#should I craft myself next | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hivemuthur · 3 months ago

Note

Hii! Could I request a Viktor x reader fic where the reader commissions an elevator be built in the academi/wherever his lab is, so viktor doesn't have to climb so many stairs and than getting stuck in the said elevator with viktor. I'm thinking reader with mild claustrophobia, love confession, whatever you see fit? (Smut/fluff, whatever) Thank youu❤️❤️

~🍒

Dear Anon, thank you for a lovely request! ❤️

Five Things

viktorxgn!reader mature! kissing, or rather making out, reader suffers anxiety attack, fluff!

author’s note: If you help me find an artist of this drawing I will be eternally grateful! Artist found, image description updated! Thank you! Can you tell I am obsessed with his neck?

word count: 2,7K

—

“Can you at least tell me if my current state of restriction leads to something beneficial?” Viktor whined, his hand clasped in yours as you blindfolded him and led him through the academy corridors.

“Trust me, it will be very beneficial,” you said matter-of-factly, not noticing the smirk on his face. The flirt dared to chuckle at that, and you shot him a look, a force of habit. “Maybe not as much as you think, whatever clatters around that head of yours.”

“Wouldn’t you want to know, dear friend,” Viktor mused, squeezing your hand tighter, his thumb ghosting over your index finger and sending goosebumps up your arm. Friend, of course—you were friends, and that was fine.

When you finally got there, mindful of all the plant pots, benches, and other objects cluttering the hallways—apparently, people would lose shoes, books, or once-bitten sandwiches—your face was beetroot red from all the teasing and handholding. You thanked the gods that all Viktor could see was the inside of your scarf.

“Are you ready?” you asked after clearing your throat.

“Depends. I trust you endlessly, so if you have led me to something dangerous, I am very much unready. If—” he accentuated, lifting his finger, picturing what kind of expression was painting itself on your face right now, “it’s in fact something very beneficial, I would like to think myself always ready for that.”

“You talk too much, mister,” you let out a strangled chuckle and began undoing the knot at the nape of his neck. Your fingers brushed the skin at his hairline, and Viktor shivered despite himself. A smile bloomed under your nose, as you tried to steady your breathing. “Here we go.”

You were still standing behind him, peeking over his shoulder, but you couldn’t see his expression. When no comment came for a while, you asked hesitantly, “What do you think?”

“You did this?” he mumbled quietly. His hand travelled to his back to find yours and lead you next to him. “How?”

“I didn’t do this exactly,” you said humbly, lowering your eyes to stare at your shoes. “But I might have bullied some people, who bullied other people, who commissioned other people to make it. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it? I… have no words.” The squeeze of his hand strengthened again as he walked up closer to study the ornamentations.

The elevator was not only functional but also beautiful. The outside frame was made of mixed metals, resembling both the design of the academy’s historical rooms and the specific curls and bends of hextech equipment. The inside was carefully crafted from deep, warm varnished wood.

You let out a breath you had been holding for far too long and laughed. “Well, I have to thank Janna for that miracle later,” you teased him.

Viktor’s mouth didn’t move an inch as he turned to face you and pulled you into an unexpected embrace. His cheeks were faintly pink when his arms cradled you, and you could feel the press of his cane’s handle against your shoulder blade. Letting out another breath you’d been holding, you relaxed into it and wrapped your arms around his waist, breathing in the scent of parchment and oil that clung to him.

“Should we… test it?” he offered playfully, his amber eyes sparkling with excitement.

You hesitated, but the way his hand remained clasped around yours melted your resolve. “Alright, but only if you don’t start analysing every bolt and rivet,” you teased, trying to keep your voice steady.

As you stepped into the elevator together, your heart began to beat faster. The space, while beautifully crafted, felt far too confined. The warm varnished wood and intricate metal details seemed to close in around you the moment Viktor gently pulled the handle to close the door. It slid with a deep metallic groan, settling into place with an audible clunk.

Your breathing hitched slightly, but you kept a smile plastered on your face, still holding his hand as if it were a lifeline.

Viktor, utterly delighted, hummed appreciatively as the mechanism engaged. “Remarkable. The craftsmanship is truly exceptional—the balance of form and function. And these gears, see the way they interlock? It’s as though—” He paused mid-sentence, glancing down at you. “Are you alright? You’re gripping my hand rather tightly. Not that I am complaining of course.”

You blinked up at him, your chest tightening as you struggled to keep calm. “I’m fine,” you lied, your voice pitched slightly higher than usual.

Viktor’s brow furrowed in concern, but before he could press further, the elevator lurched and trembled under your feet. A hollow metallic thud reverberated through the space, and then… nothing. The lift shuddered and stopped.

“Oh no,” you muttered under your breath, your hand darting to the handle. You tugged on it once, then again, harder this time, but it wouldn’t budge. The handle jammed in place, as immovable as the walls surrounding you.

“Wait, hold on,” Viktor said, his voice calm but curious as he leaned forward to inspect the mechanism. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s stuck,” you replied quickly, trying not to sound panicked. Your hand dropped from the handle as your fingers fidgeted at your side, searching for something to grasp. “It’s not moving. It’s… oh gods.”

You started breathing faster, each inhale sharper than the last.

“Hey,” Viktor said softly, his tone gentle now, his attention fully on you. “What’s going on?”

“I—” you hesitated, your voice catching as you looked at him. You didn’t want to ruin the moment, but there was no hiding it now. “I might not be… the best in small spaces.”

His face softened instantly, the corners of his mouth dipping into a sympathetic frown. “You’re claustrophobic?”

“Maybe a little. And this…” You gestured vaguely at the enclosed space, the walls that felt closer with each passing second. “I don’t know. It’s just—”

“Alright, alright,” Viktor interrupted gently, turning fully to face you, his hand squeezing yours where it rested against his chest. His voice was soft but firm, grounding. “Breathe with me. Slowly, pomalý,” he murmured, his tone warm, almost coaxing. “I need you to try and name five things you can see.”

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, frustration flickering in your chest as you stared at him, willing him to drop the exercise. But his steady gaze told you he wouldn’t budge. Reluctantly, you glanced around.

“Um… a broken handle,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though your voice betrayed your unease. “Uh… my shoes,” you added, but the words wavered, cracking like brittle glass.

Viktor’s hand shifted to pull you closer, his forehead gently pressing against yours. His breath, soft and warm, fanned across your face, calming one part of you, while unnerving the other. “Very good,” he said quietly. “Three more things. Anything you can see,” he encouraged, a faint smile lighting his features, his amber eyes bright with reassurance.

A strange lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed it down and tried again. “Your buttons… your hands… your freckles,” you blurted out quickly, the words tumbling over each other before you could stop them. It wasn’t until the words were out that you realised everything you’d named had been Viktor.

He let out a quiet sweet laugh, his chest moving against your hand. “Very good,” he said again, his voice laced with amusement. “Now—four things you can touch.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, making your heart stutter.

You inhaled shakily, closing your eyes to concentrate. “Wood… uh, the metal,” you began, though your throat tightened as you spoke.

“Good,” Viktor said soothingly. “Two more. Don’t overthink it—anything you can touch, no matter how small.”

You hesitated for a moment, then exhaled a resigned sigh. “Your hair… and your hand,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Heat crept up your cheeks, and you silently prayed you could blame it on the anxiety instead of… well, him.

Viktor’s smile softened, a hint of understanding dancing in his expression. “Very good,” he said simply, his hand steady in yours.

“Now—three things you can hear. Take your time,” he added, lowering his voice, the soft click of his tongue echoing faintly in the confined space.

You glanced up, meeting his gaze, and felt your chest tighten for a different reason entirely. “The metal cracking,” you said after a moment, your voice strained as you took a shallow breath. “My heavy breathing… and your voice.”

“You’re doing so well,” Viktor murmured, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles along your skin. “Two things you can smell,” he continued, his voice dipping lower as he shifted ever so slightly closer, the space between you shrinking. His nose nearly brushed yours, and you felt your lungs hitch, though now it had little to do with the cramped elevator.

“Oil… and parchment,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your eyes fluttered shut.

There was a faint noise from Viktor—a soft clearing of his throat—and you felt warmth bloom across his cheeks, his flustered reaction oddly comforting. At least you weren’t the only one affected by the closeness.

He leaned in just a fraction more, his cheek brushing against yours, the soft skin of his jaw teasing under your ear. His heartbeat was rapid under your intertwined hands, the rhythm betraying his otherwise steady demeanour. “Last one,” he murmured, his breath brushing your earlobe. “One thing you can taste?”

Your eyelids cracked open, your gaze falling on the column of his neck, mere inches away. For a heartbeat, time froze. Before you could second-guess yourself, you pressed your lips to his skin and whispered, “You.”

Viktor exhaled sharply, the sound trembling as it escaped. Without breaking position, he propped his cane against the wall and brought his hand to your cheek, his touch warm and grounding. You leaned into his palm, a quiet hum slipping from your lips.

His face hovered close to yours, his breath mingling with your own as he murmured, “Now I find myself in need of calming some anxiety.”

“Well, why don’t you name five things you can see, then?” Your voice slipped back into a teasing lilt; the tiny space of the elevator forgotten, replaced by the infinitely smaller space shared between the two of you.

“Hmm,” he mused, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Your ear,” he murmured before placing a soft, lingering kiss on your earlobe. “Your neck,” he added, brushing his lips gently against it. “Your eyes,” came next, accompanied by a featherlight peck on your brow. “Your nose,” he whispered, dropping another kiss just above its bridge. His tone deepened as he concluded, “And your chin.” He placed the final kiss there, smiling as he rested his forehead against yours.

“Very well,” you breathed, the places his lips had touched burning and tingling with an intensity that left you dizzy. “Now, four things you can touch, was it?”

“Your skin,” he replied immediately, taking a deep breath as his hands framed your cheeks, his thumbs brushing your jaw. “Your neck,” he chuckled softly, letting his palms glide down the sides of your throat, the light pressure sending a shiver down your spine. “Your collarbones,” he added, his thumbs pressing firmly against the delicate ridge, “and your shoulders.” His hands lingered there, warm and steady.

“You’re doing so well, Viktor,” you teased lightly, your eyes fluttering shut as you focused on his touch. “Next, three things you can hear.”

“Your voice,” he said, his thumb brushing against your lower lip, the faint scrape of his nail sending a ripple of heat through you. “Your breath,” he added, his gaze locking with yours, quiet intensity simmering in his amber eyes. After a brief hesitation, his hand moved to rest over your sternum. “And your heart. A very loud little thing,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower.

“We’re almost done,” you whispered, your breath hitching as he pulled you closer, his hands firm at your waist. “Two things you can smell.”

Viktor’s arms caged you in as he leaned in, his face burying in the crook of your neck. His voice rasped, “Your hair… and your skin. My favourite smells.” He inhaled deeply, his breath ghosting across your neck, his lips brushing faintly against your tendon. You felt his nose press against your skin as he trailed his open mouth along your neck, leaving a path of heat in its wake.

You swallowed hard, your body bracing for the last part. “A thing you can taste?” Your voice was quiet, barely audible.

“You, hopefully,” Viktor murmured, cupping your face gently as his lips brushed yours, tentative at first. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of green tea, and when you glanced up, you noticed his ears were flushed red, his cheeks dusted a deep pink.

One of your hands found its way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair, while the other settled on his hip, where his vest shifted to reveal a sliver of skin beneath. At your touch, Viktor groaned softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips as he tilted his head and let his tongue glide across your upper lip.

Your brows furrowed briefly, your eyes fluttering closed as you parted your lips to let him deepen the kiss. His hands slid from your cheeks to cradle your waist, one slipping up your back to press against your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

His weight leaned into you, his breath filling your lungs with warmth, and a soft moan escaped your lips. Viktor echoed the sound, his chest vibrating with it, and the sensation rippled through you, your heart fluttering wildly against his. Your lips felt swollen under his, your fingers tugging at his hair to keep him anchored against you.

He obliged, pressing into you further as he guided you back a step until your back met the cold wood of the elevator wall. His lips left yours to travel down your neck, the heat of his mouth searing into your skin as he pressed soft, insistent kisses. He sucked gently at the base of your neck, pulling a startled giggle from you, and when he seemed satisfied with the mark he left, he dragged his tongue flat against the spot before returning to your mouth.

The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, his lips moving with an intensity that left you dizzy. Yet, even in his eagerness, Viktor’s touch remained steady, his hold on you firm but reverent, as though you were something precious to him. When you finally felt yourself running out of breath, Viktor pulled back just enough, a translucent string of saliva still connecting your mouths.

“So… um…” you whispered, your breath shallow and quick. “I take it you like your present?”

Viktor brushed his nose gently against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he nodded eagerly. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice low and hushed, “yes, very beneficial... very good gift. Possibly the best one anyone's ever given me.”

You hummed contentedly, settling yourself more comfortably in Viktor's arms, your head resting against his chest. The warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart, was enough to make you forget the rest of the world. But as the seconds passed and the kiss-induced haze begun to clear, reality seeped back in. You tilted your head up, suddenly aware of your position—still trapped in the elevator.

"So... how long do you think we're going to be stuck here?" you asked, the playful hint still lingering in your voice.

Viktor's lips twitch into a small smile, his hands gently stroking your back as he leaned closer. "Well, how long would you like to be stuck here?" he teased, his eyes glinting mischievously.

You blinked, confused for a moment. "What do you mean? You know how to fix it?"

His smile widened, and there was a slight glint of guilt in his eyes. "Well, I'm an engineer after all," he said, his tone almost sheepish. "I knew the minute it broke."

"Viktor!" you exclaimed in mock offense, lightly batting his chest with your hand. "You knew the whole time?" He chuckled softly, his gaze softening as he looked down at you, clearly amused. "What can I say? I like a little... suspense."

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #viktor x gn!reader #viktor fluff #viktor x reader fluff #requests #��

537 notes · View notes

nino-rox · 4 months ago

Text

PETER PARKER | BOYFRIEND HEADCANONS | M | GENDER NEUTRAL READER

Warnings: Sexual Themes, Mature/Explicit, Gender Neutral Reader, Tom Holland As Spider-Man, Not Proof Read

DISCLAIMER: Please be of the appropriate age ( i.e, Adult as per your country’s stipulations and regulations) before interacting with this post.

(Author’s Note: Requested by Anonymous user. My first time writing headcanons, I’ve barely even read any so I’m sorry if it’s not great ! Please request for more ! )

~What dating Parker feels like on a day to day basis

THE SKYLIGHT CATASTROPHE

One night, there’s a thud loud enough to rattle the walls, followed by an ominous silence. You know exactly what’s happened even before Peter pokes his head through the window, windswept and grinning sheepishly.“So, uh… surprise! You have a new skylight!”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “You broke my roof again?”“Okay, technically, it was already fragile. I just… sped up the process.”

The next morning, you find him on the roof, duct tape and webs in hand, muttering to himself like he’s crafting a masterpiece.“Peter, you’re going to fall.”He waves you off without even looking up. “Relax! You’re being ridiculous. I’m Spider-Man—I won’t fall. Skylights are all the rage anyway. Just think of it as me upgrading your house for free!”

Right as he says it, his foot slips, and he stumbles forward, barely catching himself with a web against the gutter.“SEE? I caught myself!” he says triumphantly, cheeks flushed as he steadies himself.

You stare at him, appalled. “Peter, I’m not worried about you, you blithering idiot. I’m worried about my house! Fall on the road and break your head if you want, but I swear to god, if you break my house again—”

“Noted. No more house-breaking. Promise. Bob the Builder’s retired anyway,” he grins.

WEBBED LAUNDRY

You pull a ruined hoodie out of the wash—bright red, stretched beyond recognition, and sticky with web fluid. Marching into the living room, you hold it up like evidence.“Peter! Why is my hoodie fused with web glue?”

Peter looks up from the couch, cereal bowl in hand, his eyes widening. “Ohhh… yeah, about that…”

You glare, waiting.

“I, uh, might’ve had to yank my suit off super quickly after patrol last night—it was covered in webs—and I didn’t realize it stuck to your hoodie in the laundry pile.”

You narrow your eyes. “You didn’t realize?”

Peter sets the bowl down, flashing a nervous grin. “Look, web fluid is mostly water-soluble! If we wait a day, it’ll dissolve!”

You groan, holding up the ruined fabric. “It better dissolve. Or you’re buying me a new hoodie.”

Peter slides an arm around your waist, grinning. “Or… we could share this one? Exclusive Spider-Merch for my favorite person.”

THE GREAT SPIDER-MAN’S HANDYMAN FAILS

You and Peter finally move in together, which should have been exciting—except unpacking with Spider-Man is a nightmare.“Peter, where’s the box with the kitchen stuff?” you ask, arms crossed.

Peter scratches the back of his head, sheepishly pointing to a corner. “Uh… it’s webbed to the ceiling. I thought it’d save space?”

You sigh. “Okay, fine. But why is there a Spider-Tracer in the toaster?”

He grins nervously. “Security measure?”

Later, you catch him trying to web a shelf together instead of using screws.“PETER!”“What? This is structurally sound!”

THE HOODIE INCIDENT

Peter freezes when he sees you curled up in his hoodie, sleeves hanging past your hands.“You stole it again?”“Finders keepers.”

He steps closer, voice low and teasing. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Before you can respond, he tackles you onto the couch, hovering over you with a grin.“You’re not keeping it.”“Make me.”

MORNING HEATWAVE SNUGGLES

You wake up tangled in Peter’s limbs, his face buried in the crook of your neck. It’s cozy—until you realize he’s a human heater.“Peter. Let me go. I have stuff to do.”

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs, pulling you closer with ridiculous Spider-strength. “Spider-Boyfriend privilege.”

“You smell like sweat and bad decisions.”

Peter chuckles, his breath warm against your skin. “Want me to make another bad decision?” His lips brush your jaw as his voice drops, teasing. “I can make you sweaty too.”

Heat flares in your cheeks, but you manage to mutter, “You’re impossible.”

His smirk is pure trouble as he rolls you onto your back. “And you love it.”

SWINGING FOR BEGINNERS

The first time Peter suggests swinging with you, you laugh nervously. “No way. I like my life.”“It’s safe! You’ll love it—I promise.”

The moment he scoops you into his arms and leaps off the edge, you scream loud enough to wake half of Queens.“PETER, I SWEAR—”

“You’re fine!” he calls out, laughing as the wind whips past. “Just enjoy the ride!”

You bury your face in his shoulder, heart pounding. “I’m never letting go. Ever.”

Peter grins, holding you tighter. “Good. I wasn’t planning to let you go anyway.”

ROOFTOP MIDNIGHT ESCAPES

Peter swings into your room after patrol, his suit half-off, hair wild from the wind. “C’mon. Let’s go somewhere.”

Before you can finish protesting, he sweeps you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.“Peter!” you yelp, clutching his shoulders as he shoots a web and leaps into the night.“Trust me, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his grin softening.

The wind whips past, adrenaline rushing through your veins as he swings effortlessly between buildings. When you finally land on a rooftop, he pulls you close, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re not scared, are you?”“Not anymore,” you whisper, and his smirk grows as his lips meet yours, slow and steady, grounding you after the thrill.

POST SWING MOMENTS

After a particularly daring swing where Peter narrowly dodges a billboard, he sets you down on a rooftop, his arms still firmly wrapped around your waist.“Are you okay?” he murmurs, his voice low as his thumb brushes your cheek.“I’m fine, Peter. You can let go now.”

He doesn’t. His grip tightens, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “You have no idea how hard it is to let you go.”

Your breath catches as his lips brush yours softly at first, then with increasing intensity. His hands slide to your lower back, pulling you closer until the world disappears around you.

“SHH, I’LL MAKE IT WORTH IT.”

Peter returns from patrol late at night, finding you half-asleep on the couch. He crouches down, brushing a kiss to your temple.“You awake?” he whispers.

You mumble something incoherent, only stirring when his lips brush yours again, this time slower, more deliberate.“Shh,” he murmurs, pinning your wrists gently above your head. His grin turns playful as he leans closer. “I’ll make it worth keeping you awake.”

Your heart races as his kisses deepen, trailing down the side of your neck. “You’re impossible,” you manage to say, though the way your breath hitches betrays you.

“And you love it,” he murmurs, his lips pressing firmly against your pulse, his smirk growing when you shiver under his touch.

SHOWER?

Peter comes home sweaty and grimy after patrol, and you shove him toward the shower. Minutes later, his head pokes out, water dripping over his shoulders as he leans lazily against the doorway.“You know… showers are more efficient with two people,” he says, his grin pure trouble.

You roll your eyes, turning back to your book. “Peter, no.”

He steps closer, letting water drip from his still-damp hair onto your shoulder as he leans down to whisper in your ear, his voice low. “You sure? I could scrub your back… or hold you against the tiles.”

Your cheeks burn, and you push him away half-heartedly, glaring. “Peter—”

He catches your wrist, pulling you to stand, his eyes locked on yours. “What?” he murmurs, tilting his head, his smirk teasing but his touch firm. “You’d look cute all wet.”

“Stop!” you squeak, swatting his chest, but he’s already laughing, pressing a kiss to your temple before finally retreating back to the bathroom.“I’ll leave the door unlocked, just in case,” he teases before disappearing behind the steam.

DATE

Peter had promised to meet you at the café after your shift. You’d been looking forward to it all day—just a simple hour with him, no superheroes, no chaos. But an emergency call from Ned about some escaped tech left you waiting alone, watching the minutes tick by.

When Peter finally arrived, his hair disheveled and guilt written all over his face, you didn’t even need to ask.“I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, his voice tinged with desperation. “There was this thing—Ned needed help—and I couldn’t just leave it—”

“It’s fine,” you said sharply, though your tone betrayed your disappointment. “I get it. You have other responsibilities.”

His shoulders slumped. “No, it’s not fine,” he muttered. “I messed up. And I know it’s not the first time.”

You sighed, softening as you saw the guilt etched across his face. “Peter…”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, almost pleading. “Just… give me a chance.”

Later that night, he showed up at your window with a bouquet of daisies that looked like they’d survived a tornado and a homemade playlist.“I know it’s not much,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “But these reminded me of you—bright and sweet. And I put all your favorite songs on here, so… I hope it makes up for me being a total idiot.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you took the flowers, pulling him into a tight hug. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

“Lucky you think I’m cute,” he teased, kissing your temple. “I’ll do better next time. Promise.”

TRIVIA NIGHT

Ned had invited you both to trivia night, but no one warned you how competitive Peter could get. It started innocently enough, with Peter rattling off science and history facts like a human encyclopedia. But when the questions shifted to pop culture, his confidence started to falter.

“You’ve never seen Mean Girls?” you asked, incredulous.“Uh, no?” he replied, looking genuinely confused.MJ rolled her eyes. “Peter, how do you even function as a person?”“I fight bad guys!” he defended, flustered. “I don’t have time for… whatever this is!”

As the final round approached, you noticed the way Peter’s brows furrowed, his shoulders tensing like he was about to swing into battle. Leaning over, you cupped his face gently, forcing him to meet your gaze.“Peter,” you said, your voice teasing but warm, “you’re cute when you’re losing.”

His jaw dropped, and before he could protest, you kissed him in front of everyone.

Ned let out a dramatic gasp. “In public? With witnesses?!”MJ snorted. “That’s disgusting. I’m rooting for you two.”

When you pulled back, Peter’s face was a brilliant shade of red, but the grin he gave you was dazzling.“I don’t even care if I lose now,” he whispered, leaning in for another kiss. “This is so worth it.”

HANDMADE

Peter had been acting strange all week—fidgety, distracted, and overly secretive. You were starting to wonder if something was wrong when he showed up at your door with a small, carefully wrapped box and a sheepish grin.

“What’s this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as he practically shoved it into your hands.“Just… open it,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Inside was a sleek black flashlight, surprisingly lightweight, with a small engraved spider emblem on the side. You turned it over in your hands, curious.

“It’s not just a flashlight,” Peter said quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh, noticed you sometimes leave the light on at night, and I thought… maybe this would help.”

Your chest tightened. He’d picked up on your fear of the dark without you ever telling him outright.

“It’s also kind of… Spider-Man-approved,” he added, gesturing nervously. “There’s a tracker inside, so I’ll always know where you are. And if you press the button three times really fast, it sends an SOS directly to me.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it all. “Peter…”“I just want you to feel safe,” he said softly, his brown eyes earnest. “Even when I’m not around. You’re my world, and I want you to have something to remind you that I’m always here for you.”

Your throat felt tight as you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him. “I don’t even know what to say,” you murmured against his shoulder.

“‘Thank you’ works,” he joked, though his voice was thick with emotion.

Pulling back, you met his gaze and smiled. “Thank you, Peter. I love it. And I love you.”

His face lit up, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you close. “I love you too. Always.”

SPILLING

Peter had always admired how hard you worked. While he juggled Spider-Man and school, you balanced late-night shifts, studying at your rundown public school, and still somehow found time to make him feel like the center of your world. But admiration wasn’t the only thing he felt—sometimes, he felt inadequate.

On the other hand, you often wondered how you ended up with someone like Peter Parker. He was a literal superhero, acing advanced physics while you struggled with Algebra II. You worked part-time jobs just to help keep the lights on at home, and there were days when you felt like you’d drown under the weight of it all.

That tension finally bubbled over one evening. Peter swung by your place unannounced, but his usual warmth was absent. He dropped onto your couch with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“You okay?” you asked, sitting beside him.

He shook his head, staring at his hands. “How do you do it?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Everything,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “You don’t have superpowers, or Stark tech, or a fancy school helping you out. And you’re still… incredible. You’re better at life than I am, and I’ve got every advantage.”

The words stung—not because of what he said, but because they mirrored your own insecurities.

“What are you trying to say?” you asked, your voice cracking as you braced yourself for what felt inevitable.

Peter hesitated, his jaw working as he tried to find the right words. “You deserve someone who can keep up with you. And I’m not sure I’m enough.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could stop them, tears began streaming down your cheeks. “Wait, are you saying this is over?”

“What? No!” Peter sat up straight, his hands shooting out to reach for yours. “That’s not what I meant! I’m talking about me, not you! I’m the one who’s not enough!”

“You are enough!” The words burst out of you, but the crack in your voice betrayed how deeply his statement had shaken you. “I’m the one who’s not enough, Peter. Look at you! You’re saving lives while I’m just trying to keep the lights on at home.”

Peter’s brows furrowed, guilt flooding his features. “What? No—no, don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” you whispered, pulling your hands free and wrapping your arms around yourself. “I can barely make it through my shifts without wondering if I’m going to mess something up. And then I see you—perfect Peter Parker, superhero and genius—and I just… I feel so small.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. Then Peter moved closer, carefully placing his hands on your shoulders. “You’re not small,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping your eyes. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Peter insisted, gently tilting your chin up so you’d look at him. “You don’t have powers, but you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You care about people. You care about me. And I…” He trailed off, his voice breaking. “I don’t always feel like I deserve that.”

Your breath caught at the raw vulnerability in his words. “You don’t have to be perfect, Peter. You don’t have to save me, or prove anything. I just want you.”

He stared at you, his eyes glistening. “I want you too,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’m sorry I made you think otherwise. I just… I don’t always know how to keep up with someone like you.”

“We’re both trying to keep up,” you said quietly, leaning forward until your foreheads touched. “And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

Peter nodded, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you into his chest. “Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Together.”

The two of you sat like that for a long time, the weight of your shared insecurities fading, replaced by something stronger—a quiet, unshakable love.

SERIOUS

Peter comes home late—bruised, bleeding, and far too casual about it. You snap.“Do you like scaring me to death?”“It’s just a scratch!” he argues, dropping his mask on the couch.“Peter, you’re not invincible. What happens if one day you don’t come back?”

He pauses, guilt flickering across his face. “I can’t stop being Spider-Man.”“And I can’t stop worrying about you,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

He looks away, fiddling with his web-shooter. “I don’t want to scare you. I’m sorry.”

MAYBE NOT SO SERIOUS?

Later that night, Peter finds you sitting on the fire escape, staring out at the skyline. He hesitates before sitting beside you.“I hate fighting with you,” he says quietly. “You’re the only person who makes all of this feel worth it.”

You exhale slowly, leaning into him. “Then don’t make me feel like I’m losing you.”His arm wraps around you, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ll do everything I can to come home to you. That’s a promise.”

He presses his forehead to yours, and when his lips brush yours, it’s soft and full of unspoken apologies.

THANK YOU FOR READING ! PLEASE SEND KINKMAS REQUESTS AND PROMPTS! <3 Please Request if you’d like me to expand the headcanon into SMUT <3

612 notes · View notes

the-joy-of-knowledge · 1 year ago

Text

Becoming an Intelligent Woman

My Dears,

There is no greater goal than being a fine woman who is intelligent, kind, and elegant. As much as we all want to be described with these adjectives, it takes a great amount of discipline to get there. It is very doable only if you are ready to put in the work.

Here are steps you can add to your routine in the next 4 weeks that will make you 1% more intelligent than you were before. This is a process that should become a habit not a goal. It is long term, however, I want you to devote just 4 weeks into doing these steps first and recognize the changes that follow.

Watch documentaries: This is the easiest step, we all have access to Youtube. Youtube has a great number of content on art, history, technology, food, science etc that will increase your knowledge and pique your curiosity. I really did not know much about world history especially from the perspective of World war 1 & 2, the roaring 20s, Age of Enlightenment, Jazz era, monarchies etc but with several channels dedicated to breaking down history into easily digestible forms. I have in the last 4 weeks immersed myself into these documentaries. Here are a few I watched:

The fall of monarchies

The Entire History of United Kingdom

The Eight Ages of Greece

World War 1

World War 2

The Roaring '20s

The Cuisine of the Enlightenment

2. Read Classics: I recommend starting with short classics so that you do not get easily discouraged. Try to make reading easy and interesting especially if you struggle with finishing a book. Why classics? You see, if you never went to an exclusive private school in Europe or America with well crafted syllabus that emphasized philosophy, history, art, and literary classics, you might want to know what is felt like and for me this was a strong reason. Asides that, there is so much wisdom and knowledge available in these books. In these books, you gain insights to the authors mind, the historical context of the era, the ingenuity of the author, the hidden messages, and the cultural impact of these books. Most importantly, you develop your personal philosophy from the stories and lessons you have accumulated from the lives of the characters in the books you read. Here are classics to get you started:

Animal Farm by George Orwell

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald

Candide by Voltaire

Paradise lost by John Milton

3. Study the lives of people who inspire you: I dedicate one month to each person that fascinates me. I read their biography (date of birth, background, death, influences, work, style, education, personal life) For this month, I decided to study Frank Lloyd Wright because I was fascinated by the Guggenheim Museum in New York. I began to read about his influence in American Architecture (Organic architecture, Prairie School, Usonian style), his tumultuous personal life, his difficult relationship with his mentor (Louis Sullivan), his most iconic works etc. By the end of the year I would have learned the ins and outs of people I am inspired by through books and documentaries. Here are other people I plan to learn more about:

Winston Churchill

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

Ada Lovelace

Benjamin Franklin

Helen Keller

John Nash

Isabella Stewart Gardner

Caroline Herrera

Ernest Hemingway

Catherine the Great

Ann Lowe

My dears, I hope you enjoyed this read. I cannot wait to write more on my journey to becoming a fine woman. I urge you to do this for four weeks and see what changes you notice. Make sure to write as well, it is important to document your progress.

Cheers to a very prosperous 2024!

2K notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 7 months ago

Note

Mae!!! I am so happy to see you opening up requests for Thawing Out because I am genuinely OBSESSED and I haven’t stopped thinking about it 💖💖💖 So, what if during practice, Remus (unknowingly, obviously) said something to r, like making a correction or something, and it’s something Peter had said. And Sirius recognizes it too!! And you can decide what happens 🥰 Love you! 💖

Thank you for requesting lovely <33

collab with @ellecdc

cw: modern au, chronic pain, Peter mention

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 2k words

You’re an angel on the ice. Gliding and sweeping, your movements so ethereal Sirius half expects to look down and find that your skates are floating above the surface of the ice, or that you’ve etched the next great work of art into the canvas beneath your feet. But he doesn’t, because it’s clear as day that the true art is in the creation, and it’s got its fingers clasped around his. Sirius feels lucky to bear witness.

You have the look of someone who’s given themselves over to their craft, your expression poised but eyes sparkling as you transition neatly from one move to the next until you’re coasting alongside Sirius. You’re wearing leg warmers today, far from unconventional in your sport but it’s humiliating how adorable he finds it on you. Your nails are short and neat, fingers surprisingly warm in his own, eyelashes fluttering as you tilt your head back.

You make it look easy. The way you arch your back until you’re nearly parallel to the ice, skating on only the edge of one skate while Sirius draws you in a circle around him. He starts to lower himself, finding the position you’d practiced off ice. Your grip on his hand is strong, your head tilting until the hairs escaping from your bun are whipping just above the ice, until Sirius is sure you can feel its chill on the back of your neck, and he can’t do it.

He keeps you a few inches above where he knows you’re supposed to be, holds you there with the momentum of his spin, and then hoists you up and into your spin.

You look at him bemusedly as you land on your other skate, a questioning flicker of eye contact Sirius pretends not to notice. You finish out the rest of your routine perfectly.

“That was great,” Remus says from the entryway. Sirius has noticed that he’s taken to watching you from there rather than from the bleachers on days when his hip isn’t giving him as much trouble. He wonders if Remus is almost tantalizing himself, standing on the edge of the ice but knowing he can’t go further. “Y/n, you had a lovely arch going into the spiral, but I want to see you stay more on that outside edge during the lutz-loop combination. Just play it safe on that one, alright?”

“Yeah.” You nod, looking encouraged. “Sorry, I felt myself slip a bit there.”

“You managed it just fine,” Remus reassures you. He gives you a gentle smile, and Sirius stomach does something fluttery and unsanctioned. “It’s good that you noticed, we only want to keep an eye on it, yeah?”

You smile in reply. The commotion in Sirius’ stomach worsens.

“And Sirius,” Remus turns to him, “we still have to get a bit lower on the spiral. Her head should be below her knee.”

Sirius frowns. “I know.”

It’s a non-answer and Remus knows it, but he doesn’t snipe back at him. His brows twitch together thoughtfully. “We’ve still got a few days. Do you need more time to practice off ice?”

“No,” Sirius replies. He wishes the other boy would get angry with him, give him something to shoot back at, something other than kindness and temperance and this lame, irksome understanding. He almost wants to roll his eyes as he adds, “I’ll work on it.”

Remus seems (frustratingly) appeased with that. “Alright, just be careful on your left pick when you get down there.” His voice takes on a teasing lilt. “We don’t need any more accidents this close to competition, Pads.”

Sirius waits for the flash of irritation. But your laughter rings out brilliant and lovely, and Remus is smiling at the both of you with something like fondness, and he can’t seem to find it.

Fucking James. Sirius ought to know better than to automatically trust anyone his best friend likes—you’ve both suffered the consequences from that once already—but it’s difficult to summon his usual disdain for Remus after watching the two of them chinwag and snicker like old friends at practice the other day. It was odd seeing James so familiar with someone else, but Sirius found he couldn’t muster any jealousy. As much as he loathes to think of it, you were right—learning James and Remus were old friends did make him think. In ways that remind Sirius why thinking is one of his least favorite activities.

He shoots Remus the bird over his shoulder. Unfortunately, in doing so, he fails to notice a blemish in the ice which catches his skate, causing him to pitch forward before righting himself.

Remus’ lips twitch, but Sirius holds up a hand. “You can keep your quips to yourself.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Then you can keep your looks to yourself.”

You implement Remus’ alteration to your lutz-loop combination flawlessly. It’s something you’ve always been good at, confident enough to take feedback and skilled enough to make the changes stick. It’s part of why you’re as good as you are, the amalgamation of every scrap of advice you’ve ever received and a fierce determination that's all your own. You jump and spin and twist your way through the routine beautifully.

Sirius, on the other hand, is not so great with critiques. The death spiral stays exactly the way it is, with your head safely above the ice and neither of you low enough to get full points. And that’s likely how it will stay.

He can tell you and Remus are both getting more frustrated, more disappointed, every time he fails to take it all the way, but Sirius can’t bring himself to go any further. His heart won’t let him.

“We’ll do some more off ice tomorrow,” Remus decides for him as you both take off your skates. “We’ve got the time, everything else is looking beautiful. Sirius, maybe work on getting low on your own today, so we’ve less to cover tomorrow.” Sirius nods down towards his skates. He doesn’t feel like looking at either one of you. “And y/n, the only thing I’m still noticing from you is that landing on your triple axle. You’re a bit wobbly. I want you to focus on controlling your descent and really sticking it. It looks nearly perfect, you’re just making me a little nervous—this would be a shit time to have to go into an early retirement, wouldn’t it?”

It’s said lightly, a hint of a smile at the tail end, but your face twinges like he’s snapped at you. Remus’ brow furrows in mild confusion, and Sirius feels a hard fist clench in his chest. He wouldn’t know what had made you react like that either, if you hadn’t repeated Peter’s words to him yourself.

He told the other coach that I was one bad jump away from injuring myself into an early retirement.

“I’m not actually worried about that—you’re too skilled for an injury that severe to be very likely, I just,” Remus is watching you carefully, clearly trying to reason out where he went wrong, “thought I should bring it to your attention. Only as a precaution.”

You nod several times, quicker and harder than necessary. “Yeah.” Your lips press into a smile. “I’ll be careful, thanks.”

Sirius sets his hand on top of yours, shit at comfort but meaning to try anyway, but your hand slips away as you get up and sling your bag over your shoulder.

“I have to get home,” you say, squeezing Sirius’ shoulder as if in apology. Your expression is tight. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Remus echoes. He watches you go with a half-remorseful look on his face, like he doesn’t know what he’s done but he feels bad for it anyway.

Seeing as you haven’t waited for him, Sirius supposes he’ll be walking home on his own today. He sets his skates in his bag, beginning to tug on his shoes.

Remus broaches the silence almost tentatively. “Did she seem alright to you?” Sirius doesn’t know how to respond to that, but the other boy goes on before he has to. “Did…do you know if I said something to upset her?”

Sirius shrugs. “Nope.”

Remus can probably smell the lie—he’s not gone to any great lengths to conceal it—but Sirius doesn’t care. The look of hurt on your face has set a familiar protective ire buzzing beneath his skin, and Remus is the one who caused it. Neither of you owe him any explanation.

Remus falls quiet again, but he waits while Sirius finishes packing up, walks with him towards the exit.

“How long have you and James been friends?” he asks.

“A long time,” Sirius answers shortly. “I moved in with him and his parents when I was sixteen.”

“Oh.” Remus turns to look at him. Sirius feels his gaze, wide and curious, on the side of his face. “Yeah, a long time, then. It was nice to talk to him again. We used to run into each other so often, but I hadn’t seen him since…well, since I left, I suppose.”

There’s a melancholy that lays itself down over those last few words, the nostalgia in Remus’ voice smothered underneath. Maybe it’s that quiet tone, maybe it’s the image of James and Remus together, laughing and talking about their futures on the ice during early mornings at the rink, but Sirius feels himself softening.

“He mentioned something,” Remus says tentatively, “about your last coach. It didn’t sound like things ended well.”

Sirius pushes out a breath. “They didn’t.”

“Was he not very good?”

“No,” he can hear the frustration seeping into his voice. He wishes Peter were worse at his job. That he’d been an idiot, didn’t understand your styles, and none of you had ever managed to get along. It would have made everything so much easier. “He was good.”

“I’m not trying to pry,” says Remus, “but if what happened with him is going to affect how you two are with me—if it has anything to do with how I upset y/n today—I would appreciate if you told me.”

So Sirius does. He’s not sparing with the details, and Remus doesn’t begrudge him the anger that grips him as he talks about Peter’s betrayal, where it left the two of you, how it’s still coming back to hurt you even now. It makes him furious, but where he’d expected Remus to take it all in calmly, Sirius is surprised when the other boy’s jaw gets tight as he listens. He has questions: How long had you worked with Peter? Did either of you have to get involved with the case, or did his emails speak for themselves? Does Sirius know how long Peter was playing double-agent?

By the time they’re on Sirius’ block, Remus has begun alternating between shaking his head and huffy, revolted exhalations.

“I can’t believe he said that to her.” He shakes his head, guilt digging into the space between his brows. “I can’t believe I said it, either, but I was only trying to make a joke about myself, not…she’s far too skilled to have a fall like that—well, anyone could, but she’s only as likely as anyone else at her level. Which isn’t very many people.”

“That’s what I told her,” Sirius agrees. “I think she was mostly over it, but…”

“I reminded her.” Remus sighs. “I’ll have to make it up to her.”

“She’ll be alright,” he says honestly. “I think it just surprised her.”

“She’s really good.”

“I know.”

“She has to know that.”

“She…” Sirius hesitates. “Do we ever really know it, about ourselves?”

“Oh, come off it.” Remus gives Sirius a knowing look. His mouth tugs up on one side. “You clearly know how good you are.”

Sirius feels a pleased tingle of warmth in his face. He walks backwards up the stairs to his flat, leveling Remus with a cocky grin. “Am I?”

“Don’t. You maintain your own ego well enough without my help.”

“Oh, but it never hurts to have disciples.” He fishes out his key, unlocking the door. “You could remind me from time to time, just for fun.”

When he turns, Remus is watching him from the sidewalk with a gleam of something like amusement in his eye. “Nail the spiral,” he says, “and we’ll see.”

685 notes · View notes

chdarling · 3 months ago

Text

ok so, I can't, like, set a precedent for every time there is a catastrophic event in my country I post a TLE spoiler because let's be real, that's gonna be every day for the next four years at least and I only have so many non-major-spoilery TLE bits to share. But I'm making my way through an emergency bottle of prosecco and texting my friends about how in the face of the endless onslaught of late stage capitalism, fanfic -- a community built purely around love and joy and not a single drop of money being exchanged -- is in a small way something radical and precious and dare I say holy (did I mention I was drunk) and that should be honored on today of all fucking days, and ALSO we should all spend less time staring at gifs of that evil-ass motherfucker doing nazi salutes and more time crafting joy and creating community with each other so

here is a lil snippet from TLE3

as with all my spoiler snippets, I reserve the right to completely rewrite this before the final draft because honestly this was mostly an exercise in me learning how to craft sentences again mid-burnout, but!!!! here, have a lil moment of joy, maybe. i love you.

Excerpt from The Last Enemy: Marauders’ End

“So, what do you think?”

Sirius turned expectantly to his best mate, who stood beside him as the boys peered through the doorway of Sirius’s second bedroom. The room had been unoccupied at the time of Sirius moving into this flat a few weeks ago. Now…it decidedly was not.

“Er…” said James, who did not quite seem to know how to answer the question.

“Her name is Lola,” Sirius added in a reverent tone.

“She has a name, does she?”

“Of course she has a name, you pig.”

“Right,” said James. “Well, then frankly, I’m a bit hurt you moved out and left me for Lola.”

Sirius knocked his shoulder against James’s. “Come on. I didn’t leave you. We’ve been over this. I’m of age, I was going to have to get my own place eventually.”

“Yeah, okay, sure, but you barely made it a month before you shacked up with your new flatmate, Lola.”

Sirius grinned. “She’s sexy, isn’t she?”

“She’s…very shiny.”

“She’s the goddamn love of my life.”

“Okay, ‘she’ is a motorbike, mate. You’ve gone completely batty.”

Sirius laughed and strode further into the room where indeed the Muggle motorbike had been set up, dominating the space. It was a thing of beauty, all sleek lines and silver glint. The floor around the motorbike was haloed with the detritus of Sirius’s last few delicious days: all sorts of mechanical bits and bobs, empty beer bottles, an ashtray, a crumpled up bag of crisps, a few oily rags, and a confusion of Muggle tools, the names of which Sirius kept mixing up — a socket wrench, he thought that one was called. The spare bed that had once been the primary feature of this room — a springy mattress James had transfigured for the nights he was too pissed to apparate home (“Mum won’t mind, she put the security spells on your flat herself.”) — had been shoved into the corner to make room for this new sacred altar.

James did not seem as impressed with Sirius’s new acquisition as he felt his friend ought to be. “You’re just jealous,” Sirius told him, “that you’ve never known a love so true.”

“Ha. Touché.”

Sirius pulled a rag from his back pocket and began to lovingly polish a spot on the seat of the motorbike.

“You know,” said James, still observing from his post at the doorway, “I’m not sure it’s healthy, you spending so much time by yourself.”

“What time by myself?” laughed Sirius. “You’re here almost every day.”

This was true. Hardly a day had passed so far this summer that James hadn’t found a reason to come by. Not that Sirius minded. Though he’d never admit it, he liked living on his own rather less than he’d expected.

“Yeah, well…” James strode closer to inspect the motorbike. “Someone has to make sure you don’t go completely bonkers, all on your own here. Lola, I ask you. You know, if you start talking to the bike, mate, I’m hauling you off to St. Mungo’s too.”

Sirius leaned down and whispered to the handlebars: “Don’t listen to the mean man, Lola. I’d never leave you.”

James sat down on the spare bed with a mournful creak. “Besides,” he said, “Potter House is too quiet now, with you gone and dad all…entombed. Some days I think if I don’t get out, I’m the one who will go bonkers.”

Sirius turned back to his friend, suddenly somber. “Hey, you know I’m just joking, right? You’re always welcome over here. I love having you here.”

“Yeah,” said James, though the faintest tint of melancholy compromised his credulity. Sirius watched as James plucked an oil-stained rag from the bed, sniffed it, then tossed it aside with a wrinkled nose.

“How are things…?” Sirius ventured. “With your dad?” Fleamont Potter’s health had been in steady decline for years, but last Christmas things had taken a turn for the worse. The diagnosis seemed to be simply that he was old…though Sirius had a hard time wrapping his head around that. “Have things gotten any better?”

“No,” said James shortly. “And they’re not going to. It is what it is.” He glared at the wall for a brief moment, then sighed — a deep, intentional sigh, as though exhaling all his miseries in order to transform himself back to Sirius’s good-natured friend. “So…does she work?”

“The fuck d’you mean, ‘does she work?’”

“Well,” said James, “it hasn’t escaped my notice that the bike is in your spare bedroom, rather than, say, on the street. So either you and Lola have a far kinkier relationship than I care to know about…or she doesn’t work.”

A pause.

“She’s a work in progress, okay?”

“Knew it,” grinned James.

“Hey, have some respect,” said Sirius. “I’m fixing her up myself. It’s far cooler than just buying some shiny toy from a shop. This is my bike. Mine. I’ll make her fly, just you wait.” He stroked the bike handle. “Isn’t that right, Lola?”

“Yep,” sighed James. “Completely bonkers.”

#tle3 #tle3 spoilers

261 notes · View notes

angelwxnny · 4 months ago

Text

⋆˚ 𝜗 it is the end, the end. 𝜚˚⋆

" I am tired of always trying to convince myself that I have this because I factually do not !! "

" why is the 3D never conforming to my desires ?? I listen to subliminals a lot, it's not even fair. "

" no, I'm not happy. I AM (negative state of being) because I (negative assumption affirmation) since (these circumstances) proved by (3D things) "

girl, you gotta relax.

>> living in the end is the biggest factor to manifestation; manifestation should literally just be explained through bullet points because it is too simple. the reason why you or have to prioritize this is not just so that you can recode your whole thought process and belief system to feel better, but also so that you can recode your behavioral patterns to influence yourself to live better.

>> cuz what if you woke up one day and had your ultimate dream appearance?? and when you rub your eyes open, what if you were just suddenly in your dream bedroom in your dream house that you wouldn't be able to afford unless you had your dream career and bank account?? and if you had that financial freedom, that means you may have your dream closet, self-care products and the makeup you've always been eyeing on. how would you live life??

live in the end.

>> of course, you would hop out of bed, run to the bathroom to hygienically pamper yourself before running to your closet to stylishly pamper yourself some more, then you'd run to your desired vanity mirror and stare at your beauty and affirm "omg I have my dream appearance, I look so beautiful I am so blah blah blah" while using your dream makeup set and using heatless curls for the first time.

>> then you'd run downstairs, walk to your dream school or workplace and awe at the beauty of your dream city in your dream country then get surprised and overjoyed that people are now complimenting on your hair, clothes, overall appearance AND personality. and then surprise, your SP kisses you on the cheek and after that, a big and hyper group of girls laugh contagiously and then suddenly call you their best friend. oh my gosh !! you have your dream friend group !!

>> just observe what it would be like to experience that. you would notice that you feel utmost grateful and happy for everything, even the simplest things in life because YOU get to have it. nobody cares about that random tree in the middle of the grass field located somewhere in belgium, but YOU do because YOU manifested being in your dream country. if an unfortunate child who would worry where she'll sleep every night and the food she won't have for the next morning shifted in your ordinary life, she'd feel euphoria. right?

>> other than powerful freaking gratitude, you won't worry about everything. you won't complain about anything. literally, one person could say something bad about you then your whole day is ruined. If you had a 10,000 dollars and a person stole 5 bucks from you, will you throw away your remaining 9,995 ? no. who cares if you tripped over a banana peel in front of 20 people passing by; you are in france for goodness sake.

>> now, 3D is showing you in your current house in your current environment. but so what?? wake up and run to the daylight before going on tiktok. read a book instead of going chronically online first thing in the morning. you don't have your dream closet, so what? craft your own, and convincingly ask your dad for a trip to the mall because in 4D, you are used to being the youngest daughter of a rich father and an easy-going mother. also, socialize. idiot.

>> it's not delulu. I have constant daily compliment bombs because I positioned myself to my manifestations. I aligned with my self-concept and amplified the feeling of enjoyment in socializing people, because I am genuinely an extrovert and a big big big empath. so, I'm out here with multiple friend groups that boost my confidence only and treat me righttt.

#pure consciousness #this is what makes us girls #girlhood #loassumption #reality shifting #loa blog #desired reality #girlblogging #success story #quantum jumping #personal #pretty privilege #law of assumption #law of attraction #law of manifestation

355 notes · View notes

mediocre-shark-tales · 23 days ago

Text

The Path to Reconciliation

Doohan Sister Reader F1 Driver Reader Cadillac Formula 1 Reader

My heart stopped. The anger, the confusion, the hurt—everything evaporated like a puddle on a hot day. Just two seconds ago, she had been yelling at me, arguing, standing her ground. And now—

Now, she had collapsed, her body dropping like a lifeless doll into Lando’s arms. Her limbs slack, her face fogged with exhaustion and something worse. Something I didn’t want to name.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

The world around me spun as the others rushed in, their frantic voices blending into the chaotic storm of my thoughts. They carried her to the bed, Oscar barking orders, Lando shaking as he fumbled for his phone. The medics arrived, pushing past me, their muffled yelling beating against my ears like waves crashing in a storm. Yet I stood there. Frozen. Rooted to the spot where she left me.

My sister. My baby sister. The person I had known my entire life, yet suddenly, I realized—I didn’t know her at all.

A firm grip landed on my shoulders, pulling me back, guiding me out of the room. The door shut behind me with a soft click, and I turned, meeting the calm but unreadable eyes of Nico Rosberg.

“We need to sit down and chat,” he said, his voice as steady as ever. Next to him, Oscar nodded, his usual patience tinged with something more serious.

I swallowed hard, my head spinning, but I nodded and followed them down the hall.

Minutes later, I found myself in an empty meeting room. The air felt thick, pressing down on me as I dropped into a chair. Oscar quietly locked the door before taking a seat across from me, while Nico remained standing, his eyes studying me. Calculating.

“I need to ask you something,” he said finally, his voice devoid of any emotion. “And I need an honest answer.”

I clenched my jaw, bracing myself. “What?”

“Can we trust you to keep this a secret?” His gaze pinned me in place. “You can talk to her, and to those who already know, but you cannot tell anyone else. Not even your parents.”

My stomach twisted.

“Why has she kept this from us? Why couldn’t she tell me?” The anger started to creep back in, the hurt simmering beneath my skin.

Nico sighed. “I can explain what I know, but only if you swear to keep her secret.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll even sign a document if that’s what it takes.”

Nico smirked faintly. “Perfect.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, scribbled something down, and handed it to me along with a pen.

I barely glanced at the words before signing. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t care. I needed answers.

As soon as I handed the paper back, Nico tucked it away and exhaled, his posture relaxing just slightly.

“I’ve only been her official manager for this season, but I’ve been helping her behind the scenes for much longer—thanks to your uncle.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “From what he told me, and from what she’s told me herself, your sister started racing when she was old enough to compete—just like you. She looked up to you. Wanted to be just like you. But your parents…” He shook his head. “They weren’t happy with her choice. So they convinced her to quit the sport she loved.”

I sat still, the weight of his words pressing against my chest.

“She was only twelve,” Nico continued. “And in that season she was forced to sit out, she fell into a deep depression. Your parents… they didn’t just discourage her. They controlled her. Moulded her into what they believed she should be. It was your uncle who saw her for who she truly was. He gave her a way out.”

My heart started to crack.

“For years, he helped her race in secret. Using a nickname. Crafting excuses to get her away from your parents. She climbed through the ranks—Formula 3, IndyCar, and now, here. She always wanted to tell you. But in the beginning, she was doing better than you. And she didn’t want to take away from your achievements. Didn’t want you to feel overshadowed.”

The words hit like a slap to the face.

“But as time went on, that changed,” Nico added. “She saw how much you trusted your parents. And she knew—if she told you, she was risking everything. She was afraid you’d tell them. That you’d betray her without meaning to.”

I felt sick. My mind reeled with the weight of everything I had just learned.

Then Nico’s phone buzzed, cutting through the silence. He checked the screen, his expression darkening. “They’re transporting her to the hospital.”

He turned and left without another word.

I barely noticed.

Oscar locked the door behind him and sat back down across from me, his eyes softer now.

“This is a lot,” I muttered, resting my elbows on the table and rubbing my face.

“Yeah,” Oscar said simply. “I get it.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “We used to be so close. Did she really think I’d hate her for being better than me? That I’d sell her out?”

Oscar’s expression hardened. “That’s what you’re stuck on?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I forgot how brainwashed your parents made you.”

I scoffed. “I’m not brainwashed.”

Oscar leaned forward, his eyes burning into mine. “Really? Then tell me this—do you think it’s normal for parents to groom their daughter from the age of twelve to be the perfect wife for a rich or powerful man? To have a list of potential suitors ready the moment she turned eighteen? Some of them twice her age?”

My breath hitched.

Oscar kept going. “Do you think it’s normal to strip a kid of everything they love, force them into a mold, and make them feel like they’re less than human?”

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to.

But in the silence, the realization came crashing down.

I had been blind.

Blind to what she’d gone through. Blind to how twisted our parents really were. Blind to the fact that she hadn’t just been keeping a secret—she had been surviving.

Oscar stood, pushing his chair back. “I’m not going to say anything else. This is her story. When she’s ready, she’ll tell you the rest. But until then?”

He met my gaze, his expression unreadable.

“Think about it.”

Then he walked out, leaving me alone in the silence, lost in the wreckage of everything I thought I knew.

—

Barely three days had passed since finding out about her, and every second I could, I spent it reliving our childhood. Thinking of every time she might have tried to reach out to me and I was too lost in my own life to realize. The memories came in waves, each one pulling me under with the weight of my own blindness.

The first one came in sharp and clear—the day she was supposed to start karting for her second season. She had been so excited, bouncing on her toes as we stood in the garage. Her small hands clutched the edges of her suit, eyes wide with the kind of wonder only a kid with a dream could have. I remember feeling proud of her, excited that she wanted to follow in my footsteps. But then, our parents had stepped in.

"You really think this is a good idea?" Mom had sighed, giving Dad a look. "Racing isn't exactly... ladylike."

"She should be focusing on things that will actually help her future," Dad had added. "Not wasting time pretending to be her brother."

I laughed then. Not cruelly, but without realizing how those words might have felt to her. I shrugged and said, "Maybe they're right. Racing’s pretty intense, and you never really showed interest before."

I remember how her face fell, just for a second, before she plastered on a fake smile and nodded. "Yeah... maybe it's not for me."

But it had been for her. It had always been for her.

The second memory hit even harder. A couple of years later, she had pulled me aside in the hallway, her fingers twisting in the hem of her dress.

"Jack," she had whispered urgently, "do you ever feel like they love you more? Like... no matter what I do, it’s never enough?"

I scoffed, ruffling her hair. "Don’t be stupid. They love us both. Maybe you’re just overthinking it."

The way her shoulders had slumped, the way her lips had pressed together like she was trying not to cry—I should have seen it then. I should have known that it wasn’t just sibling jealousy, but something deeper. Something breaking inside of her that I refused to acknowledge.

The third memory wasn’t as direct, but now it stood out like a flashing neon sign. A family dinner, one of the rare occasions when we were all home. Dad had spent the entire evening talking about my racing, my progress, my potential.

"Jack is going to do great things," he had said, pride thick in his voice. "I have no doubt."

She had been sitting across from me, her plate barely touched. At one point, she had opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but Mom had cut her off with a simple look. And just like that, she had shrunk back into herself. Not one person had asked about her dreams, her passions. It was as if she didn’t exist beyond being ‘Jack’s little sister.’ And I had let it happen.

And then, the worst one. The night before she left. I hadn’t known it at the time, but looking back, it was so obvious. She had come into my room, standing awkwardly at the door like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.

"I think I’m going to do something crazy," she had said, her voice light, but her eyes serious. "And I just need to know that you’ll still be my brother no matter what."

I laughed, scrolling through my phone. "What, are you eloping or something?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "Forget it. It was stupid."

And then she left. And the next day, she was gone. Our uncle taking her away to some boarding school in London.

I had failed her. Over and over again, I had failed her. Not because I had meant to, not because I didn’t love her, but because I had been too wrapped up in myself to see how much she was suffering. How much she had been forced to bend and break just to fit into a version of herself our parents had crafted.

My phone buzzed, shaking me from the depths of my regret.

If you're ready to talk, meet me at this address in an hour.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, my heart pounding with something between fear and hope. I had spent years ignoring the truth. But not anymore. It was time to make things right.

—

Pulling into the parking lot for the apartment complex, I sat staring up at all the floors. Wondering if she would have chosen the top floor like our parents molded her to be, or if she had followed her own opinion and went for one of the few just below. The girl I remember used to tell me her dream of a nice apartment. Not on the top floor, but a few below that—she still wanted a pretty view but didn’t want to be too high up, where she would be considered stuck up.

I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. My stomach twisted with nerves, the weight of guilt pressing down on my chest so hard it hurt to breathe properly. Three days. It had only been three days since my entire world flipped on its head. Since I realized just how blind I had been to the person who mattered most in my life. And in those three days, all I could do was think. Think about all the times I should have seen it—the pain she hid behind the mask of the perfect daughter, the way our parents had stripped her of her true self, the way I had let them.

I thought about the last time I saw her. The fight. The accusations. The way I let my emotions get the better of me and threw words at her like weapons. I had been angry. So, so angry. But she had been worse—broken, exhausted, and hurt beyond belief. And I had made it worse.

I should have been the one protecting her. Instead, I had been the one to hurt her.

What if this was it? What if she only texted me to cut ties? What if I had already lost her, and this was just a formality?

I swallowed down the panic and forced myself to move. My hands shook as I turned off the engine, the click of the key pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I had to do this. I had to face her.

The elevator ride felt like the longest of my life. My reflection in the metal doors showed the same nerves I felt—the tense shoulders, the tight jaw, the way my fingers kept flexing like I was preparing for some kind of fight. But there was no fight to be had. I wasn’t here to argue. I was here to listen.

The hallway to her apartment was quiet, but with each step, my heartbeat grew louder, pounding in my ears. I stopped in front of her door and hesitated. A deep breath. Another. Then I knocked.

The door swung open after a few seconds, and the breath I had been holding escaped me in a sharp exhale.

She looked… awful.

Her left forearm was in a cast, and the other was strapped in a shoulder brace, making her movements stiff and careful. Bruises still lingered along her skin and the stitches peeked out from the loose neckline of her sweatshirt up the side of her neck stopping right around the center. I had known she was hurt, but seeing it like this made it real. The crash had nearly killed her, and I had spent the past three days focused on my own guilt instead of the fact that she was alive.

And yet… she smiled.

A real, happy smile, like none of what had happened had managed to take away that light from her. Like she wasn’t angry at me. Like she was still my little sister, standing in front of me, waiting for me to say something.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice soft but not strained. “Come in.”

I stepped inside without a word, my throat too tight to respond. The living room was warm and familiar, decorated with personal touches that screamed her. Framed photos lined the walls—pictures with friends, some racing shots, a few of her standing on podiums. A life I had never known existed until now.

Then, I noticed them.

Max and Charles sat on the couch, both watching me with unreadable expressions. Charles looked neutral, like he was reserving judgment for later. But Max? Max was glaring, his eyes locked onto me like he was daring me to screw this up.

I hesitated, unsure of where to sit, unsure of what to do. My hands clenched into fists at my sides before I forced them to relax. My body language screamed nervous, and I knew it. Max knew it too—he looked almost satisfied with my discomfort.

She moved past me with a slight wince, heading toward the kitchen. “Give me a second, I need to finish making my smoothie,” she said.

I wanted to offer to help. I wanted to say something. But I didn’t know if I had the right to.

So instead, I sat down, feeling the weight of Max’s glare and the silence that stretched between all of us. And then, we waited as the occasional sound of opening and closing cupboards came from the kitchen.

The silence sat heavy in the room, thick like a storm cloud about to break. I could feel Max’s eyes burning into the side of my face, the weight of his judgment pressing down on me. Every part of me screamed to shift, to look anywhere but at him, but I forced myself to stay still. To take whatever was coming.

Max wasn’t someone who wasted time with pleasantries. He was all sharp edges, a man who never hesitated to say exactly what he was thinking. And right now, what he was thinking was how much he hated me.

"You’re lucky she wanted to see you today." His voice was calm, too calm. Like the quiet before an explosion. "Charles and I told her to wait a few more days. Thought maybe you should sit with your stupidity a little longer. Thought maybe you should really feel what it's like to be ignored by someone you care about.”

I flinched at the words.

Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring straight through me. "But she said no. Said she wanted to talk to you. Today. And between making her suffer a little longer for your mistakes or letting her be happy during what little time off she actually has, we’d rather let her be happy.”

My hands curled into fists against my jeans. Every word was a knife, cutting through layers of guilt I already felt drowning in.

"So, I’m going to make one thing very clear for you, Jack." Max’s voice dropped lower, sharper. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his knee, slow and deliberate. “You don’t argue. You don’t fight. You listen to what she has to say. And if I hear one word out of your mouth that sounds like an excuse, if you get loud with her, if you so much as look at her the wrong way…” He let the words hang for a second, his head tilting slightly as a humorless smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Then I’ll be happy to take care of you myself.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering in my throat.

The threat wasn’t an empty one. I could see it in his eyes—the promise that he would follow through if I gave him even the smallest excuse.

I wanted to say something, to promise that I wouldn’t, to swear up and down that I would sit there and take whatever she had to say without a single protest. But before I could find my voice, Charles shifted beside him.

Max tensed for a second like he wanted to keep going, but when Charles turned to him, giving him nothing more than a sharp glance, he fell silent.

The look Charles gave him wasn’t anything obvious. No words. No movements. But whatever silent conversation passed between them, it worked. Max let out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head, before leaning back against the couch with a scowl.

The room didn’t feel any lighter.

“That’s enough, Max,” Charles finally spoke, his voice calm and measured. He turned his gaze on me then, and I barely had a second to brace myself before he continued.

“Max wasn’t wrong.”

I nodded stiffly, unsure if I was supposed to respond or just let him continue.

“I don’t think you understand just how much you hurt her,” Charles went on. His voice wasn’t angry like Max’s had been, but something about it felt worse. Anger could be burned through, but this? This was something colder. Something controlled. Something terrifying.

“She needed you, and you turned your back on her.” His words weren’t loud, but they cut just as deep. “You want to feel guilty? Good. But don’t sit here and act like that makes up for anything.”

I could feel myself sinking into the couch.

“She wants to talk to you. That’s the only reason you’re still here.” His voice was still calm, still measured, but there was something off about it now. A slow shift, the same way the air changed before a storm hit. "But if you raise your voice at her, if you say something that makes her regret letting you through that door…”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Max won't be the only one to take care of you. I will too."

I barely breathed.

Charles was quiet. Collected. Precise. But there was something unsettling about the way he delivered the words. The way he sat there, relaxed, like he hadn’t just made a promise that chilled me to the bone.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “I—I won’t. I swear.”

Charles didn’t respond right away. He just held my gaze for another long second, as if deciding whether or not to believe me.

Then—

“Max!”

Her voice rang out from the kitchen, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Max was up in an instant, his frustration vanishing in a second at the sound of her calling for him. "Coming!"

His footsteps echoed down the hallway as he left the room, disappearing around the corner.

That left me alone with Charles.

The air felt suffocating, like the oxygen had been sucked from the room. I sat there, stiff and unmoving, my hands pressing against my legs to keep from shaking.

Charles exhaled slowly, like he was letting go of something. Then, his gaze found me again.

“Do you understand now?”

I nodded.

His lips twitched slightly, almost like he was satisfied with my reaction. But it wasn’t a smile. It was something else. Something unreadable.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then—

Soft footsteps.

The tension snapped as she reentered the room, stepping into my line of sight.

And just like that, Charles was neutral again. Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just spent the last few minutes making sure I understood exactly how unforgiving they were willing to be if I so much as stepped a single centimeter out of line.

Max and Charles lingered for a few moments longer, neither fully trusting to leave, but knowing it was what she wanted.

“We’ll leave you two to talk,” Charles said, his tone neutral, though there was an edge of warning beneath it.

Max was less subtle. His sharp eyes met mine, and he tilted his head just slightly. “One yell,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “And we’ll be back.”

The weight of the unspoken and you don’t want that hung in the air.

But Y/N just smiled at them, warm and appreciative. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, both of you.”

They hesitated only a second longer before nodding and disappearing down the hall, the door to her office clicking shut behind them.

Silence settled between us.

I felt it in my bones—the heaviness, the years of distance, the unsaid words stretching between us like an ocean. But I couldn’t let her speak first.

I wouldn’t.

“I’ve had time to think,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. I forced myself to sit up straighter, to look at her. “To think about what I remember, what I missed, and what I never bothered to see.”

Her expression didn’t change, but she was listening.

I exhaled slowly, steadying myself. “And I hate myself for it.”

She blinked, but still, she stayed silent.

“I was blind,” I admitted. “Every time you tried to tell me, every moment you hinted at what was really going on—I didn’t listen. I didn’t see you the way I should have. And now, I need to understand. I need to know everything. The truth. No matter how hard it is to hear.”

For the first time since I got here, her face softened, something flickering in her eyes that I couldn’t quite place.

Then, she let out a breath and nodded.

“You know,” she began, her voice softer than I expected, “ever since we were kids, I idolized you.”

I blinked. That wasn’t where I thought she’d start.

“I wanted to be just like you,” she continued, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to be as cool, as fearless, as free as my big brother.”

The ache in my chest grew.

“But our parents never wanted that,” she said, fingers idly toying with the sleeve of her brace. “You could be whoever you wanted, chase whatever dream you had, and they would cheer you on.”

Her hand tightened slightly on the fabric of the throw pillow in her lap. “But me?” She let out a quiet, breathy laugh—one that held no amusement. “I had to be perfect. Their perfect little princess. I had to be delicate, traditional, feminine. I had to learn how to be the kind of woman that wealthy men wanted. Because that’s all I ever was to them—an investment, a bargaining chip to keep our family climbing the social ladder.”

My stomach twisted violently.

“They let me race for one year,” she murmured. “One. And only because they thought I’d come crawling back, begging to be their good little girl again. They expected me to hate it. To break down, to realize that racing wasn’t for me, wasn’t for girls.”

She paused for a moment, looking down at her lap.

“And when I didn’t? When I loved it? They started playing their games—pushing, pulling, tearing me apart until I believed it myself. That I wasn’t good enough. That I would never be good enough. That the only person worth supporting was you.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.

“And I gave it up,” she said, finally looking back at me, her eyes shining with something too complicated to name. “For you. Because I was twelve, and you had been doing it longer, and I thought maybe… maybe that made it fair.”

I felt like I had been punched in the gut.

“But it wasn’t fair, Jack.”

Her voice was quiet, but the weight of it crushed me.

“Do you have any idea what that did to me?” she asked, her tone barely above a whisper. “I lost the one thing I loved—the one thing that made me feel alive. And for weeks, I hated you for it. I blamed you.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, shame clawing at my insides.

“Until Uncle saw what I had become,” she continued, voice steady but heavy with something deeper. “How I was drowning in silence, how I was folding in on myself just to survive. He was the only one who saw it. The only one who actually cared.”

She exhaled slowly. “He helped me start karting again when I turned thirteen. He kept my secret. He let me have something that was mine.”

Her fingers traced absent patterns against the fabric of the pillow, gaze unfocused. “And now, look where his love got me.”

She didn’t need to say more.

I clenched my fists, willing myself to stay still, to take every word as I should—without defense, without excuse.

Her gaze lifted again, locking onto mine. “But you?” she said softly. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one who was hurt. You don’t get to play the victim.”

I flinched, but I deserved it.

“Because every single thing I have done—every lie, every sacrifice, every moment I made myself small—was for you. For you.”

Her breath was shaky. “I played their perfect daughter so they wouldn’t drag you into the mess. I let them pretend I was their ideal little girl so they wouldn’t take it out on you.”

She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing, voice quieter now. “And when I started beating you? When I got faster, better?” A faint, sad smile crossed her lips. “I told no one. Not a single soul. Because I didn’t want to take the spotlight from you—not even for a second.”

She let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but not quite. “Because I knew what it felt like to be invisible. To watch every single thing I accomplished get brushed under the rug, forgotten, ignored, because you had done something—anything—that they decided was more important.”

I felt sick.

Every memory I had of her childhood—of our childhood—was different now. I had been so blind, so utterly and painfully blind, to the girl standing in front of me.

She had given up everything for me. And I had never even noticed.

Silence stretched between us.

I felt my throat tighten, my hands gripping my knees as I forced myself to breathe.

“…That’s the truth, Jack.”

And just like that, the weight of everything she had carried for so long settled between us.

Heavy. Unavoidable. Real.

I looked at her then, really looked at her, and for the first time in years, I saw my little sister—the one who used to chase after me, who used to smile like I hung the moon, who had once believed I was someone worth looking up to.

And all I could think was that I never wanted to let her down again.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight, my chest aching with a weight I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to lift.

And then, before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out.

“I’m so sorry.”

My voice cracked, raw and uneven, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t try to hide it.

“I—God, Y/N, I have been the worst older brother on the planet. Ever.” My hands clenched into fists against my knees, my knuckles turning white, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this moment—except the fact that I had to get this out, that she had to hear me.

“I failed you,” I said, voice thick with guilt. “Again and again and again, I failed you. I should have seen it. I should have known. You were always right there, right in front of me, screaming for help in ways I never even bothered to hear.”

My breath shook as I looked up at her, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“You deserved better,” I whispered. “Better than them. Better than me.”

She didn’t say anything at first, but I could see the hesitation in her eyes—the doubt, the years of self-preservation that made her wary of believing me, of trusting that I truly meant it.

But I did.

I meant every single word.

“And I promise you,” I continued, forcing myself to hold her gaze, to let her see just how much I ached for what I had done, “I will be better. I will do better. For you. Always. I will be there for you whenever you ask—no, before you even have to ask. Because you shouldn’t have to. Not anymore.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but she stayed silent. My heart clenched in my chest. I had spent years being blind, being selfish, being everything a big brother shouldn’t be. But not anymore.

“I need you to know something else,” I said, voice trembling as I tried to get the words out. “How I reacted after your crash…” I let out a shaky breath, running a hand through my hair, looking away for just a second before forcing myself to face her again. “That wasn’t what I really thought. Not even close.”

My jaw clenched, my nails digging into my palms.

“I don’t know why I reacted that way. I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me, but it was stupid, and I—God, I hate myself for it.”

Y/N blinked rapidly, looking away, and I could tell she was trying not to cry. I wished she wouldn’t. I wished she would scream, that she would yell, scream, hit me—anything to make me feel at least a fraction of the pain she had endured for years.

“I should have been there for you,” I whispered. “I should have been the one fighting for you, the one making sure you weren’t alone, the one telling everyone else to shut the hell up because you deserved better than whatever bullshit they were spewing.”

My breath hitched, and I looked down at my hands.

“But instead, I made it worse. I made everything worse. And I will never forgive myself for that.”

Silence settled between us for a moment, heavy but no longer suffocating. It wasn’t the kind of silence that built walls between us anymore—it was the kind that cracked them open, raw and vulnerable, laying everything bare.

Then, to my surprise, she let out a soft breath—almost a laugh, though it wasn’t quite happy.

“Jack…” she murmured, and I flinched, waiting for the blow, waiting for her to tell me that sorry wasn’t enough, that I had already ruined too much.

But instead, she reached forward, hesitantly placing her hand over mine.

My breath caught in my throat.

“I don’t need you to feel guilty, at least not like this” she said, her voice quiet but sure. “I just need you to mean what you say. I need you to prove it. Not just today, or tomorrow, but always.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “I will.”

She studied me for a long moment, and then, finally, she gave me the smallest, softest smile.

I let out a shaky breath and, before I could stop myself, turned my hand over so I could squeeze hers. It was the first time in years that I had felt like her brother. She squeezed my hand back.

I let out a choked laugh, running a hand down my face. “You know,” I said, voice still shaky, “I used to think that I was protecting you by not getting involved. By letting Mom and Dad handle things the way they wanted. I thought that was the right thing to do.”

Y/N’s smile faltered, her eyes darkening with something softer, something sadder.

“You weren’t protecting me,” she murmured. “You were just looking away.”

I flinched. But she didn’t let go of my hand. And somehow, that was enough to keep me from breaking apart completely. “I’m here now,” I said, voice quiet but certain. “And I swear to you—I will never look away again.”

Y/N inhaled sharply, like she was trying to hold something back. And then she nodded. I exhaled, my shoulders finally, finally relaxing.

It wasn’t everything. But it was a start.

I stood, feeling lighter, different. Determined.

“I’ll see you soon?” I asked, hesitant. Y/N smiled again, this time a little more sure. “Yeah.”

I nodded. Then, without another word, I turned and left, walking out the door with a purpose I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. This time, I wouldn’t fail her. Not now and Not ever again.

—

Watching Jack walk out the door, I felt something shift inside me—something fragile but real.

It wasn’t a grand moment of instant healing, no cinematic wave of relief crashing over me, but rather a slow, quiet mending. Like the first stitch in a wound too long left open, raw and aching. It would take time, I knew that. But for the first time in years, it felt truly possible.

I had braced myself for a fight, for yelling, for him standing his ground in our parents’ corner, throwing their words at me like daggers. I had prepared for the worst—prepared for him to tell me I was overreacting, that I needed to move on, that they were right, and I was just the problem child.

But instead, he had caught me completely off guard.

He had come to me with guilt. With regret. Not the kind you put on just to smooth things over, but something deeper, something that had been gnawing at him long before he even stepped through my door.

Someone else—someone who hadn’t spent years trying and failing to reach him, someone who hadn’t seen the real him before—might say he was gaslighting me, manipulating me into trusting him again just so he could hurt me down the line.

But I knew what I saw.

The look in his eyes, the way he carried himself, the way his voice wavered, as if he was afraid to even breathe wrong in my presence—this wasn’t the same person who had turned his back on me.

This was the boy I had once trusted with everything, standing in front of me again. Hesitant. Uncertain. But real. Himself.

And for the first time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—he had been suffering too. If maybe he had been trapped just like me, shaped and bent into something unrecognizable under the weight of our parents' expectations. If maybe he was only just now beginning to see it, beginning his own road to realization.

It was almost laughable. It had taken me nearly dying right in front of his eyes for him to finally open them.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The weight of it all sat heavy in my chest, but it didn’t hurt as much as before.

The front door had barely clicked shut when I heard another door creak open behind me. I rolled my eyes before I even turned around.

Two familiar faces peeked out from my office, their wide, curious eyes locked onto me like two overgrown children sneaking out of bed past curfew.

Max and Charles.

They grinned the moment I turned to look at them, the warmth in their faces softening the last of my tension. Neither of them hesitated as they stepped fully into the living room, each claiming a spot on either side of me on the couch. They didn’t press me immediately, but I could feel their quiet scrutiny, the way their gazes searched my face, scanning me for the answer before I even gave it.

I sighed. I knew they wouldn’t let this go.

“It went a lot better than I expected,” I admitted, leaning back against the cushions. “I can honestly say he really thought about everything. He feels guilty. Deeply guilty. He knows what he let our parents put me through, and he hates himself for it.”

Max and Charles exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations they somehow always had without speaking. Suspicion lingered in their expressions, doubt clouding their eyes.

Max turned back first, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “Are you sure you can trust what he says?”

I hesitated, not because I doubted myself, but because I understood why they were skeptical.

“I believe him,” I said carefully. “The version of him that walked in—it was the brother I remembered racing with my first year. The brother who stood up for me in the paddock, even when it meant going against our parents. Before they got to him, before he was brainwashed into whatever version of himself he’s been for the last six years.”

I reached for the small framed photo on the coffee table, brushing my fingers over the glass.

It was an old picture—our first family 1-2 finish. Jack on the top step of the podium, me on the second. His arm slung around my shoulders, both of us grinning like we had the entire world at our feet.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

“The boy in this photo,” I murmured, “he was the most raw, the most real version of himself. Untouched by criticism, unburdened by expectations. That’s the same person who walked through my front door today.”

I set the photo down, inhaling slowly. “And it was him who walked out, too.”

Max and Charles didn’t say anything, letting me speak at my own pace.

“It’s going to take time for him to earn back what he lost in me,” I continued, voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside me. “But this… this was a start. And for the first time, I feel hopeful for the future with him.”

Silence settled over us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was understanding.

I reached out, finding both their hands and intertwining my fingers with theirs. My thumb traced absentminded circles against their skin, grounding myself in the warmth of their presence.

“But no matter what happens, I’m not tied down to the idea of what he was supposed to be for me anymore,” I said softly. “If he were to walk back through that door right now and say he didn’t actually want to try, that he still hated me, or whatever bullshit negativity he could throw at me… I wouldn’t feel anything.”

Their hands instinctively tightened around mine.

“Because I have you,” I whispered, looking between them. “And the rest of the boys. I have a family. A real family. One that I chose, one that chose me. I have people in my corner, people who will always be here for me, no matter what.”

Max’s jaw tensed, and he quickly looked away, but I caught the soft pink hue dusting his cheeks.

Charles, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his emotions. His eyes glistened, his lips parting slightly, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. He didn’t have to.

The way he squeezed my hand—gentle, reassuring—said enough.

I let my head rest back against the couch, closing my eyes for just a second, allowing myself to breathe.

For the first time in a long, long while, I wasn’t looking backward.

I was looking forward.

And that?

That felt like progress.

Masterlist

Taglist: @widow-cevans @honethatty12 @wierdflowerpower @imlonelydontsendhelp @thatsnotaddy @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @littlesimps-world @dozyisdead @mizzy-pop @lost4lyrics @anunstablefangirl @nikfigueiredo @reiluvr @mymmyrym

#x reader #driver!reader #f1 #f1 angst #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 grid x reader #f1 imagine #f1 driver!reader

163 notes · View notes