#short and sweet baby

[macabr3-barbi3]

a request, a need, a plea even:

shotgun kiss with human!alastor

ANON I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG THIS HAS BEEN IN MY INBOX SINCE MAY 😭 I PROMISE I NEVER FORGOT ABOUT YOU AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY

The air is cold when you step outside the diner, fingers trembling and goosebumps erupting along your arms. You had claimed it was for a smoke break, but really you just needed to get out of the building for a moment- the loud, boisterous group that had taken up residence at one of your tables had been grating on your nerves all night, and you knew they weren’t going to tip well, so you just needed a break. You had forgotten your cigarettes at home, and your fingers itch to actually hold one between them, but you would take whatever reprieve you could get. 

Gravel crunches nearby, and you turn to see a man step into the alleyway behind the diner with you. Tall, lean muscles and a mop of dark, curly hair, you greet Alastor with a smile as you always did. He gives you a wave, soft and timid as he approaches, like you haven’t had weeks of time to get to know one another on your smoke breaks during work; you from the diner, him from the broadcast station across the alley.

You make polite conversation for the better part of your break, talking about his most recent shows and the reporting that he had been doing on the serial killer in New Orleans a couple towns over. As always, the air is amicable and comfortable between the two of you while he smokes down towards the butt of his cigarette. It was always nice to spend time with him- he was polite, charming, and handsome as the Devil himself. Who could blame a gal for falling a little bit in love?

Your coworker steps out and lets you know that your table had skipped out without paying, shooting a wink your way when she notices Alastor with you, and the need for a nicotine hit increases tenfold; you’re ashamed to admit to fluttering your lashes coyly at him. “Alastor, you mind if I bum one of those off you?” You ask him demurely, gesturing to the cigarette he holds as he brings it to his lips and to the light.

“Ah, haven’t you learned to keep your own on hand after all this time? I’m afraid this is my last one, my dear,” he says, and your heart sinks while you watch him blow rings into the cool air of the night. “Don’t look so put out,” he chuckles, stepping closer and wrapping a hand around your waist- the shock of it prevents you from putting up any real fight against it, relishing in the warmth that greets you when he pulls you into his chest. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t share.” He takes another strong suck of the cigarette and leans down into your personal space, hand coming up from your waist to coax your lips open with his thumb before he slides it into your hair.

He cranes his neck to meet at your height, lips just barely brushing yours before he’s exhaling smoke into your mouth; you inhale greedily, the sweet buzz of the nicotine mixing with something spicy and dark, so unmistakably Alastor that it makes your head swim. He’d never been so forward before, had never even asked you out to a bar or to dance before, and here he was pressing your lips together like it was second nature to share the air in one another’s lungs. It burns in your veins in the best way possible.

The motion is repeated, over and over with the ash of the cigarette dropping down over his fingers as he puffs and breathed them into you. Your own hands come up to clutch at the fabric of his shirt, like without it you might simply drop to the floor. He doesn’t seem to mind the way your lashes flutter every time he backs off for normal oxygen once again, his own eyes half-lidded and dilated with every pass that the smoke takes between the two of you.

His tongue flicks against yours as he pulls away the final time; the cigarette has burned down to the end, and his usual smile is back in place. “How was that?” Alastor asks softly, using the hand that had parted your lips to cup your cheek, gazing down at you in the dim glow of the streetlight. “You think that was enough of a hit?”

“I- I think I might need another,” you manage to breathe out, and he laughs low and dark, the remnants of the cigarette dropping to the ground where he grinds it in with his heel as he holds you close to him and leans in for a proper, smokeless kiss.

[yeoldehetalian]

Get To Know Me Tag!

I was tagged by @une-pomm3

Last Song: Better Me by R3hab

Currently Watching: A documentary about bison

Currently Reading: Bringing Out the Dead by Joe Connelly

Current Obsession: actually drawing again 8)

Tagging: @floralcrematorium, @madam-of-lithuania

[bootycallin]

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ want me that top!

꩜ .ᐟ basically; vi’s the type of top…

cw; female reader. tons of praise. fïngèrìng (r! receiving). pet names (baby, babe, etc.). vi can’t stop yapping (💀), softdom! vi. not proofread.

a/n: first thing i post omfg. i got into arcane recently and wrote this on a whim, i want this woman so bad. if u see any more warnings i missed, please tell me!

NSFW UTC.

vi’s that type of top that just wants to see you feeling good <3

vi’s that type of top that just can’t shut up. she can’t help it. praises spill from her mouth like a leaky sink when she pushed herself on top of you, staring down at you with what almost seemed like heart eyes. if that was anatomically possible, it would happen to vi. or maybe there would be little birds spinning around her head. you’re so pretty it makes her dizzy.

vi’s that type of top to touch everywhere. she wants her hands all over you. she wants every part of you to be properly appreciated. she wants her handprints, her nail indents all across your skin.

vi’s that type of top to also kiss everywhere. no matter if you think it’s weird or embarrassing. she just wants herself all over you. she wants her dna mixed with yours, she wants her skin to melt into yours. if she could blend you and her, she would do it. but she’ll settle for just marking you in every way she can.

vi’s that type of top to almost never touch you too hard. she might touch you firmly, but never once will she try to bruise you. she could never, even if she tried— your skin is just too perfect, *you’re* too perfect to be marked and marred by bruises. she does get a little out of control sometimes, though… she’s trying!

vi’s that type of top to sniff you like a dog. you might be sweating, sticky and all, but she doesn’t care. she wants to smell your skin. she wants to breathe and live you. so she’ll keep her face buried into your shoulder at any time she can, trying to commit your scent to memory until all she can breathe is you.

vi’s that type of top that wants to feel you. she doesn’t really like straps, only when she’s stressed and really just needs to fuck some of it away. vi likes fingering you. she likes feeling you from the inside out, feeling how wet you are, your warm, soft texture against her roughened fingertips.

vi’s that type of top who just can’t stop yapping when you’re about to cum. yeah? gonna cum for me, princess? come on, give it to me, baby. it’s what she does when she gets excited— also when she gets nervous, but she’d rather die than to admit that. she just wants you to feel good.

vi’s that type of top to be shameless. she’s vocal and she can’t shut up and she loves you. truly a killer combo.

“s’ fuckin’ pretty,” she groans into your neck, pressing kiss after kiss up and down, stopping to gently tug at your skin. her hands are under you, one grabbing and squeezing one of your thighs as she keeps it apart for her, the other pressed against your sobbing cunt, knuckles deep where you want her most, palm squishing against your poor, sensitive clit.

“vii,” you whined, hips bucking against her. she shushed you, gently biting your skin again as though it was a warning.

“shh. good girl, good girl, that’s it— fuuuck…”

you could’ve sworn she was the one getting fucked with how she grunted and groaned. she wanted to smack herself for being so weak, so mushy. it wasn’t her fault you felt so damn good squeezing around her, gummy walls molded to the shape of her fingers.

“shit… so fuckin’ perfect, my pretty girl,” she mutters against your skin, fingers digging deeper and deeper into your cunt, rubbing against the top side of your pussy to try and find that special little spot that made you cry for her.

“so fuckin’ sweet, ain’t you? yeah,” she muttered, squeezing your thigh, then giving it a soft smack. “so fuckin’ sweet. pussy so fuckin’ sweet, so fucking wet…”

the way she speaks, almost nonchalantly, the way she says those types of things so damn easily— it was always something that surprised you about vi. she could say the dirtiest things ever and yet make it sound so sickeningly endearing— and exciting. you gush around her hand, slick covering her fingers, and you can hear her chuckle softly.

“oh gosh, baby. you’re dripping,” she briefly pulls her fingers out of your pussy just to see the wetness that coats her fingers, much to your dismay. your whines of protest are quickly quieted when she presses the tips of her fingers to your twitchy clit, rubbing soft circles against it.

“vi, please…” you whined, not even sure what you wanted. you just wanted her in general, you needed her.

“please what, baby?” she muttered, like she didn’t know damn well what you wanted. “words, sweet thing. i’m no mind reader,” she was smirking, and you could hear it in her voice. she could be so mean.

“please, fuck—“ you whimpered, hips bucking against her fingers to try and seek friction, trying to look for some respite for the aching down there, the growing need. “please… please, wanna cum…”

you expected there to be some more begging, but you cut yourself off with a moan as you feel her fingers prod at your entrance again, slipping in with ease, her thumb now pressed against your clit to follow. you almost scream when she finds that spongy spot inside you, the knot that was building in your stomach tightening impossibly more. “fuck, how can i deny you, baby?”

she really couldn’t. not when you looked so damn cute, squirming and crying, face as red as a tomato. she pulls her face from your shoulder to look up at you, soft blue eyes almost peering into your soul.

“viii.. gonna-“

“gonna cum, baby?” she’s rubbing the pads of her fingers against your g-spot, thumb circling your hardened bud at the same deliberate pace. it was slow, but not lazy. if anything, it was careful. meticulous. measured. she wanted to give you the best orgasm you’ve ever had—which wasn’t really hard for her, but she tried her damndest every time.

“you’re dripping, babe,” she muttered against the love of your ear, briefly kissing over it, “fuck. gonna cum, aren’t you, baby? gonna cum f’me?”

you can just barely whine out her name, eyes rolling back, and she smiles, pleased with herself. she doesn’t let herself stop though. “fuck, yeah… just let it go, baby. wanna see you cum f’me. cmon, give it to me, baby, yeah, just cum f’me…”

and it doesn’t take much more of her dirty talk and praise for you to gush onto her palm, orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, thighs trembling, head thrown back. if she could only explain how perfect you looked. she could probably reach her own high just seeing you cum.

“fuuuck, that’s it, baby,” she grunted, kissing up and down the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving goosebumps in the trail of her lips. “that’s it. good girl, yeah… let it all out f’me. gimme everything, babe. like that, goooood girl-“

she doesn’t stop until you’re completely spent and starting to get overstimulated, shaking your head and trying to push her away by the shoulders. “good girl. so good. so fuckin’ pretty,” she mutters as she pulls her fingers out of your cunt. not before wiping her fingers up your slit to gather every ounce of your orgasm and arousal she could, bringing it to her lips shamelessly.

“vi…” she smirked. “what? just tastin’ my sweet thing.” and she kisses you, the taste of her lips mixed with your essence slipping onto your tongue. she pulls away with a sigh.

“pretty girl.” she muttered. “my perfect girl.”

vi’s that type of top that just can’t shut up, who practically begs to see you cum. because at the end of the day, all she wants is to make her baby feel good <3

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 © bootycallin on tumblr. do not copy, translate or cross post without permission. ᛝ

[fryologyy]

wander over yonder sketchdump!

[pinkwinesupernovas]

just me and my emotional support blue albums against the world

[massivetittiesandwarcrimes]

When asked who his favorite brother was, Dick answered 'Tim' without hesitation. When asked why, he glares at Jason (6'1) and Damian (6'3) and says that unlike his other Little Brothers, Tim (5'7) actually understood how things were supposed to work around here!

[bambi-whispers]

sabrina carpenter’s pink babydoll inspired dress, short n’ sweet tour 2024 ୨୧

[almondpiglet]

needed to draw something this year for tomes bday...really wanted to draw her highschool friends

[tojisun]

like everything with john, it ends with a quiet admission.

"i'm tired."

the words fall from your lips like needles dragging along the curvature of your throat. they puncture, aching with their vengeance, until they slip into the open space, never to be taken back. never to be unsaid.

you do not look at him when you say this, incapable of facing your limits. your shortcomings.

you are a fraud dressed in fluffed up costumes, preaching about true love and never-ending devotion but look where you are right now—straining behind the stained walls of this relationship, splintering at the fleeting weight of his affections.

and you thought it was poetic how flowers could grow in between cracked asphalt.

the reality of the situation is like this—john loves you.

but it's not enough to silence the doubts and the jealousy, because you are jealous. you're not a jealous person, god knows many tried you, but this thing with john—this relationship that ever so fluctuates—it is troubling. insufficient, truly.

your friends told you to be better; that people who are jealous are just insecure about their relationship and yes, you are. that is the crux of it; that is what drags the voices from the pits of your stomachs to spit to each other’s face, spewing with vitriol because john has made you this beastly being, always pawing for his attention, always begging for the scraps.

he's left you rotten and all hollowed-out.

an empty opera house.

“is it because o’mary?” he asks, quick to find the rot in your core only to prod at it. gawk at it. to marvel at its festering like he had not been the cause of such unravelling.

is it because of mary he asked like you had not spent sleepless nights crying to him, telling him that you do not feel good when it was just the two of them. that you do not want whatever it is they have—hell, his friends had called her his work wife; crooning to each other like you were just a pinned butterfly stuck behind glass, watching as they coloured the details of john’s life beyond your grasp. of his love outside of your arms.

is it because of mary he asked like he hadn’t just told you of mary’s love for him, the confession she’d whispered as he held her in his arms after she had lost her pet to an illness. like he didn’t tell you, in awed whispers, how mary told him that he was the best thing that ever happened to her; the loveliest thing in her life like john was hers to begin with. like john wasn’t wearing a gold band on his ring—the promise he’s made in that courthouse, when the two of you were still too young and obsessively in love.

is it because of mary he asked like he hadn’t just told you, in angered puffs, that he couldn’t have rejected her then. she was in pain, he’d said. i couldn’t do that to her, he’d added like it was mary whom he married. like it was mary who he needed to protect and reassure and cherish.

so yes, it is because of her. but also, it is because you are tired.

tired of asking for his love. for his devotion. for him to choose you, come what may.

“just,” you begin, too weak for anything more. “sign the papers, please john.”

even when you are leaving him, you are still unable to stop yourself from pleading to him for his kindness. for his grace.

he stares at you, pinched lips and flared nose, and you stare back because this man—this john that stands before you—this isn’t the man you’ve loved. not the one who loved you back.

your john wouldn’t have hurt you this way; he would have listened to your whispered confessions, see the ache in your admission, and move himself away from mary because why did it matter if she had loved him? your john wouldn’t have cared for her affections; your john would have only cared for your own.

your john wouldn’t have—

your john wouldn’t. and now he is gone.

so you walk away from… this man amidst the suffocating silence, feeling nothing wash over you.

they said divorce feels like liberation; that it feels like the start of something kinder and better and brighter. but this just feels like a bruise on your tender skin—something blooming, pain so muted that it hurts only when you poke it.

and like how you were with all your previous bruises, you cannot stop poking at this one too.

[fairyygore]

[loloslaystheday]

Spark

pairing: rengoku kyojuro x f!wife!reader

prompt: kyojuro's excited to welcome his little girl into the family, but he never expected the emotions to hit so hard.

note: i was so unsure how to name this and i spent like 30 mins thinking of the pairing😭 im supposed to be sleeping bc i have testing tomorrow but oh well🤷🏾‍♀️

kyojuro never even thought of getting married. well... he never really even thought about it until he met you,. but to him,marriage was it.

when you asked him about having kids that was the first time he ever thought about it. he didn't really care about carrying on the family name, he had a brother and just cared about being with you.

but he would never deny his wife, who gave him everything he ever asked for, this one thing that she asked for.

he was ecstatic when you came to him with the good news; you were pregnant. he didn’t mind taking care of you at all until you had the baby. whatever you asked for he got, no questions asked.

and when the day finally came to welcome their little bundle of joy into the world, and he saw her face, and he held her in his arms, he didn’t know how hard the moment would hit him. she looked so small compared to him and it choked him up.

before he knew it, tears streamed down his face despite his fond and loving smile.

“she looks just like you.” he sniffs. you smile back at him, grabbing his free hand and squeezing it firmly.

she made small whimpers and shifted a bit. her little nose twitched with the ragged breaths and she couldn’t sit still in his arms.

he looked back up at you now. “thank you.”

you scoffed and rolled your eyes with a small laugh.

“she’s a momma’s girl.” you winked at kyojuro. “think ill be the favorite.”

“well, you are my favorite.”

“ah, so she gets it from you?” he nodded. you laughed, kissing his hand before leaning against it. “i love you.”

“i love you more.”

[snail17]

A short fic about little Megumi having a nightmare, and Gojo caring (He's a good dad).

Megumi woke in the middle of the night, from a bad dream. The young seven-year-old was upset and couldn't go to back to sleep, so he got up. His footsteps were light and quiet on the tiles as he headed towards the kitchen for a glass of water.

Once he had sufficiently hydrated himself, young Megumi was unsure what to do. He didn't want to go back to his bed alone, and he didn't want to disturb Tsumiki’s sleep, so he decided to do the next best thing.

Go to Gojo.

With careful, measured movements, Megumi crept down the hall and opened Gojo’s door. His small face was etched in a frown. Gojo was fast asleep, lightly snoring with his long limbs stretched out across the bed.

Megumi leaned over and poked his cheek, trying to wake the sleeping man.

Gojo suddenly shifted, his eyes opening slowly as he yawned. He sat up a bit, leaning on his elbow and blinking to adjust to the darkness. He saw Megumi standing there silently. He frowned, slightly confused and still half-asleep.

"Megumi? What's wrong, buddy?"

"I had a nightmare," Megumi mumbled, looking down. His voice was small and soft as he fidgeted with the edge of his shirt. Gojo sighed, patting the spot next to him on the bed.

"Come here."

Megumi didn't protest, and instead quickly climbed onto the bed, crawling next to Gojo. The older of the two pulled the boy closer, wrapping an arm around him. Gojo's presence had always made Megumi feel safe and secure.

He was the strongest, after all.

"What was the nightmare about?" Gojo asked, his voice gentle. He was used to having Megumi come to him after a bad dream, but he always made sure to ask what the dream was about, just to make sure everything was alright.

"There was a big monster," Megumi huffed, clinging onto Gojo's shirt. "It was chasing me."

Gojo frowned, his protective instincts kicking in. He gently hugged Megumi tighter, running a hand through the boy's hair.

"It's okay, it was just a dream," Gojo reassured, his voice low and soothing. "Monsters can't hurt you. Not when I'm here."

Megumi nodded and yawned, his eyes going half-lidded as he leaned into Gojo's touch. He felt a bit embarrassed at coming to Gojo for something so stupid, but he was only a child.

"Can I sleep here tonight?"

Gojo chuckled softly, a small smile on his face.

"Of course you can, kiddo."

Gojo rearranged the blankets, laying back down on the bed and pulling Megumi against him. The boy snuggled into Gojo's side, his breathing starting to even out as he relaxed.

Gojo continued to run his hand through Megumi's hair, holding him close and watching as the young boy drifted back to sleep. He couldn't help but feel a surge of tenderness and protectiveness towards the young child in his arms.

"Sleep well, kid," he whispered, his eyes softening as he gazed down at Megumi.

Gojo gently rested his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. He knew that he'd sleep restlessly, keeping one ear open in case Megumi needed him again during the night.

For now, he just held the young child close, his arm protectively wrapped around him.

Gojo lay there for a while in the silence, just holding Megumi and listening to the sound of the boy's soft breathing. He couldn't help but smile a little as he felt Megumi's small hand gripping onto his shirt, even in sleep. It was a silent reminder of the bond he had formed with the young boy.

It was times like these that Gojo truly felt like a father figure to Megumi. He felt a deep sense of responsibility and affection towards the young child, and he would do anything to protect him.

He'd do everything in his power to protect that bond.

[lotus-pear]

finally started p5 royal ‼️‼️‼️‼️

expect some royal trio art soon they are my dearly beloveds (minus akechi i hope he dies in this reality too)

[like-wuatafauq]

I need a sweet angel femme to sit on my lap, I need her to scoot back and feel my strap underneath my sweats and be a bit shy when she turns her whole body to face me. I need her to wrap her legs around me to be as close to me as possible and let out a humming noise when I tell her that if she's good to me I'll give her whatever she wants. I need a pretty princess just for me and no one else not just because she knows I'm selfish but because she only wants to be pleased by me.

Mmm as she starts kissing my neck to convince me she's good to me, she can't help but to desperately ride my butch cock over my sweats. I need her to speak softly and breathy about how she could never do me wrong. I want her to be sweet,soft,true and so so so good to me that I have no choice but to fill her up. I want her to feel how special she is. I don't want to tell her she's a good girl, no, if she's so so so good to me, she is a sweet angel. My sweet angel, and I want her to feel back at home while I'm inside her. I want her to feel so high and heavenly as I wrap my arms around her body tightly and fuck her until she can't say anything but just let out moans. I want to make her cum over and over for being so good to me, I want to kiss her in a way that she knows she's so easy to love. That being so good to me will always have its rewards.

[verstappentime]

max revealed this week that he was definitely driving with brain damage after his silverstone crash and struggled to see during his win at the U.S. grand prix that year (3 months later). obviously this yields hurt/comfort maxiel. daniel isn't too happy about all of this. max's poor head hurts.

→ →→ it’s gp who finds daniel, intercepting him as he comes out of his driver’s room. “max needs you, mate,” he says, calm but serious. maybe a little exasperated.

of course daniel goes.

gp presses a water bottle, mixed with some kind of blue powder, into his hand. “he needs to drink this. and tell him we’re having a look at his visor, okay?”

daniel nods, even though that means nothing to him.

he finds max on the floor with all the lights off, almost tripping over him. “baby,” he says, heart already in his throat. “whatcha doing down there?”

max doesn’t say anything. daniel goes for the light switch; max whines straight away, breathing harshly through his nose. “leave them off.” it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

fuck. daniel crouches down beside him. “maxy? is it a migraine?” max is all balled up, his forehead against his knees, navy kit making it hard to see him in the dark. daniel sets a hand on the back of his neck – he’s overwarm and still sticky with champagne. he looked okay, after the race. he looked fine. he hasn’t had a migraine in months, after a string of them following silverstone.

max still isn’t talking. daniel’s heart is thumping in his chest. he tries, “gp says they’re looking at your visor?”

max reaches around blindly, finding his phone and holding it out to daniel. “text him and tell him not to do that. say i’m fine.”

“what?”

max waves the phone at him. “tell him good win, thank you, whatever, and there’s no need, and i’m fine. daniel, please text him.”

“max. you’re not–”

“daniel.” max presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “fuck. just say it. i don’t want anyone staying late.”

“then you’ll tell me what’s wrong?” daniel’s worried enough to resort to bartering.

“yes. sure. whatever.”

it’s enough for daniel to tap out the text, trying to mimic the punctuation max would use. “okay. talk.” max reaches out, and daniel doesn’t realize what he wants until he starts patting the back of daniel’s hand. he links their fingers, squeezing. when max doesn’t start right away, he prompts, “can you tell me why gp is worried about your helmet?”

“on the track. i couldn’t. like. see.” max squeezes his hand harder. “fuck, that hurts.”

“you– what? you couldn’t see what?”

“anything?” max makes a miserable noise. “like, everything was– blurry? is that what you say? and i was trying to focus, it was hurting my head. but i’ll sit here for a while and it’ll be fine. just. probably gp didn’t want to leave me on the floor alone.”

“you– max, what?” daniel worried about this for weeks, after silverstone. he read every pamphlet on what he was supposed to watch for, which symptoms meant max needed to go back to the hospital. watched every meal to make sure max wasn’t nauseous, made him rate every headache out of 10. “you were driving, and you couldn’t see?”

“i was thinking maybe i would stop, but i needed to win this one, and i could, so i did.”

“you were thinking maybe you would stop.” max verstappen was going to pull out of a race. fuckfuckfuck. “max, that really isn’t good. it’s– it didn’t hurt at first? not like a migraine?” they’d explained that in the pamphlet. tunnel vision was a migraine; blurred vision was not.

max gives a little shake of his head.

“that’s. they told us to watch for that, do you remember?” daniel lets go of max’s hand, gripping him at both arms. he wants to fucking shake him, but he’s too afraid of hurting him. “it’s. like. a sign of post concussion syndrome. fuck, max, has this happened before?"

“sometimes in the sim,” max says. “whenever i’m looking at a screen for a long time. i don’t know. it goes away. it’s not– i’m not sick or something.”

daniel wishes he had the fucking pamphlet. “max, it’s been three months since your crash. you shouldn’t be driving, you shouldn’t have been driving, i knew it was worse than you were letting on—”

“daniel, you’re hurting me.” max’s voice shrinking. daniel hadn’t noticed how tight his grip had become.

“fuck. sorry. sorry.” daniel lets go, soothing his hands up max’s arms. “can we go to medical? please?”

“no,” max says emphatically.

“max, i think something’s really wrong.” he thinks of max, woozy on the track, not knowing someone’s coming up on his side. bang. smoke.

“i hit my fucking head at 51G. that is what’s wrong. it will get better.”

max is alive and right in front of him, but he’s thinking of jules, in a coma all those months. “you should have told me. you can’t fuck around with this.” god, he sounds mean, but it’s just that he can feel his pulse up to his ears and he needs max to be alright.

“i just want to go home. it hurts so much, daniel.” max sounds so tired. it’s enough to snap him back. because max actually needs him right now, not in some imaginary future disaster world.

“okay. yeah. i’m sorry, baby. we’ll go home.” he’s giving up too easily, but. max never says anything hurts, unless it’s a papercut or something stupid he can pester daniel about for days. he tries to do some of michael’s stupid box breathing technique. four in. four out. okay. take care of max, idiot.

max lets himself be helped up and settled into a chair. he covers his eyes as daniel turns the lights on. they’ve both long missed their debriefs; daniel doesn’t bother looking at his phone. he assumes someone explained for him somehow.

“there’s medicine in my bag, the headache stuff,” max mumbles.

daniel’s hands feel clumsy as he fishes it the bottle out and opens it, taking out two tablets and pressing them into max’s clammy palm. he hands him the blue concoction gp gave him. “drink that, too, hey?” they’d done this so many times back in july. he’d really thought it was over.

daniel fishes through the bag some more, coming up with max’s sunglasses. max puts them on, looking ridiculous as daniel goes around collecting his stuff. he nurses the blue thing quietly, hugging his backpack to his chest when daniel hands it to him. the only other time daniel’s seen max this quiet was after silverstone, stony-faced and wrung out when they’d finally arrived back to the hotel and max had been cleared to go to sleep.

“okay, baby, i think we have everything,” he says quietly, anxiety starting to fade into guilt. he’s not going to convince max to stay out of the car, and they both know that. if max can survive the next month and a half, he’ll win the world championship and then they can fucking. breathe. daniel will make him rest if he has to.

max lets himself be guided to the car with a gentle hand on the small of his back. daniel does his seatbelt for him like he’s a child. he doesn’t even know why. “are we fighting?” max asks, still hugging his backpack.

“no. no? i don't think so. we can talk later. let’s just. you need a shower and sleep.”

“you think gp got my trophy?”

“i’m sure he did, max.” daniel can’t help the tiniest smile. god, this fucking kid.

[abrandnewshadow]

interview for stage ae by teyana kent before the 04/23/2017 show at stage ae pittsburgh pa - samantha angel on yt