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kiss, kiss, kiss him | ethan landry

synopsis : a boy who doesn’t know how beautiful he is and a girl who is more than willing to tell him how beautiful he is to her. but beneath every soft-spoken word, he carries a truth he cannot speak: you’re the only thing keeping him human.

note : oh my gosh i haven’t posted in a while, i know i know !! but i think i made up for it with this because this might be one of my favorite works :P

includes : tinyyy bit of angst, fluff galore and a little kissy, obviously.

words : 2.5k

••••••••••••****•••••••••••

ethan landry would be the death of you.

you were definitely certain about that. or he would be your reason to live, but you didn’t really want to delve deeper into that part of yourself that was much too tender and terrifying to touch for too long.

but the reason you thought ethan would very well be the death of you was because he was sitting right beside you, reading from his econ textbook and he looked breathtaking. the kind of beautiful that made your heart ache with a wanting to care for him. to be his. for him to be yours.

like you couldn’t believe that was even possible.

the sunlight from the window draped his figure in a warm hue of golden yellow like a glowing halo. the golden light kissed and caressed the curve of his cheek and tangled in his hair while he bit his lip, trying to concentrate on the words that were starting to blur together.

you probably looked like an idiot with flushed cheeks and pupils slightly blown out when you should have been studying for the upcoming econ test but you could not care less about that when this beautiful being was right in front of you.

too enraptured by your admiration with the curly-headed boy, you didn’t notice the way he was taking small glances at you — each one leaving a blush blooming brighter across his cheeks.

the only thing you could think about was how kissing him would cure you of all problems you ever had. got a bad grade on a test ? a kiss would fix it. your car got a flat tire in the pouring rain ? one kiss and the world makes sense again.

in love with the boy in front of you whose smile could knock the breath out of you ? god, kiss kiss, kiss, him.

the feeling should have scared you, it was reckless and ridiculous. but in this moment, with his knee brushing yours and the sunlight catching in his lashes, it felt like the most comforting and logical thought you’ve ever had.

••••**••••

ethan was trying to read. really, he was.

but he felt as though the words on the page were in some foreign language — his brain kept stuttering, stalling, spinning in circles around you.

the way your leg brushed his, just barely, and didn’t move away. the way you looked at him like he was something precious, the way your lips parted like you were about to say something but thought against it.

it was maddening.

he told himself to focus. that if he looked at the textbook long enough, the heat in his cheeks would go down and the erratic beating of his heart would stop thundering in his ears.

but then you shifted a bit closer.

god, you’re close.

and all ethan could think of was that maybe if he kissed you, just once, everything would fall into place.

all the chaos in his mind would go quiet.

that maybe you would kiss him back like you meant it, and he wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.

his hand inched forward on the table without meaning to. just close enough to almost touch yours.

just do it, his thoughts whispered.

but he stayed still.

because if he kissed you — really kissed you, there’d be no going back.

and a big part of him, desperately, dangerously, didn’t want to go back.

••••**••••

too caught up in the curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight lit the tips of his curls, you didn’t notice the inner turmoil ethan was going through currently.

“are you even reading ?” ethan murmured, voice low and teasing but a hint of nervousness seeping through you almost missed.

you blinked, dragged out of your reverie. “hm ? oh yeah, totally ! supply and…demand, riveting stuff.”

he chuckled, closing his book halfway. “you’ve been staring at the same page for the past ten minutes.”

you looked down to your textbook, heat rising to your cheeks. “um well maybe i just really like page thirty-eight.”

ethan turned slightly towards you, one elbow propped on the table, chin resting on his hand. “or maybe,” he said softly, eyes meeting yours, “you were staring at something else.”

your breath caught in your throat. the world felt quiet for a moment — too quiet. the kind of stillness that you didn’t want to interrupt. but you did.

you swallowed. “maybe i was.”

his smile was small, almost shy. “you know i was staring too, right ?”

your heart stuttered. you hadn’t expected him to say it, not like that, not so softly, like the truth slipped out before he could even stop it.

but he didn’t take it back.

he was avoiding your eyes now, pretending to read his textbook, his fingers tapping lightly on the page.

restless.

anxious.

you watched the way his jaw tensed, like he was regretting speaking, like maybe the silence that stretched between you was worse than anything you could say.

you leaned in, slightly. voice just above a whisper, “yeah ?”

ethan gulped and gave the smallest of nods, still not looking up. “i mean — yeah, i-i guess. not in a weird way ! i just…” he released a short, nervous breath. “you were staring and i noticed. that’s all.”

you tilted your head, studying him. “that’s not all, though. is it ?”

his hand froze mid-fidget and finally he lifted his gaze to yours, his eyes were wide and uncertain.

“i don’t really know what i’m doing,” he said, so quietly it was barely a breath. “i just know that when you look at me like that, um my brain kind of… stops.”

“look at you like what ?”

“like i’m something… beautiful.”

you frowned at his words, disbelief sprouting in your chest like a nasty bruise, how could he not believe he was something beautiful.

the quiet grace in his voice, the tilt of his smile, the kindness stitched into every glance he gave you.

when the wind curled gently around him, as if it knew him by name. when even silence softened in his presence — the type of quiet that only wrapped itself around the rare, the tender, the good.

he moved through the world unaware of the way it bent to make room for him. as if beauty bloomed not in spite of him, but because of him.

incredulity laced your words, “what ?”

his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, eyes trained on the framed photo of him with flowers in his hair beside your bed like it might offer him something easier than your gaze.

“i just don’t really… think of myself like that,” he said quietly. “beautiful, or whatever.”

you turned toward him, really looking. the soft pink still clinging to his cheeks, the way the fading light caught in his curls. the hesitation in his eyes, like every compliment caught him off guard.

“you know,” you start gently, “the light softens around you.”

he looked up, confused. “what ?”

“the light,” you repeated. “it just… slows down. like it wants to stay, like it knows you’re something worth warming.”

his lips parted, but no words came.

“you are beautiful, ethan. not just in the way you look — though trust me, that alone is unfair,” you chuckled softly. “but in the way you are, the way you listen, the way you…care more than you’ll admit, the way you look at someone like they’re the only thing in the room.”

he blinked at you, stunned into silence.

and then, in the soft quiet that followed, you added. “how could you not believe you’re something beautiful, when even the sun seems to lean closer just to touch you ?”

he let out a shaky breath, eyes glassy with something unspoken.

“you really mean that ?”

you slowly slid your hand over his, a quiet motion wrapped in intention, and felt the tremor run through him the moment your skin touched his. his breath hitched; sharp, soft, like he wasn’t expecting the warmth of you, like the whole world had narrowed to that single point of contact.

your fingers didn’t press, just rested there — a whisper of a promise, a gentle asking. and still, it felt like the loudest thing in the room.

his fingers shifted beneath yours, not pulling away — just moving closer, like they were learning the shape of being wanted.

you squeezed his hand. “i don’t say things i don’t mean.”

ethan still hadn’t looked away, like he was caught in the orbit of your words and didn’t quite know how to step free.

he breathed out a laugh, quiet and shaky. “you talk like the world is softer than it really is.”

you tilted your head, voice low. “no, i just talk like you make it softer.”

he stilled, breath catching between disbelief and wonder, as if no one had ever told him that before — that softness could come from him, that maybe the warmth you saw wasn’t imagined.

the wind stirred gently around you, as if the world itself had paused to listen.

his eyes fluttered shut for a second, like he needed to protect himself from the weight of that. or let it sink in without breaking him.

“no one’s ever said things like that to me before,” he murmured.

you smiled, achingly fond. “then they weren’t looking at you properly.”

he laughed but it cracked in the middle, like he didn’t know whether to smile or cry. “you’re kind of ruining me, you know that ?” his voice raw around the edges.

you leaned a little closer, voice like a secret. “good. let it ruin you, let it unravel everything that made you think you weren’t enough.”

“i could get used to you saying things like that.” he said, barely above a breath.

you reached up slowly, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw like a question and a promise all at once. “then stay close to me. i’ve got a thousand more, all for you.”

he looked down at your hands, his thumb caressing yours, over and over like it was grounding him. his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “you scare me.”

you didn’t flinch. “why ?”

“because i want this. you.” he gulped, throat bobbing. “and i’ve never wanted something that felt so…real.”

you brought your forehead gently to his, the two of you breathing the same breath. quiet and close like the universe had folded in around this one tiny pocket of time.

“i’m right here,” you whispered. “you don’t have to be afraid of something that’s already yours. always has been yours.”

his eyes fluttered shut.

a trembling exhale.

the air between you felt delicate — like spun glass would shatter if either of you breathed too deeply.

but when ethan opened his eyes, you saw it.

all of it.

the fear, yes. but also, the wonder.

the softness.

that slow, rising ache that had nowhere to go but toward you.

your forehead still rested against his, the space between you filled with nothing but the thudding of two hearts learning to beat at the same time.

“i’m going to kiss you now.” he said, barely audible.

it wasnt a question or a demand.

no, it was a promise.

one you had been waiting to hear for what felt like forever.

“please,” you whispered.

and he did. he finally did.

slowly and gently. as if your lips were something sacred, something he wanted to memorize and not just touch.

his hand cupped your jaw, tentatively at first — like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this.

but the moment your plush lips met his, all that carefulness dissolved into certainty.

his thumb trembling slightly as it brushed the edge of your cheek, like he was solidifying the fact that you were real, here and his, if only for this moment.

you kissed him back with the kind of gentleness that said: i’ve wanted this for so long. i’ve waited. i’m not going anywhere.

and ethan melted into it — into you, with a quiet sound in the back of his throat like relief and wonder woven together.

your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer to you, so much so that your bodies were practically molded into one. anchoring yourself to him as your lips moved together in a rhythm that felt instinctive, known.

you finally pulled back, breath mingling in the sacred space created between you. his eyes stayed close for a beat, as if he were still in the middle of a dream.

you smiled, forehead pressed to his. “told you, nothing to be afraid of.”

he opened his eyes, dazed and glowing, like they’d been lit with something only you could have sparked. they were glassy with awe, wide and unguarded — as if the kiss unraveled every wall he didn’t know he built.

and when he spoke, his voice quivered. “i think you’ve already ruined me.”

you kissed the corner of his mouth, lips brushing like a promise. “then we’ll be ruined together.”

he smiled — a small, disbelieving smile people wear when they realize they’re safe in someone else’s hands.

he let out a slow breath. “that…” his voice low, “felt like something i’m going to think about for the rest of my life.”

you beamed, soft and amazed. “it’s a good thing you won’t have to.”

he blinked at you, confused. “what do you mean ?”

you reached up, playing with a curl of his hair, your fingers lingering like they were memorizing him all over again. “i mean, im right here. you don’t have to just remember it, you get to live it.”

his face crumpled just slightly from the fragile joy that stings behind the eyes. “you make everything feel like poetry.”

you laughed, breath catching in your chest. “maybe. or maybe you’re just someone worth writing poems about.”

he leaned in again, just enough to press a kiss to your cheek — softly, but just as full.

when he pulled back to see your twinkling gaze upon him, he didn’t know what he did to deserve such a loving stare, all for him.

“i don’t know what i did to deserve you…” he started. “i must’ve been amazing in all of my past lives.”

you giggled, “i’m sure you had me in all of your past lives as well.” your voice trembling with your next admission. “i’m glad we found each other again in this life.”

ethan blushed and nodded, agreeing with your sweet sentiment and pulled back into another kiss. but a nagging part in his brain was telling him he didn’t deserve this. you.

after all, he was the one killing all of your friends.

#ethan landry #scream 6 #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry x you #fanfiction #angst #fluff #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #chad meeks martin #mindy meeks martin #SoundCloud #ethan landry x y/n #ethan landry fluff #scream vi

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mrchiipchrome · 1 year ago

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The Museum

W.C. - 5.2 k

this is so the 'pookie looks absolutely fire' tiktok couple coded

thank you to the anon that requested this, much love to you:)

-------------

The skittles made a crunching sound as your molars bit down on them, it was an every day snack for you, tasting the rainbow more often than not. It was a relatively new habit, but when your ex had broken up with you, you promised yourself to become a better person.

It obviously had to be you who had something wrong with them, otherwise she wouldn’t have fallen in love with someone else and out of love with you. Quitting smoking was the first thing on your agenda, hence the skittles.

The next thing was to get away from the small southern town in Texas, move so far away that you left the country entirely. The only thing you’d taken with you on the plane was a carryon with 2 changes of clothes, your cowboy hat and a dream of bettering your life.

The third thing you bettered was your health, going out for a run every morning through the streets of London, going to the gym after work, doing push-ups before bed. It worked wonders, the tips you got from the ladies at the bar where you worked were simply incredible.

The fourth thing you wanted to improve was your cultural knowledge, the exact reason why you were standing in the middle of a museum, old renaissance paintings in every corner of the large room. It was something you appreciated, none of that modern bullshit where people just taped a banana to a canvas and called it art, it was back from when people actually painted.

Your hand slipped down your body into your jacket pocket, fetching another piece of candy, although a voice speaking up from your right startled you nearly enough for you to drop it back into the bag.

“You’re not supposed to eat in museums, you know?” The woman had a foreign dialect, just like you. You guessed it was from somewhere in the middle of Europe, maybe Germany or any of the neighboring countries.

“It’s not a problem if you don’t tell on me, no one has to know.” She seems just as startled by your accent as you were by her speaking to you, her cheeks dusted with a light pink at the wink you sent her.

“What are you going to do if I tell them? Take me back to your ranch on your horse?” The mystery woman teases, obviously making fun of the accent and the cowboy hat sitting perched on your head. In response you laugh under your breath, shaking your head in amusement.

“I’m afraid that I left the ranch back in Texas, Miss. All I have here is a small one bedroom apartment.” She looks up at you through the side of her eye, her half smile distracting you more than you’d like to admit. Her brows knit together when she notices a security guard eying the two of you curiously and her elbow digs into your ribs when you once again reach for the skittles in your pocket.

“Nice hat, my friend would be jealous.” You nod in agreement, plucking the stetson off your head and turning it around in your hand. In a brief moment of stupidity, you place the cowboy hat on the pretty stranger’s head, it falling down the front of her face to cover her eyes. It’s frankly adorable, the way she brings her hand up to push it back to the crown of her head.

The reassuring smile on her face tells you that she approves of your action, a relief to your entire being. She takes her phone out of her back pocket, turning it on and snapping a picture of you both, the cowboy hat still perched on top of her head.

In response, you snap a picture of her alone, the woman posing like a cowboy would for you. She was going to be the wallpaper of your phone for a while, even though you didn’t even know her name.

“So, do you have a name or am I just going to have to call you mine?” The cheesy pickup line just slips out, not at all consciously, it was like instinct took over, a pretty girl was to be flirted with.

“I wouldn’t mind being called yours, but for now you can call me Lia.” The woman doesn’t seem uncomfortable by your advances, in fact she embraces them, teasing smile telling you that she found it amusing how worried you got over a simple pickup line.

“Lia, a beautiful name for an even more gorgeous girl.” She gains her pink tint back, the compliment likely the cause of her blush. It wasn’t like she never got complimented, it was just the attractive zing your accent put over the words that made them feel more sincere.

“And how about you? A name attached to that pretty face?” Now it was your turn to blush at the other woman’s words, her lips splitting into a full toothed smile.

“Y/n. Y/n Y/l/n.” You imitate Bond to introduce yourself, sticking your hand out for her to take, a firm handshake and the tip of an imaginary hat letting her know who exactly it is you are.

“Good to know my future last name.” She winks at you and the blush that’s already covering your face deepens significantly. The insinuation that you were to marry the girl beside you too much for your poor little heart to take.

She starts to walk away from you and towards another section of the room, looking back over her shoulder when she realizes that you weren’t right beside her, walking. Waving her hand in a “come here” motion, you quickly catch up with the older woman.

“So, why skittles? Is there not any other sweet you’d rather have?” She asks as you match her slow rhythm of steps, your hands shoved in the pockets of your coat with your arms forming loops. Lia threads one of her arms through yours, leaning her head on your shoulder, standing still all of a sudden to look at a painting. It didn’t feel like you’d just met, like you’d just introduced yourselves to one another, it felt like you’d known each other for decades, easily slipping into being comfortable with each other.

You gaze at her as she looks at the painting, making sure to map out all her gorgeous features and commit them to memory. She was like a breath of fresh air in a world of polluted oxygen.

“First of all it’s called candy, not sweets, candy. Secondly, they’re amazing for when you want to stop smoking.” Her cheek smushes against your shoulder as she turns her head to look up at you, her eyebrows scrunched together adorably.

“You were a smoker?” You feel the strong urge to place a peck atop her lips, soft and warm against your own. But in the end you resist, you’d only just met the woman for god’s sake, you don’t want to make her uncomfortable. Her eyes hold so many emotions that you just can’t read.

“Yeah, only for about a year. My ex stressed me out so much that I felt it was the easiest way to deal with it. But when she broke up with me, I decided to get my life back together, moved here, got a job at a bar and that’s it. That’s why I’m here.” Lia listens intensively at the story you’re telling her, the way she looks at you suggests that she’s hanging off your every last syllable.

“So no more smoking at all for you?” You puff your chest up, proudly displaying the grin on your face and your now discolored tongue. Lia looks on in amusement at your actions, a grin that could light up an opera house on her face.

“Nope, I’m never picking up a cigarette again.” The amusement turns into a sort of profound proud feeling, a feeling that she definitely shouldn’t be feeling for what is practically a stranger. A stranger that in the matter of a mere hour had worked their way into her heart and made themselves home.

“Good, I’m really happy for you.” The softened look on Lia’s face makes you blush, it was the way most people looked at their loved ones. You couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to be one of her loved ones, how it would feel to see her first thing in the morning, to gaze into her tentative eyes and try to read her like a book just because you know exactly how it is she acts, how she feels at that exact moment, what she thinks.

At your faraway look Lia nudges you in the ribs, giggling at the embarrassed expression that occupies your face. Her giggle could only be described as a ray of sunlight, lighting the glum room up in seconds, giving it a golden glow.

The older woman doesn’t miss the fondness in your gaze as you watch her laugh, your own lips splitting into a smile and soon after a loud belly laugh bubbles up in your chest, welling out of your mouth like water out a dam.

Only moments later the both of you are doubled over in laughter, tears slipping down your cheeks and arms crossed over your stomachs. Some scattered guests give you two dirty looks, as if you were peasants in a house full of royals, but they are counter effective because it only makes you and Lia laugh harder.

The security guard from earlier approaches you both as you drop down to the floor with a loud thump, Lia bursting out into an entire new fit of laughter as you try to catch your breath.

“Y/n, I’ve already let you get away with a lot today but this is your last strike. Up you get, I’ll escort you and your lady companion to the exit.” He speaks through his thick mustache, his round beer gut bobbing up and down with every word like he needed every fat covered muscle of his stomach to get the words out.

Small giggles escape you both as Lia and you are led out of the building by a firm grip around both of your arms. You both watch in amusement as the fat man gets winded walking back up the stairs he just led you down, bending over for a brief second at the top before disappearing back behind the door.

“So, I take it you know the security guard then?” She sounds a little out of breath as she speaks to you, flyaways sticking out of her bun, your hand itches to reach up and smooth them out, undo her bun and run your fingers through her hair. But you don’t.

“Yeah, he’s my regular. Comes in every day and buys a pint after work, a good friend of mine he is. He lets me get away with eatin’ in there every time I come.” You stand right in front of the brunette, hands again in your pockets as you smile at her tentatively. Her hand comes up to rub at your arm, and you feel as though you were going to pass out at any moment, the electric feeling of her ring covered fingers touching your arm overwhelming in a good way.

“Ah, a museum nepo baby then.” You can tell that she’s joking by the way her eyebrows raise all the way up to her hairline, and you imitate her by doing the same thing. Another fit of giggles ensues, Lia looking directly into your eyes, holding eye contact for a prolonged amount of time.

It makes you nervous, her somewhat challenging gaze locking on your face for a moment longer than necessary. When she grasps your hands in hers you finally look back at her, meeting her tender gaze with your own.

“I really enjoyed today, I was hoping we could do it again sometime.” The older woman looks at you sheepishly, nearly nervously. You’re mesmerized by her gorgeous simplicity, simple smile grazing her lips as you nod, a recognisable warmth behind the hug she gives you, the quick kiss she places on your cheek haphazardly before walking away, not looking back to see your rose tinted cheeks.

It’s only when Lia has disappeared far behind the horizon that you realize that you have no way to contact her AND that she essentially got away with your favorite cowboy hat. You aren’t as distraught about your hat as you are about not getting her number, it was a dumbass move from you.

You drag your feet all the way back to your apartment, not knowing that only moments after you left the museum, the girl of your dreams ran back all the way to get your number. And like you, she dragged her feet all the way back to her apartment, sulking and questioning her own intelligence.

Arriving at the bar that evening was strange, you felt almost empty without the girl you’d met earlier that day, no light brown cowboy hat perched atop your head nor a beaming smile. It was weird to everyone around you, you always had that damned hat on, but now it was a completely different one, black with a few white accents.

“What happened to you? It looks like someone ran over your dog.” Your co-worker and best friend Marla asks, placing her hand on your shoulder softly as if you were to break if she did it any harder. Shaking your head, your other friend and co-bartender Jason comes up to rub your back softly, the comfort from both of your best friends loosening you up significantly and soon after you spill everything that had happened up to that point.

They were both smirking at you when you finished up the story, knowing that despite only just meeting the woman in the museum you were already in love.

“So do you have a picture of this goddess who’s making you drop to your knees?” Marla asks you, looking knowingly at your other best friend, who in return wiggles his eyebrows at her. You knew something would happen between them soon, and you’d rather be in hell than to watch it.

“Yeah, just give me a quick sec.” Pulling out your phone, you quickly unlock it and enter the photo app, not needing to scroll as the most recent photo was of her, Lia.

“Girl, are you fucking with me?” You look at the dark skinned girl in confusion, her eyes widening as she realizes that you had no fucking clue who it was you had met. She looks to her ‘boyfriend’ quickly in shock, who looks back at her equally appalled.

“Are you telling me you don’t recognise her?” The moment you shake your head is when the green eyed boy facepalms, not believing your stupidity. “Not at all? You haven’t seen her before.” When you once again shake your head the man sighs in disappointment, all faith in your intelligence practically gone.

“Girl. That is Lia Wälti, you know one of the best midfielders in the country? Arsenal Women’s player.” Now it’s your turn to look shocked, not at all knowing that she was a footballer. All the times you’d gone over to Marla’s house to watch footy, she’d probably been injured.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I didn’t even recognise her.” You lean against the door, sliding your body down until you’re sitting flush on the floor, head in your hands. Jason places his hand on your shoulder, smiling softly at you as he tries to reassure your overwhelmed mind.

“Hey, man, it was probably a good thing that you didn’t recognise her. She knows that you’re not some crazed fan trying to kill her, eh?” Marla’s hand plucks your cowboy hat from your head and runs her fingers through your hair, your shared shift started in mere minutes and yet they were there, comforting you.

“I’m okay, just a bit shell shocked.” They both laugh, pulling you up by your hands and bringing you into a group hug, patting your back before Marla gives you your hat back, smacking both you and Jason’s asses before disappearing out to her office.

“You know, we have an extra ticket to the Arsenal game on Sunday, so I mean if you want to see her again then you’re welcome to join.” You smile at the man’s kindness, telling him that you’ll definitely take him up on his offer. You didn’t have a shift at the bar either way that day so spending it looking for your … well you didn’t really know what it was she is to you. All you know is that you wanted to see her again.

Two days later you find yourself sitting as close to the pitch as you possibly can, waiting for the North London derby to start.

Lia is in the starting lineup, looking determined as she waits for the whistle signaling the start of the game to sound. The shrill noise cuts through the air and the game starts.

It’s physical right from the start, loads of pushing and shoving coming from both sides, red and white. There are a few times where you nearly jump to your feet as Lia gets pushed but the fact that your friends sat there right beside you made you choose not to.

At half time the score is the same as the beginning, nil-nil. Despite not knowing much about football you join in on analyzing the first half of the game, mentioning all the times Lia went down. Marla makes some ‘innocent’ comments about how you’d much rather have her ‘go down’ somewhere else. The blush that overtakes your face is enough for you to blend in with your jersey, the red of the Arsenal shirt the same shade as your face.

When the second half starts, you’re basically on your feet all the way through, cheering loudly when Alessia scores, meaning that the gunners were up one-nil.

It’s particularly hilarious when Lia finally notices you, a pause in the game meaning that she had the time to look around at the fully packed Emirates Stadium. When those eyes you love to gaze into meet yours for the first time since Friday, her face split open in a smile, a smile reaching all the way up to her eyes.

It looks like she has to physically restrain herself so that she doesn’t run over to you, her body shaking slightly as she calmly inches her way towards you, the cheers of the fans around you becoming louder as the player comes closer. Lia tunes them all out though as she looks at you, the only thing cutting through her trance being the whistle signaling the freekick being awarded.

Lia looks back towards you as she walks in the direction of the group of players and you wink at her, even though she’s far away it seems like she saw it, the deep tint of red dusting her face definitely more than exertion from the game.

When the three loud whistles sound throughout the arena, it explodes in cheers as Arsenal manage to keep their one-nil lead and in doing so make London red again. But you don’t even acknowledge the win when there’s a speeding Lia Wälti heading straight in your direction.

She only starts to slow down as she reaches the barrier which separates the fans from the pitch and players, with you standing up behind it to watch her come closer and closer with every quick step she takes.

Lia throws her arms around your torso when she comes close enough, the way that she had been longing for your touch had been driving her crazy in the days since you first met. She also knew that it wasn’t smart to do it all out in the open, fans and professionals alike were probably going to know everything about you within a few days. You didn’t seem to mind though, content with having her in your arms again.

Pulling away from her, you quickly take her face in your hands, looking her over to see if her face was scratched up from all the times she’d met the ground in the game.

“Shit, darling, I think you spent more time on the ground in this game than on your feet. You ought to be more careful.” Your southern drawl is especially thick when you speak to her, the worry you’d experienced the entire game bubbling to the surface.

“I’m perfectly fine, I think you’re forgetting that I do this for a living.” She smiles at you reassuringly and you calm down fully, her hand placed on your arm a sure factor of it. Lia’s head turns to your side, looking directly at your friends who both send her starstruck looks.

“Hi, I’m Lia.” The footballer smiles in their direction and they both remain in their seats, completely unmoving. She looks back to you concerned and in response you just laugh, they were apparently not expecting her to actually greet them. “Are they okay?”

“I think they’re just a bit starstruck.” Gesturing towards their gaping mouths, Marla quickly slaps your hand away from her face, biting at the air to show you that she wasn’t afraid to bite.

“Oh okay, well do you think they want anything signed? I can ask the team, or maybe if you want we can go meet them?” Lia sounds unsure of herself, apparently doubting that her first impression on your friends was good.

“I think that they’d love that sweetheart. But judging from all the looks we’re getting from that same team, I do think they want you back.” You glance towards the women gathered in a clung in the middle of the pitch, all of them staring at you and Lia interacting. She sighs at their slightly invasive culture, but alas there wasn’t anything that she could do about it. When you smile and wave at them, you’re thoroughly amused when every single one of them repeats your actions back to you, some in confusion and some in amusement.

“A guard is going to tell you to follow him, just do as he says and we’ll meet again soon.” By that point the stadium was almost empty, everyone wanting to go home and brag about their team’s win over the archrival. So as Lia walks away from you, you’re totally free to stare at her ass, only stopping when Marla slaps your arm harshly.

“Did that just happen?” Jason asks shakily, running his hand down his face in embarrassment.

“You’re damn right it did.” You laugh at their stupid expressions, their embarrassment clear on their faces. “Well look on the bright side, y’all are going to meet the team.” With that their embarrassment turned into excitement, meeting their favourite athletes quickly turning their mood around.

“Y/n Y/l/n? Come with me and take your friends with you.” Walking around the labyrinth of slinging hallways and narrow paths, you appear in front of the locker room in no time, the loud music escaping the door a clear indicator of the Gunners good match.

“Now just wait out here until they come out, they’ll probably be out in a few.” The guard tells you unbothered, not caring at all that he’s leaving people he doesn’t know outside of the locker room.

“Yes sir.” You speak up clearly, mock saluting him as he disappears down the hallway with a sigh.

“I can’t believe that you’re 28, you act like a 12 year old.” Marla tells you jokingly, leading to you pushing her away from you. In the span of a few seconds both you and Marla find yourselves on the floor, engaging in a wrestling match. It only gets broken up when the sound of the door opening echoes through the hallway, both you and your best friend quickly getting on your feet.

“Nah what’s going on here?” A very amused Irish accented voice escapes the player exiting the locker room, one Katie McCabe staring at you and Marla.

“It was her fault.” You point at Marla so as to gesture that it was her who started it, the woman vehemently denying it.

“So I’m guessing you’re Lia’s cowboy then?” Katie completely ignores the blame game currently going on in front of her as she talks to you. Blushing at being called Lia’s, you quickly start to stutter out an answer.

“I- uhm yeah, I think so?” Laughter coming from behind the Irish woman makes you glance in the direction of the sound. Seeing Leah Williamson of all people is not what you expect, a bit starstruck yourself.

“Of course it’s the cowboy you buffoon, who else would wear a cowboy hat in London? You have to tell me where you bought the one Lia brought home, I need a new one. Mylie-moo chewed mine to filth a couple days ago.” Leah throws her arm around your shoulder as if you’d known each other for years, the woman clearly having heard a thing or two about you.

“Oh well I’ll be sure to bring you one next time I go back to Texas, my buddy Carl, he’s 72 and he makes the most gorgeous hats you can imagine. Last time I visited him I made him an instagram page, I’ll send you the link if you want?” You speak enthusiastically with the England captain, her arm still resting around your shoulders casually. Both Marla and Jason are in a conversation with Katie and Lotte, who just got out of the locker room.

“Important question, so answer me truthfully now, do you like country music?” She looks at you skeptically, trying to deduce if you’re being truthful or not. The question itself makes you roll your eyes playfully, but alas it didn’t surprise you. It was widely known that Leah was quite the country fan.

“Ma’am I grew up in Texas, yeah I’m a country fan. I’d be disowned if I wasn’t.” Leah looks at you like you’re her hero, it was clear to you that she accepted you. The hinges of the door squeak as a few other players exit, namely Lia.

“Lia please let me steal her, she’s perfect.” Leah says jokingly, holding onto your arm softly like she was a little kid. Lia looks at her weirdly, but quickly catches on to the joke, walking over to the two of you.

“I know, that’s why I want to keep her.” Lia wraps her arms around your waist tightly, her newly washed hair curling up into adorable curls, head placed on your shoulder.

“Sharing is caring.” Leah is on the verge of laughter as she talks, the statement a shocking one for sure. It was hilarious though so you also had to keep from laughing.

“I mean I wouldn’t mind-” Lia shoots you a mean glare at your half serious words, and even though it was like being glared at by an adorable kitten, Lia already had you wrapped around her finger. “Actually I’m taken so I don’t think that would work.”

All it takes for you all to break character is a shouted ‘WHIPPED’ coming from one of the players watching the interaction like it was a soap opera, the three of you laughing like it was the last thing you’d do.

“Alright, anyone want a drink? Not to brag but I can make a mean cocktail.” The women all cheer as you ask them, everyone rushing out to get into their cars and get to the bar. Just as you’re about to follow them, someone takes hold of your collar, making it so that you can’t go.

Lia looks back when you don’t follow her but you just wave her off, telling her to go on without you. Turning back, you’re met with all the ‘scariest’ Arsenal players, looking like they’re about to beat you up.

“Listen carefully now, because this will only be said once, if you hurt a hair on her head, do anything to hurt her emotionally, if you do anything wrong that makes her sad, we will not hesitate to take your knees.” It’s Katie that speaks, all the others just nodding intimidatingly, glaring at you.

“I’m going to try my best to make her happy, I know that she deserves the world.” They let up the facade of intimidation at your words, patting your back and pushing you in the direction of the car park. The conversation as you all are walking out of the building is pleasant, when you arrive at the parking lot there are just a couple of cars left.

Both of your best friends had left you to carpool with one of the remaining players, Lia called dibs though the second she looked at you, so it was with her you went.

“They weren’t too scary with you right? I know how they can be.” Lia says over the soft music being played from the radio, some Tyler, the Creator song. You look at her face, she was in deep thought and absolutely adorable.

“Nah, it’s like being threatened by a pair of teddy bears. Let’s just say that I’ve had worse shovel talks.” She giggles as you start to tell her about all the weird shovel talks you’d gotten back in Texas, everything from being threatened with Chinese water torture to being hung upside down from a tree for simply speaking to a girl that wasn’t her.

When the bar comes into sight you see that multiple people have parked their cars right in front of it, telling Lia to just park on the curb.

“Y’all are such dickheads.” You laugh, slapping both Marla and Jason’s heads hard, they left you stranded.

“Well you’ve got a girlfriend now who can drive your broke ass.” Marla shoots back, rubbing her head in pain. You roll your eyes at her dramatic actions, the slap wasn’t that hard.

“One-nil to me then, at least I have someone.” The sibling like banter was normal between you two by now, she was your best friend after all.

“C’mon cowboy, let’s sit down for a little.” Lia’s hand rests on your stomach as you both sit down on the booth, the place to sit being suspiciously small, to the point in which Lia had to throw her legs over your lap to get enough space.

It was nice to sit and talk with the team, they were regular people just like anyone else and it made you glad to see them just relax after a match. The atmosphere was calm, so calm in fact that Lia managed to fall asleep on your shoulder, quiet snores escaping her mouth.

Only moments later you fall asleep too, after having fought sleep for as long as possible. Your head rests on top of Lia’s and the girls think it’s absolutely adorable, some of them taking pictures of you both to send to their group chat.

“I knew being friends with her would pay off.” Jason jokes, thinking naïvely that you were fully asleep, getting a few laughs from the girls in the room. They get startled though as you utter a quick;

“Hey!” In protest, everyone soon laughed at your dramatic reaction to his joke.

Who knew that going to the museum would result in you getting a date?

#woso #woso x reader #arsenal wfc #lia walti #lia walti x reader #woso imagines #woso fanfics

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doumadono · 1 year ago

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Synopsis: in a surprising twist orchestrated by Toga Himiko, two antisocial League of Villains members, Dabi and you, find an unexpected connection during an awkward blind date

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

You’ve never been one for socializing. The whole concept of small talk, mingling, and putting yourself out there has always felt foreign to you. After all, socializing was never your strong suit, and you were quite content with your single status. You’ve always preferred the comfort of a good book or the solitude of your thoughts.

But that’s exactly why Toga took it upon herself to organize a blind date for you. She’s always been a bit of a meddler, and apparently, your perpetual singleness was too tempting a problem for her to ignore. “Come on, it’ll be fun!” she had chirped with her usual manic enthusiasm. "Trust me, you'll love him!" Toga had chirped with a mischievous grin. "He's just like you - hates socializing, too!"

And you had no choice but to go along with it, if only to get her to stop pestering you.

Toga had transformed one of the dingy rooms into something that vaguely resembled a romantic setting. There were candles (probably stolen), a table (slightly wobbly), and two chairs (one missing a leg but propped up with a stack of books). It was sweet in its own chaotic way, very much in line with Toga’s personality.

You sat down, fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth, wondering who in the world Toga could have set you up with. She had been annoyingly secretive about the whole thing, dropping hints that only served to confuse you more. For a moment, you wondered if Himiko might have set you up with no one else but Shigaraki himself. The boss was the most antisocial person you’d ever met, which could mean this date would be an absolute nightmare. But there was no backing out now.

The door creaked open, and Dabi walked in.

Your eyes widened in surprise.

Dabi? Of all people?

The blue-flamed villain looked as disinterested as ever, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded with boredom. “Great,” he muttered, not even trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm. “Toga’s matchmaking now.”

You offered a small, awkward smile. “Looks like it.”

Dabi slouched into the chair across from you, and for a moment, the two of you just stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. Finally, he spoke. “So, how did Toga rope you into this?” he asked, his tone as dry as sandpaper.

You shrugged. “She didn’t really give me a choice. And you?”

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Pretty much the same. I guess she thinks we’re both too antisocial for our own good.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “She might be right about that.”

Dabi chuckled, a low, almost menacing sound. “Sounds like her. She loves meddling in other people’s business.”

You nodded, grateful for the small talk. “Yeah, she’s something else.”

Another awkward silence fell over you. You glanced around the room, trying to think of something to say. Your eyes landed on a small stack of books in the corner, and an idea popped into your head. “You like reading?” you asked, nodding towards the books.

Dabi followed your gaze and scoffed. “Not really. I only read articles about how great heroes are supposed to be.”

You blinked in surprise. “Why’s that?”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “So I can read between the lines and find their weak spots. It’s more fun tearing them down when you know their flaws.”

"I saw you reading something about Endeavor earlier," you ventured, trying to sound nonchalant. You were still new, still trying to weave yourself into the fabric of the League without causing too much disruption.

Dabi’s smirk faltered slightly, and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, did ya?”

“Yeah,” you continued, curious. “You were pretty engrossed in it. Do you like Endeavor?”

His eyelid gave a slight twitch, a nearly imperceptible movement, but it was the blue flames dancing over his knuckles that caught your attention. They flickered menacingly as he slowly clenched his hands into fists. "He’s just my main interest," Dabi replied, his voice dripping with a wry amusement that did not reach his eyes. There was something ominously calm about the way he spoke, a laid-back tone that contrasted sharply with the dangerous glint in his gaze.

Looking to shift the heavy atmosphere that his words had conjured, you ventured to a lighter topic, one that might catch him off-guard in a humorous way. “So, you’ve read everything about him, huh? What about fanfiction? Ever dive into that rabbit hole?”

Dabi made a scoffing sound, a dismissive and sharp exhalation that cut through the levity like a knife. His gaze hardened, the blue flames flickering dangerously as if they were an extension of his simmering rage. “I don’t give a fuck about what people write about that scumbag,” he said, his voice cold and scornful. “How they idolize him in the creations of their sick minds,” he continued, his lips twisting into a derisive sneer. “But I’m sure they’re as sick as Todoroki Enji himself. One day, I’m going to destroy that fucker,” Dabi declared, his words not just a promise but a vow, laden with all the intensity of his deep-seated hatred.

After a moment, his fire faded out, and Dabi leaned back in his chair, looking you over. “So, I assume you read when you’re not being forced into awkward dates?”

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to go with honesty. “I read a lot. Mostly horror novels. And I like to cook. It’s calming.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cool, I guess.”

The conversation continued like that, awkward and stilted at first, but slowly easing into something more comfortable. You talked about books and movies, some random stuff like your favorite food types, your mutual disdain for social gatherings, and the absurdity of Toga’s matchmaking efforts.

At one point, Himiko burst into the room with a tray of hastily made snacks, beaming with pride. “How’s it going, lovebirds?”

Dabi shot her a withering look, slowly cocking his eyebrow. “We’re not lovebirds, Toga.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “But it’s going surprisingly well. As you can see, I’m still alive.”

Toga clapped her hands together. “I knew it! You two are perfect for each other. I’m a genius!”

She scampered off, leaving you and Dabi to your conversation.

Despite the unusual setting and the odd circumstances, you found yourself actually enjoying the evening.

Dabi’s dry wit and cynical outlook somehow meshed well with your own reserved nature. Dabi might not be the most conventional date, but there was something about him that intrigued you. And for someone who had always avoided socializing, that was saying something.

“So, how did you end up joining the League?” you asked, munching a jelly bean.

Dabi leaned back, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Wanted to burn the world down, found like-minded people. What about you?”

You shrugged, not wanting to delve too deeply into your past just yet. “Wanted to make a difference in my own way. The heroes… they never really helped people like me.”

Dabi’s eyes glinted with a hint of understanding. “Yeah, they’re all hypocrites.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “What about you, rookie? What do you think of the League so far?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “It’s different. I mean, it’s not what I expected, but in a good way. Everyone’s really passionate about what they believe in.”

Dabi’s gaze softened slightly as he scoffed. “Yeah, we’re a pretty dysfunctional family. But it works somehow.”

“Have you ever thought about what you’ll do after all this?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Dabi shrugged. “No. And I don’t really care. Guess I’m more of a ‘live in the moment’ kind of guy. What about you?”

You took a moment to think. “I’m not sure. I just want to find a place where I belong. Somewhere I can be myself without having to pretend.”

Dabi’s smirk returned. “Sounds like the League’s not a bad fit for you, then.”

"What do you think of Shigaraki as a leader?"

Dabi smirked, slowly stretching his fingers. "He's got vision, I'll give him that. We might be a bunch of misfits, but he’s the glue that holds us together. For now."

"Do you think he’ll succeed?" you tilted your head to the side.

As long as he keeps his head on straight and doesn’t get too ambitious too fast, maybe. But I have my own plans, too, and I rather focus on them.”

Curious to learn more about him, you asked, “What were you like before joining the League?”

Dabi’s expression darkened momentarily. “Let’s just say, I’ve had my fair share of shitty experiences. But that’s the past, and the past never fucking dies.”

You sensed his reluctance to dive deeper, so you shared a bit about yourself instead. “I was a loner. Never really fit in anywhere.”

He taunted, “Yeah, I get that. We’re all here because we don’t fit in out there.” Eventually, Dabi leaned forward after lazily chewing a cracker, his expression serious for once. “This evening wasn’t as terrible as I thought it’d be. And you weren't that bad either. Maybe we could do it again sometime. Without Toga’s interference, of course. I know a few nice places, far enough from these crazy maniacs.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest as you giggled, “I’d like that, Dabi.”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, me too, actually.”

Perhaps there was something to be said for this whole notion of socializing after all. Maybe it could bring a little light into the shadows.

#dabi #bnha dabi #dabi fluff #dabi x reader fluff #dabi x y/n #dabi x reader #touya todoroki #dabi my hero academia #mha fluff #bnha fluff #my hero academia dabi #mha dabi #touya x reader #touya todoroki x reader #todoroki touya #weekly challenge #toga himiko #anime fluff #league of villains

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ladykakata · 10 months ago

Text

Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich are honestly good influences on each other

I swear I'll write proper posts sometime, but it's been swilling around my head with my other thoughts, so I might as well put it down here.

Mickey and Ian are chaotic nonsense idiots, and yet I cannot argue they don't have a good as well as bad influence on each other and that develops as they age (and constantly get pulled back together whenever they break up lmao).

Ian's influence on Mickey

It's a running joke that Mickey in the early series is this filthy goblin just running around being a hoodlum and ... yeah, he is lmao. But it's very notable as the series progresses that he starts becoming cleaner and dressing nicer the more time he spends with Ian. The man specifically wore a shirt to see Ian in the mental ward ffs. Not only that he actually *tries* working a normal job and socialising, something he is deeply uncomfortable with, but does it for Ian's sake. It doesn't escape my notice that he specifically wants to work with Ian whenever he can, probably tying in to my earlier point that he is only completely comfortable around Ian.

If you told S1 Mickey he would be helping his paraplegic father into the house and getting home nursing for him, he would wonder what kind of sick joke you were playing. But he does, something that even surprises Ian at first. Ian inspires Mickey to talk more about his feelings, he openly admits to thinking about missing Ian, whereas before he threatened to cut Ian's tongue out for saying that Ian missed Mickey. The idea of Mickey changing ANYTHING for anyone else is foreign ... but not if Ian suggests it to him the right way.

Ian's non-judgemental or at least lightly judgemental treatment of Mickey allows the man to be far more comfortable with himself. Though still highly defensive, I think it's telling Mickey is completely unashamed to be a bottom in front of Ian, and Mickey can make socially awkward gestures or gaffs and Ian doesn't upbraid him or make him feel like shit for doing the 'wrong' thing. Hell, as much as Ian was utterly, UTTERLY confused at Mickey's groomzilla episode, he mostly kept his confusion silent and simply reined Mickey in when he was losing his temper with vendors. The flower shop scene has Mickey blithely retorting that while Ian was gay, he 'just likes having another man's dick in my ass'. Ian in the same scene was tensing his jaw at the homophobia from the florist, and normally Mickey is quick to snap at anyone who considers him gay ("You calliin' me gay?" before slamming a bar owner's head into the counter), he simply bats it away as he's more focused on the flowers he wants and only becomes aggressive when the services are threatened to be withdrawn. Ian was always sure and comfortable with his sexuality and had little to no tolerance of homophobia, whereas Mickey was in either strict denial or profoundly uncomfortable and highly secretive.

Mickey's influence on Ian

The most obvious one is that Mickey was Ian's guardian during his bipolar struggles once Mickey finally realised what a problem it as, and he was determined to nurse Ian until he recognised (to his horror) he couldn't deal with this on his own and Ian really did need professional nursing and help.

What strikes me in a lot of scenes, both before and after that arc, is that Ian almost has Mickey as a constant in his life. It's a topic more for aspects of Ian's personality, but Mickey was the person Ian turned to when he had no-one else in S1, when he was in the 72 hour psychiatric hold he explicitly says 'Mickey is waiting for me'. Ian's life is constant chaos, much like Mickeys, and Ian is the sort of person who needs and thrives on structure when his brain isn't acting out. Mickey was a constant, someone to always come back to and someone he could rely on. In a way, I also see Mickey as someone who can be the impulsive one of the pair, letting Ian take the role of the mediator. It's easier for you to resist your own stupid impulses if your override kicks in because someone else is doing something foolish.

As much as I joke that Ian is the only person Mickey listens to, the same happens the other way around in the bipolar arc. During Ian's Military Police hallucination, it was Mickey who broke through the delusion after the shock of almost attacking Debbie brought Ian abruptly back to reality. Even as Mickey at first acts with his typical aggression ("There's nothin' out there! Fuckin' look!") and literally dragging him to the front door to prove the other side is the same, he gently reassures Ian that everything is alright and herds him upstairs to get dressed. Mickey made sure to get explicit instructions on Ian's medication and even measured it out for him ("Shut up and take your pills, bitch" is still one of my favourite lines).

I had more thoughts but my brain is soup and I still want to do a post on Ian's mental health and how he interacts with the world.

Send a prompt or aspect of these two if you want to hear me talk absolute garbage about these lovesick idiots

#Gallavich #Ian Gallagher #Mickey Milkovich #Ian x Mickey #Gallavich Musings #Shameless US

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socksdoeswrites · 2 months ago

Note

HI!! Thank you so much for writing that!! Ugh, I loved it so much!! And you wrote it so fast??? :OO THANK YOU!!!!

If you would ever be interested in a PT. 2 (All good if not, I’m super happy with the one shot!!), since calling someone by their first name is either something you do with a really close friend or a romantic partner, it’d be funny if people assumed they were dating. The reader being oblivious to this of course, and Izuku desperately trying to stop any miscommunication (he secretly likes it shhh 🤫). Anyway at some point Reader wisens up and is like why tf didn’t he tell me??? And then a little confrontation and maybe a first kiss

Regardless, thank you for your work!! It really brightened up my day!!! :D

an: ofc!! i was actually wondering if you'd want me to write a part two, so i am supper stocked you wanted one!! im so glad it brightened your day! that makes my heart melt! i hope this is the same vibe you were wanting!! i wanna thank you guys for requesting so much! you have no clue how nice it's been taking a little writing day to myself! and the compliments? gosh! but anywayyyys, i always start these off with talking things up, but as always i hope you like!! xoxo! welcome to part two!!

parings: izuku midoriya x foreigner! female! reader.

warnings/tags: nothing too major! i tried to make it as fluffy as i could! female reader!, aged up!!!, little humor, i don't know if i included this in the last one, butttt modern au! lmk if i missed anything!!

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izuku had been acting... strange after that night. you had extended your stay, deciding that you loved this place way more than your boring old apartment back home. at least for now. you were fresh out of college, might as well explore for as long as you could. while staying there, you had met even more of izuku's friends! although, every time you called him that, the same familiar blush danced across his freckled cheeks. what were you doing wrong?

you decided you'd get to the bottom of it... buuuut eventually. tonight was movie night at yaoyorozu's house. you'd drop dead before you missed an opportunity to sleep in her mansion. as you packed a bag for the night, you were interrupted with a soft knock on your front door. walking over to the door, you looked through the peephole to see a toothy grin taking up half the space.

Izuku.

"hi stranger."

he leaned against the framing of you front door, a black back pack hung loosely on his shoulders, as he crossed his arms almost hoping for some sort of invitation to come in.

"hey, you. im assuming your escorting me to miss yaoyorozu's?"

izuku snorted at the way you spoke, shaking his head playfully.

"is that a problem?"

his crossed arms now traveling to plant themselves on his hips. seemingly to give off an upset aura. you weren't buying it.

"you know good and well i don't have a problem with it, zu."

to you, the simple nickname you had given him meant you were becoming closer with him. but as you turned to grab you bag and the keys to your place, you were then greeted by a beat red izuku, and you had no idea why...

"are you alright?"

he threw his arms up, one traveling to scratch the back of his neck, and the other flailing in the wind.

"y-yeah! im great! just peachy, uhm, we should,"

he pointed towards the street.

"get a move on!"

you didn't respond to him. just nodding politely, a concerned smile planting on your lips. you ushered him to lead, and you followed him down the busy streets. he looked back every once in a while to see if he hadn't lost you, but other than that he didn't speak. he just kept his eyes on the ground or looked up to the sky. you had yet to figure out what exactly was going on. as soon as you gathered enough confidence to ask him something, it was too late. the two of you stood outside the doors of her place.

"oh woah..."

your mouth hung open as you were mesmerized by the details of the house... more like houses. this place was big enough to swallow your place whole. izuku seemed to chuckle at your reaction, but other than that, waited patiently for someone to open the door.

"you guys made it."

your attention was caught by a calmer voice. todoroki stood, dressed in his pajamas, and looking more than comfortable, to say the least. the two of you said your greetings before being welcomed warmly to this mansion. lets just say, all your worries seemed to melt away right then and there.

"can i take your bag, y/n?"

izukus voice came from behind you to which gradually pulled you out of your trance.

"uh, yeah... yeah. thank you, zu."

if you would've stuck around long enough, you would've seen the red blossom on his cheeks again. something you did without failure. todoroki cocked an eyebrow towards his friend.

"so, im assuming you still haven't told her?"

izuku could only shake his head, too tired of stumbling over his words to speak.

"are you ever going to?"

izuku sighed.

"i- i don't know... it's a little confusing to me. i mean, she calls you todoroki. calls momo by her last name, and it's not a problem! really... i just, don't think she gets it, y'know?"

todoroki nodded his head along. the girls have been picking at him recently. picking about the name you chose to call him. was it intimate? were the two of you a thing? the poked and pried for answers, to which he didn't have. but to his dismay... the girls were picking at you as well.

"so, are you guys official?" jirou had asked shoving your shoulder playfully. to say you were confused was an understatement.

"what are you talking about?"

"you and midoriya, silly!! he let's you call him by his first name! has to be a little serious."

you stared up at them.

"im sorry, i don't understand."

momo raised her brow, leaning over the counter.

"he hasn't told you?"

you shook your head slowly, if you weren't confused then, you most certainly were now.

"babe, i don't know how it is where you're from, but here,"

jirou motioned around the room.

"calling someone by their first name is a tad more, intimate. like, we only really do that if you're extremely close or like, romantically."

so, that's what it was. you slowly shook your head, asking if you could get some air to which you were pointed to a balcony... the night sky already setting. why couldn't he just tell you?

the cool breeze nipped at your skin and you couldn’t help but hold your arms closer to you.

leaning on the railing, you chuckled. it was something you could've easily fixed if he had just told you. your thoughts ran wild with reasons why he didn't, but your attention was soon pulled to the sky that was decorated with such beautiful stars. you had wondered what others were doing around this time.

that was until a voice spooked you.

"you alright?"

you screamed.

“hey! hey! it’s just me!”

you quickly turned seeing the man of the hour. izuku.

“you scared the shit out of me!”

he laughed, pulling himself to stand next to you on the balcony. ironic.

the first few moments were quiet until you spoke.

"why didn't tell me about your name?"

you felt him tense up and clear his throat.

"if i was making you uncomfortable you could have just said something..."

"you weren't."

he cut in. you looked at him, a confused look on your face. he returned your gaze... he sure was close.

"then what was it?"

your voice was barely a whisper as you looked down at his lips. he licked them.

"i guess i liked you saying it... it felt nice hearing it from your mouth, and... i was hoping i'd grow a pair and ask you out, but it just hasn't happened yet."

you laughed softly leaning more into him.

"you're silly..."

he stared down at your lips, before asking a small question.

"can i kiss you..?"

the next few moments were a blur. grabbing his collar and pulling him in, you felt the warm sensation of his lips connecting with yours. immediately tasting whatever type of chapstick he had on. to say it felt like fireworks would be cliche, but it was something close to it. the two of you pulling away after a few moments, locking your gazes with each other. you couldn't help but laugh at the boyish grin on his lips.

maybe it was a good thing you called him his first name so many times...

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margoteve · 3 months ago

Text

How to Eat Life: Chapter 1

"A Woman Searching for Something Missing"

Chapter Rating: T

Story Rating: M

Summary: All Kafka wanted to do was help this woman he just met. How in the world did he end up here?

Ship: Kafka/Original Character

Read on AO3

A/N: Ngl guys I'm nervous with this one, hope y'all enjoy it! I'm including the art of Mari at the end I commission from a wonderful artist @murder-me-with-ink some time ago :) Beta Read by @sophiacloud28 who is a true MVP in my eyes for helping me with this.

Kafka glanced at his phone, displeased with himself. He messed up the date of the Monster Sweeper company hang out and now he was alone in the city, while his coworkers made fun of him in the group-chat. He shut down the screen and huffed, annoyed. He better get himself home. Maybe he should do some grocery shopping on his way back?

Suddenly, as he was turning around, he collided with someone.

“Ooof.” He stumbled backwards. “Hey, watch- huh?”

“I’m so sorry!” came a quick response.

Kafka blinked at the woman he collided with. She was as tall as him, foreign, pale with platinum blonde hair tied up in a tight, braided crown on her head, exposing a set of pointed ears. A few scars on her face. She wore stone-washed jeans, sneakers, a t-shirt with a band on it, and a cropped leather jacket.

Her hazel eyes currently looked at him with worry.

“Are you alright?” she asked him in perfect, although really formal, textbook Japanese.

He realised he was staring a little. He quickly turned his eyes away. He noticed a map and a couple of suitcases she had with herself. Those looked heavy and impractical to be dragged by one person but she somehow stacked them into an intricate tetris wall.

“Yeah, are you?” he returned the question politely, focusing on her map.

“Yes, once more, I’m sorry, I uh- I think I’m a little lost,” she admitted. “Kanji are still giving me a little trouble."

“Where are you going?” he asked, trying to glance at the map she held in one hand.

“Uh.” She set down the suitcases and straightened up the map. “I’m trying to get to my hotel…” The map had names in English. Not a problem for him, though.

“Oh, here.” She pointed to a spot on the map. “It’s the Yokohama Royal Hotel.”

"Huh."

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no." He pointed to where they were now and drew his finger over her destination. “You got off the train too early, you need three more stops to get there.”

She cursed lightly under her breath in a foreign language that Kafka didn't know.

“I knew it,” she sighed as she folded the map and put it in her jacket's pocket. “Thank you, so much.” She reached for the handle of her luggage wall and threw a bag over her shoulder. “Well, here’s to hoping I’ll get there this time!”

“Yeah,” he watched her for a moment then quickly made up his mind. “Hey, would you mind if I helped you?”

“You really don’t have to.” She smiled. “You probably have your own life to get back to.”

“Nah, it’s not a problem!” He gave her a wide grin. “I’m Kafka Hibino, by the way. Nice to meet’cha.”

“Pleasure to meet you Mr. Hibino. I’m Marigold Nowak," she introduced herself back.

"Just call me Kafka. Everyone does." He took some of her suitcases to lower her load and noted that she had two metallic prosthetic fingers in her right hand with filigree, floral decorations. What a curious person.

"You can call me Mari, then,” she offered in response.

They went back to the train station and right off the bat, Kafka had to catch Marigold before she headed to the wrong train line.

“Sorry,” she chuckled as he guided her back. “Directions in new places are a little confusing to me.”

“Hey, it's fine, I’ll make sure you won’t get lost, Miss!” he assured her with a big confident grin.

“Thanks. And remember, it's Mari," she replied as they got on an elevator to the platform.

He smiled a little at that.

They got to the platform and took place in the marked spot. Thankfully it wasn’t rush hour. The train soon arrived and they slowly boarded with other passengers. Kafka helped Marigold load her luggage up in the overhead compartment and the two sat down.

“Thanks again, you really didn’t need to do that for me,” she said as he took a spot next to her.

“Eh, it's fine, really!” He waved his hand. “This is actually a lot more fun than my original plans.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose up.

“Ha, yeah…” He couldn’t tell her that all his plans included was cracking a can of beer with takeout and watching some TV until falling asleep. That was… depressing. “So, where are you from? America? England?” He quickly changed the subject. The name sounded English but the last name was throwing him off, so he made the wild guess.

Her head tilted a little. She noticed the not-so-subtle switch. “Poland actually,” she replied.

“Poland, huh?” he thought for a moment. He didn’t know much about that country. “Like Chopin, right?”

“Yes, like Chopin,” she snorted. “Unfortunately I don’t play the piano.”

“Hey, me neither!” He grinned. “I kinda got two left feet for it.”

She snorted and laughed at his response. She had quite a cute laugh. Well, anyway.

“So what made you come to Yokohama? I can’t imagine Japan being a hot travel destination with all the kaiju running around… are there a lot of kaiju in Poland?”

“Not much, we do have a few fault lines but nothing that compares,” she replied. “I am here on holiday, actually. Yokohama is where I am starting, but then I would like to go to other places, further inland.”

Kafka hummed listening to her, then shook his head amused. “You talk so formally.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, like… how would you say good morning in Japanese?”

“Uh… well- Ohayou gozaimasu, no?”

“Yeah, if you’re in school. Most people just: ‘hazaimaaas’.” He bowed his head, pretending to be apologetic, before gesturing with his arm forward. “And then you sprint to your locker before your boss scolds you for being late.” He leaned back in his seat, watching her, snickering at his show. “Really, though just ‘ohaYO!’ is enough."

“Thank you, Kafka-sensei. I will keep that in mind.” She shook her head.

“How do you say ‘good morning’ in Polish?” he asked.

She hummed. “Well, there’s few ways to do it.”

“Oh?”

“Like… Cześć!”

“... Eh?”

She giggled at his dumbfounded face. “Cześć.”

He blinked.

“Cześć!”

“Shheshhch?” He tried mimicking with no success.

She laughed again, covering her mouth to not be too loud on the train. “Ok, ok. Repeat after me - Ch.”

“Ch.”

“ChEh.”

“Cheh”

“Cześć.”

“You’re pulling my leg here, aren’t you?” His brain was struggling with the sound. What were all these rustling leaves doing in her speech?

“I swear I’m not.” She shook her head, biting her lips to stop herself from grinning widely.

“So…You said kanji was hard, huh?” He patted his pockets for pieces of paper.

“Don’t change the subject-!” she gasped mock-offended.

The rest of the travel they spent talking mostly about what she wanted to see in Yokohama and him recommending some good spots. In turn, she gave him recommendations for Poland if he ever managed to go there. Their talk went on well until they reached her hotel.

“There we are!” Kafka gestured to the building with a flare. “Yokohama Royal Hotel!”

Marigold hummed in appreciation. “It looks… really fancy…” She took in the hotel, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Hmm? Is something wrong?” He was a bit stumped with that reaction.

“Nothing,” she assured him as they walked through the revolving door into the lobby. “My… relative booked this place for me,” she sighed. “I should have known she would go all out. Thank you for helping me find it, though.” She smiled gratefully at him and gave him a little bow.

“No problem, really.” He set the luggage down as they reached the front desk. “I should get going.”

He kind of wanted to talk a bit longer with her but honestly, she probably had other things to do.

“Could you wait a moment though? I just need to check in,” she said before she turned to the receptionist.

Kafka took a step back. Marigold quickly finished her check-in and got her keys. A bellboy appeared soon enough and Marigold’s luggage was wheeled away to her room.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said.

“Sure. So what’s up?”

“I am sorry for causing you this problem and I'm absolutely grateful for today," she began.

Kafka cringed a little at the formality of her speech but hey, he could work with that. “Not a problem. At all.”

She nodded and continued, "Would it be an overstep if I asked you to guide me around the city?” she asked. "I think I will feel a bit more secure with you around. I of course will pay you for your trouble. If you want to that is."

Huh. Not what he expected. "Hey, that's kinda flattering," he replied. "Are you sure you don't want to rent like an actual guide?"

"I was considering it but I dislike guided tours and I made my own sightseeing list," she explained. "I realise you have work and now that I think about it, you must think of me as really rude…"

"Nah, don't sweat it. Hmm." He folded his arms to think about it. He could ask for an 'on call' duty for a couple days. Unless there was a kaiju to clean up there really wasn't anything to do at work besides sitting and waiting. "How long are you staying?"

"4 days, not including today," she replied.

Kafka scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I think I could do that." Tomorrow was his day off anyway. He could call Toku and sort things out.

"Really?" She looked at him hopeful.

"Yeah!"

"Thank you so much!" She clasped her hands. "I'll give you my phone number, just in case." She fished out an older version of a smartphone from her jacket's pocket.

"Oh, sure yeah." He patted his pockets for a moment trying to locate where he put it. Finally found it in his back pocket. They swapped their numbers and said goodbye for the evening.

Kafka looked over his phone's screen as he walked out of the hotel. It wasn't often he met new people outside of work. Yeah, this might be actually good for him. Making friends, that is. Quite pretty friends… He cleared his throat to himself and marched towards the train station feeling quite lighter in his steps. They met again quite early the next day. Kafka noted a different band T-shirt on Marigold.

"Hey, I know this one!"

She chuckled, "Morning to you too."

He grinned at her. "Morning. So you listen to heavy metal?"

"I listen to a variety of music but," She looked a bit sheepish, "I just like band T-shirts."

"That's okay. I can introduce you to them while we're on our way to…" He trailed off giving her occasion to let him know their destination.

"Right," she pulled out a beat-up notebook from her pocket. "I have a list - maybe you can help me with it?"

"Sure." Kafka stepped closer. Her handwriting was neat, practised, and boxy. He scanned all the mentioned locations and then pointed to a few that were close by. It wouldn't be hard to get to some on foot from the hotel. It was mostly small parks and a historical site.

"I think these will be best to go to closer to evening," he said pointing to Chinatown and locations near the port.

"Perfect."

Off they went. True to his word, Kafka introduced Marigold to his favourite songs. She listened and bobbed her head to a few he played for her from his phone. He beamed at her when she added a bunch of them to her playlists. In turn, she also played some tunes to him. Surprisingly, her tastes were rooted in more folk-themed music but after having a listen to his tastes she recommended plenty he actually enjoyed.

They even got into a discussion on classic rock and heavy metal bands versus modern music. It continued on and off while they got into the parks.

Marigold pulled out a camera from her bag that looked really professional and started taking photos. Kafka even got to pose a couple times in some silly way. Well, Marigold called those silly. He referred to those poses as 'bad-ass' getting more laughs out of her.

A few times he had to stop his new friend from wandering off in the wrong direction, which usually ended with her embarrassed apologies. He noted that from time to time she would also just need to stand to the side, intently checking her phone. She always had a furrowed brow and slight concern on her face. He wondered what that was about. Work related? Family? Well, it really wasn't his business.

Finally, Kafka’s stomach decided to remind him he needed food.

“Hey, want to grab a bite?” he asked her.

Marigold turned her head to him and blinked. It seemed she was at first surprised with the suggestion but then a light went off in her head.

“Oh! You probably should, yeah.” She lowered her camera.

Her response had him confused.

“You're not hungry?”

It had to be almost past lunch hours. He noted she had a bottle of water she occasionally took a sip from but no food, and while he had some snacks on him, she never asked for any.

"You should get some food into you, you know," he advised. "It's not healthy."

Marigold looked at him a little embarrassed, unsure how to explain herself. "Um… how should I say this…" she sighed deeply. "I had an accident and now I am on an all-liquid diet. I have my food at the hotel,” she said. “So, you don't have to worry about me.”

"Oh." Welp. He did it again. "Kafka Hibino, you are a master of putting your foot in your mouth aren't you…" he scolded himself. He cleared his throat. “Ah… sorry about that…”

“That's alright, you couldn’t have known.” She smiled politely. “How about we split for now? We can find someplace for you to eat and, in the meantime, I can mingle around."

That didn't sit quite right with him. He couldn’t just let her wander off. “You sure? We walked around for a long time, you could use some rest too. I'm looking forward to checking those photos you took." He tried to salvage the situation.

"If you are sure…"

"100%!" He reassured her with a wide grin.

They ended up in a burger joint. She ordered a coke to not stand out and he got himself a meal. They sat down and started flipping through the photos she took. She took note of the ones he liked to send to him later. She then asked him about some of his poses. Kafka told her they were from Metal Lions Clash!

"What's that?" she asked, curious.

"What? You mean you don't know what that is? Wait, it might be something else in English!" He looked up the Western localisation title.

"I've got no clue what that is." Marigold shook her head a little.

Kafka gasped. "It's one of the best old-school manga and anime! How can you not know!"

"What's it about?" she asked innocently, immediately activating Kafka's trap card.

He immediately launched into a retelling of the show. She watched as he began to explain the lore and story behind the rise and fall of the planet Mechatron. It was actually pretty engaging. Kafka noted she almost looked… nostalgic?

The time kind of ran away from them. By the time Kafka finished the story, ate his meal, and the two of them got to their destination, it was closed.

"Aw, damn…" Kafka tsked and sighed. "Sorry about that." He rubbed the back of his head. This was on him.

"That's alright, don't worry about that," she reassured him and touched his arm. "We can start tomorrow with this one."

Kafka's head immediately turned to her hand. "True. Are you cold? Your hand-"

Marigold immediately took it away. "Ah, no, it is all good. You know, we are still good for one spot," she changed the subject. "If you'd like we can go and see one more location." She immediately reached for her notebook. "Here, oh! How about the Guramon museum!"

"Alright, if you want to," he agreed, although not very convinced.

They hit two museums - Guramon and the ramen one. Kafka got really hyped about the first one once his attention was redirected. Marigold insisted and bought Kafka some souvenirs from it.

"As today's compensation if you are sure I can't just pay you otherwise," she explained.

He tried to protest at first but… the merch… Instead, he ended up thanking her profoundly. It got her a bit embarrassed and the two finally laughed it off.

The next day they went to see more of the historical part of Yokohama. Kafka couldn’t really call himself an expert on history so it was a fun day of learning for him as well when they'd pour over her phone or a leaflet to read the information. At some point, they wandered into a more tourist-dense area of the city and Marigold spotted a kimono rental shop.

"If I go there, that's gonna be so touristy…" she mumbled to herself but it seemed like she kind of wanted to try it on.

Kafka then grabbed her hand and pulled her towards it. "It's there for a reason," he said in good spirits. "You should try it!"

It was easier said than done. Marigold was too tall. It took a while to pick something for her. Kafka waited patiently, while the attendants tried to match something up for Marigold, while also complimenting how pale she was.

She eventually emerged in a beautiful green kimono.

"Wow, you look great," he commented after he remembered how to speak.

"Thank you," she replied with a wide smile.

"They gave you short sleeves," he noted. He wondered if she knew what it meant.

"Oh, yeah, I asked for that." She picked up her camera. Immediately one of the attendants got to them and offered to take a photo of both Marigold and Kafka.

"Young man, don't you want to match your wife?" the elder woman asked him, giving his clothes a critical look.

"He's just a friend, who is showing me Japan," Marigold quickly jumped in to explain.

"We're just friends," he said at the same time.

"Ah, well." The attendant looked disappointed. "Anyway, stand together!"

The two awkwardly shuffled together but not before Marigold had to show the other woman how to operate her camera. Mari quickly set everything to look decent and went back to Kafka.

When they managed to escape the owner of the shop for a quick walk around in the kimono, Kafka couldn't help but glance at the short sleeves.

"Your husband must be a pretty lucky guy," he noted.

"I'm a widow, actually," she clarified. "Are you jealous?" she teased.

"Nah, just surprised. I didn't- well-, never mind, I guess." He smiled awkwardly, running a hand through his hair and then digging both hands into his jacket.

She rolled her eyes and bumped into him a little. "If I'll still be around and if you buy me a drink, I'll tell you about that. Maybe." She winked. "Now, I have a few more stops planned for today!"

He watched her walk ahead of him. Then he slapped himself to get his mind clear. He looked ahead and ran to catch up with her. Boy, she moved fast. "Alright, but you need to turn left there!"

"There?!" She called back.

"Yeah!"

The rest of the day went on without a hitch. They said their goodbyes way after the sunset, this time under the train station - Marigold promising that she was fine and he didn't need to walk her to the hotel. She memorised the route.

He gave her a look but finally gave in. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you!" She chuckled and they went to their respective train lines.

They didn't meet the next day - a kaiju attack brought everything to a halt. Kafka was going to be swamped with the monster work for at least next week. It wasn't a giant class but a lot of smaller ones.

He sent her a text to apologise and she replied with a smiley face and a thumbs up. A "no worries" from her. Then a four-leaf clover and man in hardhat - good luck at work, he guessed.

She had a peculiar way of texting, he noticed. She was almost reinventing hieroglyphics. If he didn't understand something he could always send her a question mark and then she would explain in detail.

He smiled at her response but felt a little sad. Marigold was going to leave Yokohama after tomorrow. She would still be in Japan from what she was saying but after that? He wondered if she had any SNS they could connect with…

He was about to ask her when suddenly his phone was fished out of his hands.

"Who are you texting so much, Kafka? We're about to move out," Toku asked and looked at the screen.

"Nobody! Now give it back, Toku!" Kafka tried to reach for his phone to no avail. Toku was taller than him with longer arms.

Toku, meanwhile, whistled at what he found. "Hey guys! Kafka is talking to a girl!"

It was as if a pack of wild beasts spotted a prey. A cold shiver went through Kafka. Oh, he was in danger.

"Give it!" He managed to jump up and snatch his property back.

"Come on, Kafka, tell us something!" Mitsuike called after him. "It's been a while!"

"She's just a friend." Kafka quickly zipped up his overalls. "And didn't you just say we have work to do?!" He pointed at Toku.

"Well, the kaiju aren't going anywhere, now, are they?" Toku grinned.

"Neither is this conversation," Mr. Mizoguchi stated as he entered the room. "Gentlemen, leave the personal chatter to your break time or after work, please."

And with that Kafka’s execution was delayed. But he knew he was going to be grilled about this very soon. So he threw himself into work.

Surprisingly, they didn't harass him during the lunch break. He could feel their stares, however. They were plotting against him for sure. He couldn't blame them though. If this was anyone else - Yoshimura, Mori, Mitsuike - he too would have joined in on the teasing. They had been working together for so long, they were almost like brothers. Didn't necessarily mean he liked being on the receiving end, though…

As expected, they decided to grab him after work. Kafka had tried to escape but to his surprise even Mr. Mizoguchi seemed to be against him. The invitation for after-work beer came from him. He couldn't refuse that!

"So when did you meet?"

"Three days ago…"

"Is this why you wanted to be on call duty instead of coming to work?"

"Yes…"

"So… is she single?"

"Widow…"

"So she's single."

He just chugged the beer, trying to ignore the laughs and shoulder shaking that only got more intense as more alcohol was consumed.

"Just don't run off to some foreign country with her," Yoshimura laughed.

"We're just friends, guys…"

"Dude, you are 32! Maybe it's a sign!" Toku leaned on Kafka’s shoulder. "When I was your age-"

The next-day hangover was seriously cramping his style at work. Thankfully, it seemed that his coworkers had mercy on him. For once.

He was the last one at the site as per usual, double-checking everything. Making sure the equipment was secured, and no personal belongings left behind. After a thorough inspection, he loaded up his van and drove off.

It was always a bit creepy to be alone at the office after dark but he had to clock out and take his moped home. With all formalities done, he locked the office door.

"Kafka!"

Kafka jumped up with a shriek, spun around, and dropped into a defensive boxing position.

"Marigold?" He blinked seeing her standing there. "What-? How-?"

"Can you help me? I need to get into the cordoned-off kaiju zone," she spoke quickly looking over her shoulder.

There was an unusual tension to her and a sense of urgency he hadn't seen so far.

"Alright," he said without a moment of hesitation. "Give me a sec." He went back pulling her with him inside the office to grab the van keys.

Suddenly the whole building shook. Kafka looked through the window, alarmed.

"What-?" A kaiju? An earthquake?

"We have to hurry," Marigold said with a frown as she looked at the ceiling. "Did you get the keys?"

"Yeah."

Marigold grabbed his hand and pulled him outside. Another shake nearly had him lose the keys.

"Get the van," she ordered.

It was so strange. Like a flip in her personality. The fun and polite woman was replaced with this cold steel determination and focus. She kept him behind her as if protecting him.

He didn't even notice when or how there was a long and heavy-looking sword in her hand with a light curve to it. It was pitch black and seemed to consume light around it.

Questions for later.

He ran to the van. The ground shook again, strong enough that he almost lost his footing on a flat surface. A gust of frigid wind hit him in the back like a truck. He stumbled and collided with the van. In the reflection in the window, he saw a giant… something. It was a black mass he couldn't quite discern the shape of. Looking at it though, he felt ice filling his veins and it was as if he was disappearing. Like all that he was was dissolving into nothing.

"Don't look at it!" Marigold yelled and slapped his shoulder, snapping him back into reality.

"Fuckfuckfuck," he hissed under his breath as he struggled to get the key in the door. He ripped the door open when it clicked then launched himself inside. "C'mon, c'mon. Yes!" he shouted over the roar of the engine.

Something thumped on the roof. "Drive!!" Marigold yelled from above.

She didn't have to tell him twice. He stepped on the accelerator and sped off. The frigid wind brushed over him, forcing itself through the vents. It felt as if all the air from his lungs was being sucked out.

He smacked the wheel. The sting sobered him up. A glance in the back mirror showed him the shadowy mass consuming everything behind them. Not destroying it. Annihilating it out of existence. The buildings, trees, and roads were disappearing as if it was never there. He still could see Monster Sweeper Inc. HQ and half of it was just… gone.

The Shadows were still in pursuit.

"What the hell is it? A kaiju? I should report that! What is going on?!" His thoughts raced through his mind 100 miles per hour. He gritted his teeth as he took a sharp turn.

"It’s not a kaiju!" Marigold yelled from above. "Do not call it in!"

Did he say that out loud? Damn it!

The shadowy tendril smacked the road just an inch away from them. Another sharp turn. He must have broken so many laws. Somehow, it didn't matter. Survival did. He heard Marigold chopping away at the attacking creature. Kafka didn't remember the last time his adrenaline was this high. And worst part? He was grinning like crazy.

"We're almost there!!" he yelled to Marigold.

The Kaiju subjugation area was just ahead.

"Do not stop driving! It catches us, you're toast!" She responded.

"Me?! What about you?!" He sounded so offended.

"It's just another Thursday to me," she said and Kafka swore he didn't hear her. She spoke directly to his mind.

The van broke through the barricade. Kafka swerved between leftover kaiju they hadn't cleaned up yet and finally parked the car with a screech of tires.

Marigold jumped down the roof. He didn't know when or how but she was now wearing pitch-black armour. A snake wrapped around a blooming rose adorned her chestplate.

"Stay in the van and don't look." She said to him through the window. Her eyes were blood red.

"You owe me an explanation after this," he said quickly.

The ground shook again. It felt as if the Arctic spilled over. The rubble and kaiju bodies began to disintegrate. The gravity began to behave funny as pieces of concrete, metal, and wood began to levitate.

In the mirror, the mass of shadows began to take shape and Kafka didn't know if he liked that. A limb shot forward at them. Marigold spun around and cut right through it. The creature roared. Existence shuddered. Every atom in Kafka's body shivered, fighting to remain in place.

"Don't look, Kafka Hibino!" Marigold yelled and leaped forward.

She didn't have to repeat that. Kafka’s stomach turned into knots and he swallowed hard. He cranked the window up, closed his eyes, and gripped the steering wheel.

Outside, he could hear the sounds of battle. The roars and clanks of the sword. It felt unreal. The woman he met 4 days ago was some sort of knight fighting eldritch horrors. What was she even? People didn't have red eyes like those. Didn't talk to others through their minds, either.

The van suddenly shook and creaked. Kafka's eyes flew open and he spun around. There was now a human-shaped indent in the wall.

Damn, Toku was going to kill him. There is no way he could explain that!

He saw Marigold picking herself from the ground. In the blink of an eye, she was gone. For a second Kafka thought she got disintegrated but no. She was attacking mid-air. Falling l into the mass of shadows with a yell. And then, for a sliver of a heartbeat, reality splintered. Everything went quiet. Then it all exploded. The van got dragged a good few inches towards the dying creature. The windows cracked. The freezing cold disappeared. It was finally safe.

Kafka still couldn't quite grasp what happened but he knew one thing. They survived.

After taking in the emotion his eyes fell on Marigold.

She was standing in the middle of the battlefield. Craters around her. Her posture was half slumped, and there was blood in her hair and on her face. She punched her shoulder and the armour began to fold in on itself in segments. When the last of it was gone, she collapsed.

Kafka had to kick the door open to get out. Almost stumbling into the debris. He ran up to her and gently cradled her in his arms.

"Hey," she said. "You lived." A small, amused smile appeared on her face.

"That's my line," Kafka snorted. "So, a Thursday, huh?"

She laughed and then coughed up blood.

"Ooh, bad moment to laugh," she groaned. "I think it went through my mid-section at one point."

That was bad.

"I'll get you to the hospital!" Kafka carefully lifted her up. The van has seen better days but it still should get them places.

"No. No hospital." She gripped his shirt and pulled on it. "Just… get me to my hotel… I have everything I need there."

"I don't think the hotel staff will just let us slip past with you like this," he argued as he carried her to the van.

"They won't notice. Trust me."

Art by KodarisArt

Tag list:

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@j4yslayz

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