#thank you for being here. for being in this space with me

[pilsbury-bland-bread]

Thanks for this response, which was definitely more thorough than my post actually deserved.

For context, I'm a PhD researcher in low-dimensional topology. My response was more snarkier than it should have been. I read your tone as pretty dismissive of the actual difficulty of working in higher dimensions – "What is all the fuss about..?", "everyone alive can and should be able to comprehend 4d. It's just the [...] terminology that gets most people stumbling". Your post also felt a bit "oh you work with 4 dimensions? Isn't the fourth dimension just time?" – which rubbed me up the wrong way. And I committed a pretty egregious xkcd 2501 with the RP² thing. Sorry about that.

But I'll try to actually respond to what you said in a helpful way!

"maybe true in some very technical sense, but not in an actually meaningful way."

What is this strange arbitrary division by which what I said isn't actually meaningfully true?

I guess twofold. First a more vibes-based complaint – it's misleading to always treat 4+ dimensional things as being composed of lower dimensional things. All of your examples were "take a thing and add dimensions". But most (and definitely most interesting!) higher dimensional phenomena don't arise like this.

The second is similar but more concrete – the type of approach described just isn't actually helpful when doing real maths. Mathematicians have lots of real tools to help them think about 4 dimensional things (Kirby calculus is cool) but very few follow this pattern of dividing up spaces into different dimensions.

neither @max1461 nor myself claimed to be able to or even mentioned anything to the magnitude of perfroming detailed (!) algebraic analysis in 3+ dimensions using solely mental capacity enabled by ~human constrains

No, but my point is that you can! This is very standard! The first two are pretty approachable using the standard techniques we have for visualising 4-dimensional spaces. I might outline how at the end if I remember.

For example, "take the Möbius band in R³, glue a disc to the boundary, then push this disc into R⁴ to get an embedding."

Ok so the idea is this. Inside R⁴ there's a copy of R³, say the one given by points with coordinates (x,y,z,0). In this copy of R³, put a Möbius band in the usual way. The boundary of the Möbius band is a circle. The boundary of a disc is also a circle, so we can glue (read: attach) a disc along the boundary of the Möbius band. This looks weird in 3D, in particular it has self intersections. However, we have a fourth dimension to play with! So by "pushing the disc into R⁴" (read: making the 4th coordinate of the points in the disc non-zero) we can remove all of these intersections. I find colour helpful here: if you can visualise the disc with its self-intersections in R³, try colouring the disc so that no two intersecting points have the same colour, but the whole boundary is the same colour.

Now that we have no intersections, we've embedded RP² (which is just a Möbius band glued to a disc) in R⁴! Neat.

I am yet to encounter anyone else who knows that the Möbius band and the Klein bottle are not actually a 3D object and a 4D object respectively in the typical collectively human way of understanding dimensions.

Yeah I spend too much time doing maths. Apologies.

People can see in its entirety the Möbius band not intersecting itself in one uninterrupted 3D space, and they then naïvely assume that there must be this mysterious way of likewise seeing the entirety of the Klein bottle in a singular uninterrupted 4D space. [...] Newsflash: no one can see a Klein bottle like that, because that's not how the 4th (or 7th, or any first series) dimension specifically works.

I'm not entirely sure how to respond to this. There is a way of seeing the Klein bottle as an uninterrupted surface embedded in 4D space. This is exactly how the 4th dimension works. You can do this in a similar way to above. Take two identical copies of a Möbius band in R³. On one copy, increase the fourth coordinate to be positive away from the circle on the boundary; on the other, negative. This gives you a surface embedded in R⁴ formed by gluing two Möbius bands. That's a Klein bottle! Cool right!

I'll come back to your "series" later.

A Klein bottle is simply partially located in separate 3D spaces, and the ~portal(s) between these spaces (which is what allows for the connection) is an instance of 4D, and hence the whole object is classified as being a 4D object.

If I'm understanding you right, this is untrue. A Klein bottle is a surface. When I "visualise" the Klein bottle in the abstrt, it is usually not embedded anywhere, it's just a 2D surface. I have spent enough time thinking about topology and visualising stuff (not unlike the mediation originally discussed) that this is easy for me now. When you say it's "partially located in separate 3D spaces" I might know what you mean? But I wouldn't be confident enough to guess. It doesn't have to be located anywhere. It can just exist. We can embed it in R⁴ as above. We can't embed it in R³, but we can in other 3-dimensional spaces. But it is not fundamentally a "4D object".

And that is why, according to my current best theory, it is misleading to expect to ever visualize 3+ dimensions as if they compound in mysteriously unimaginable ways, instead of cyclically nest in each other with repeating properties, and hence why the texts that I provided are, in fact, rather helpful.

Ok so I guess it's time to think about your "series". I genuinely don't understand what you mean. Why are 1 and 4 and 7 dimensions similar? I can't think of a single property that those dimensions have in common beyond being 1 mod 3. I can't tell if you do mean something concrete, but I'm kind of curious to hear more.

Some mathematicians claim they can visualize R^4, or even higher-dimensional spaces. I think this is probably possible for the human mind to do, in principle; the human mind often proves surprisingly flexible. But I think it probably takes a lot of concerted practice, and because you are stretching your mind beyond its intended limits in a purely-internal, imaginative way with no external reference points to check against, I think it probably has some things in common with certain types of meditative practice.

It's also common to hear mathematicians say that if humans had visual intuition for dimensions higher than 3, higher-dimensional geometry may have advanced much farther, since visual intuition is so often crucial in thinking of proofs.

So, ok, I suspect that AI will obviate the utility of this before it could ever have the chance to get off the ground, but this all makes me imagine a world where techniques for learning to visualize higher dimensions are well-known and practiced, and have become a functional necessity for being a working geometer in higher-than-3-dimensions. And these techniques require a lot of persistent practice and training, which (by the nature of the thing) is hard to precisely communicate to students. So part of becoming a geometer involves training in what is basically a meditative practice, where, à la Zen, much of the process involves not directly teaching the student but giving them prompts and mental exercises that are meant to trigger internal, incommunicable revelation. But instead of enlightenment it's geometric intuition. And so if we're getting a math PhD in, say, differential equations or something, it's mostly like it is today. But if your PhD is in low-dimensional topology there's like a whole monastic apprenticeship style thing that just comes along with it. People sometimes drive themselves insane. People sometimes drive themselves insane.

[novalyn257]

Bts reaction to how they kiss you 

Pairing: bts x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Romance

Word Count: 2,300 words

Warnings: None, just fluff and butterflies

Disclaimer: this blog is a fanfiction haven, and everything posted here is purely a work of fiction. The characters, settings, and worlds belong to their respective creators unless otherwise stated. No copyright infringement is intended.

✨ I write for fun, not profit.

✨ My takes may not be canon-friendly, and that’s okay.

✨ Reader discretion is advised for certain themes; check tags!

If you vibe with it, welcome aboard! If not, feel free to scroll away 💖 Stay kind, stay creative.

Masterlist

Namjoon

Namjoon’s kisses are thoughtful, like he’s reading a poem out loud but only for you. You’re sitting on the floor of his home studio, surrounded by books, notes, and random snacks. He’s pacing while explaining some philosophical theory that went way over your head twenty minutes ago. But you’re not even pretending to follow anymore because he’s just so damn Namjoon about it. Hands flying, words tumbling out faster than he can catch them.

“So essentially, Kant’s moral law suggests—” He stops mid-sentence when he notices you staring.

“What?” He blinks, looking genuinely confused.

You shake your head with a soft smile. “Nothing. You’re cute.”

Namjoon’s ears go pink, but he tries to play it cool. He kneels down in front of you, his dimple making an appearance. “You’re distracting me.”

“Am I?” you tease, leaning a little closer. He smells like his favorite woody cologne and the faint hint of coffee.

He huffs a laugh and then leans in, pressing his lips to yours softly. It’s slow and steady, like the foundation of a sturdy house. One hand cradles your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. When he pulls back, his gaze is as warm as a cozy library corner.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, and you laugh.

“You’re one to talk.”

Seokjin

It’s date night at the arcade, and Seokjin is in full competitive mode. You’re both battling it out in a shooting game, and he’s convinced that his victory is imminent.

“You’re going down,” he declares, dramatically reloading his (fake) gun.

“Keep dreaming,” you shoot back, landing a critical hit on his screen. “Oops, was that your last life?”

He glares at you in mock betrayal as the game announces your win. “You’re ruthless. Absolutely no mercy.”

You’re giggling so hard you barely notice when he steps closer, towering over you. “Well, I guess you deserve a consolation prize,” you tease, holding out a single ticket from the machine.

Seokjin’s response is unexpected but oh-so-Jin. He tilts your chin up with his finger, grinning mischievously. “I’ll take this instead,” he says before swooping in for a kiss. It’s playful, yet passionate, his lips soft and full of laughter.

When he pulls back, he smirks. “Now that’s a win.”

Yoongi

The studio lights are dim, casting a warm glow over Yoongi as he adjusts levels on his soundboard. You’ve been curled up on the couch, flipping through your phone while he works, the quiet hum of music filling the space.

“You’re staring again,” he says without looking up.

“Am not,” you lie, but your grin gives you away.

Yoongi finally turns his chair to face you, his expression unreadable. “If you want something, just come here.”

It’s an invitation you’re not about to refuse. You walk over, and before you can sit on the edge of the desk like you planned, he pulls you into his lap. The world outside the studio might as well not exist.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters, and then he kisses you. It’s quiet, unhurried, and utterly consuming. His hand rests on the small of your back, holding you close like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. When he finally breaks away, he’s smiling that rare, soft smile.

“Thanks for being my break,” he says, his forehead resting against yours.

Hoseok

The dance studio is nearly empty except for the two of you. Hoseok’s been teaching you some choreography, but it’s turned into more of a chaotic free-for-all.

“No, no, no! You have to feel it,” he says, dramatically clutching his chest. “Like this!” He breaks into a ridiculous move that’s equal parts skilled and silly.

You burst out laughing. “I’m never going to get this right!”

“Not with that attitude,” he teases, stepping closer. His face is glowing with sweat, but his energy is contagious. “Come here.”

You try to follow his lead, but you trip over your own feet, falling into his arms. Hoseok catches you effortlessly, his laughter echoing through the room.

“Smooth,” he jokes, but his tone softens as he looks at you. “You okay?”

You nod, and before you can respond, he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s as bright and electrifying as his dance moves. When he pulls back, he’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Now that’s how you end a routine,” he says, spinning you around once more for good measure.

Jimin

The two of you are walking along the Han River at sunset, the sky painted in hues of pink and orange. Jimin’s hand is in yours, his thumb tracing absentminded patterns against your skin.

“Pretty,” he says softly, and you’re not sure if he means the view or you.

“Yeah,” you reply, leaning your head against his shoulder.

You stop by the water’s edge, and Jimin turns to face you, his expression full of something you can’t quite name but feel in your chest. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, and he steps closer, his hands resting gently on your waist. His kiss is sweet and lingering, like a love song played on repeat. The world feels softer, quieter, and infinitely better when you’re with him.

When he pulls away, he’s blushing. “You’re too good to be true,” he murmurs, and you smile.

“Says the angel himself.”

Taehyung

It’s late at night, and you’re both sprawled out on a picnic blanket in his backyard, staring up at the stars. Taehyung’s deep voice hums a random tune, filling the comfortable silence.

“Do you ever think about how small we are?” he asks suddenly, his gaze fixed on the sky.

“All the time,” you reply, turning to look at him instead of the stars. He’s more breathtaking anyway.

He notices your stare and grins. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, though your heart is screaming something else entirely.

Taehyung props himself up on one elbow, his face inches from yours. “Liar,” he accuses softly, his voice playful.

Before you can respond, he kisses you. It’s deep and passionate, like he’s pouring every thought and feeling he can’t put into words into the kiss. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling that boxy smile that makes your chest ache in the best way.

“You’re my universe,” he says, his voice still low and full of wonder.

Jungkook

The gym isn’t exactly where you’d expect romance, but leave it to Jungkook to prove you wrong. He’s just finished his workout, his hair damp with sweat and his muscles practically glowing under the fluorescent lights.

“Come on,” he says, tugging you toward the boxing ring. “Let me teach you.”

“I’m going to embarrass myself,” you protest, but he’s already helping you into the gloves.

“You’ll be fine,” he reassures you, standing behind you and guiding your hands into position. His touch is steady, warm, and sends your heart into overdrive.

“Now, throw a punch,” he says, his voice close to your ear. You give it a shot, but your form is less than impressive.

Jungkook laughs, the sound bright and teasing. “Okay, maybe you’re more of a lover than a fighter.”

“Rude,” you say, turning to face him. Before you can argue further, he kisses you. It’s bold and confident, much like him, but there’s a softness that makes your knees weak.

When he pulls back, he smirks. “See? You’re better at this kind of sparring.”

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Aftermath of Breakdown

So, after that one ask about cat hybrid!König and Horangi, I wanted to write a little fic about how it works out. Here's the finished project.

Tws: slight pervy behaviour, Konig being a creep

Wordcount:

Art from This Post

Rest of the Story Below the Cut

Aftermath of Breakdown

You gently bandaged König’s paw as he moped in your lap.

“So you’re telling me you’ve been actual living human beings this entire time,” you said as you gently pinned the bandage into place. Without thinking, you kissed his paw before letting it go. You looked at the bandage and frowned.

“Does this mean he can’t change back now?” you asked.

“Not at all. C’mon big guy,” Horangi patted your cat on the head a couple of times and in an instant, your scruffy precious maine coon was a giant horrifying soldier man.

“Thank you Schatz,” the man murmured as he sat down on your sofa and kicked his injured foot up onto your table.

“No feet on the…” you squinted, “I don’t think that actually applies to you.”

Horangi took the chair opposite, leaving the only space left beside the Scary Big Bastard Man. He gestured for you to sit and König(?) looked up expectantly.

With a sigh, you lowered yourself down and let König wrap his arm around the back of the sofa. You glared at the offending arm, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

“So… What are you?” you asked as you looked at Horangi.

“Government experiments used in military espionage and combat mission to further national interests,” Horangi rattled off, “but for you? Cat hybrids.”

“Like… In animes?” you asked carefully.

“Kinda?” Horangi cringed, “we’re basically cats in human skin. Or humans in cat skins? I dunno. Point is, we’re both at once. We have the intelligence and cognisance of humans, but the instincts and predatory skills of cats. We’re essentially perfect soldiers.”

“And you’re in my house,” you concluded.

“Well, once the program was defunded, they didn’t really know what to do with us,” Horangi sighed, “so, they sorta just… Dumped us. They couldn’t kill us, we were human beings, but nobody wanted to take us in. Nobody wanted a vet with unchecked PTSD trained to kill on sight around their kiddos, right? So they kicked us onto the street.”

“Does that mean there’s more of you?” you asked.

“A lot more,” Horangi agreed, “but if it helps you at all, we’re pretty much all adopted. The only ones left are the ones who don’t want a home in the first place,” Horangi waggled his head side to side, “or that’s what they say at least. We keep trying to convince them, but they won’t hear it.”

“So you guys are contract killers that I’ve been feeding for the past year for free,” you said.

“If you want to put it that way, sure!” Horangi chirped, “but we’d rather think of it as us becoming a family together.”

“Building a family!?” you spat.

“Hey, hey, look. I know this is a lot, but I promise that we never meant to have you find out.”

“So you were going to lie to me forever?” you screeched, “and you were just going to take advantage of me!?”

“Take advantage?” Horangi puffed up.

“Hold on,” König held up a hand and then turned to you, “we didn’t want to take advantage of you. We just didn’t know how to explain this,” he gestured to himself, “and we didn’t want to lose you.”

There was an awkward beat as you waited for König to continue.

“I, ah, we have taken quite a liking to you,” König said softly, “we want to be with you for a long time. The plan was that we would court you as humans, but it never really went well. Horangi never seemed to find a good time, and you didn’t seem to like me at all.”

“It’s hard to like you when you creep me out,” you admitted.

König’s eyes drooped as he took in your words.

“You thought I was creepy?” he said, absolutely despondent.

“I mean, yes? I still do, but not as much? It’s a different type of creepy,” you scrambled before finally saying, “I mean, I was considering calling the police on you.”

“Why am I creepy?” he asked.

“Why are you acting surprised?” Horangi cut in, “I told you to cut it with the freak shit This is exactly why!”

“But I thought girls liked it when you-”

“Women do not like men staring at them and panting when they get close,” Horangi drawled.

König looked over to you.

“It’s really creepy,” you admitted sadly.

König looked like he could’ve died right then and there.

“Look,” you said as gently as you could, “if you’re not in my house all day, where do you guys go?”

“Mostly to work,” Horangi shrugged.

“Y-you work!?” you spat.

“Yeah? I’m a manager at the club downtown and König does private security gigs,” Horangi said, “when König’s between jobs he’s a bouncer at the club.”

You looked him up and down conspicuously. He notably stiffened under your inspection.

“So, if you have jobs,” you spoke as carefully as you could, “why are you not paying rent?”

“I can!” König practically yelled, “I can pay rent! Let me!”

You blinked and looked at Horangi.

“He’s been wanting to do this since you brought us home,” Horangi explained.

“And you didn’t let him?” you shot back.

“You tell me a good way to explain a strange man paying your rent for you,” Horangi glared at you over his sunglasses. When you couldn’t come up with a good answer, he sat back smugly, “That’s why.”

“So, you’re fine helping pay the bills around here,” you glanced between both the men.

König looked like he was about to burst when Horangi said, “Of course! We’d love to actually be able to help out. That, and eat some good food.”

You thought for a moment.

“Is this why you guys are so picky about your food?” you asked.

“Pretty much,” Horangi shrugged, “it’s hard to find cat food that tastes good. You got a good brand, but really we prefer to eat regular food.”

“So you guys have really been living rent free in my place for a year.”

König gently rubbed your shoulder, “If you’d let us, we’d like to take the chance to maybe take care of you like you’ve cared for us.”

You thought for a moment. If these men had actually wanted to hurt you, they would’ve done so by now. They hadn’t touched you inappropriately, they hadn’t stolen from you, the worst they’d done was bring a dead animal into your house. Actually, about that…

“Can you guys stop bringing me dead animals?” you asked, “it’s really gross. And as of today, it’s really creepy too.”

König sighed sadly as Horangi said, “Sure. But only if you agree to take the bell off my collar.”

“Done,” you affirmed.

“Then we’ve got a deal,” Horangi leaned back into the chair contently.

König nudged your thigh gently, “Are you going to let us stay, Schatz?”

You sighed.

“If you pay my bills, I don’t care what you do,” you sighed.

Immediately you were pulled into a suffocating hug. You squeaked and wiggled, then melted into the embrace.

“Thank you,” König chanted into your ear again and again. On the other side of the room, Horangi looked more pleased than ever.

“Can we still sleep with you though?” König asked hopefully, “it’s so comfortable in your bed.”

“Seeing as you haven’t done anything to me,” you sighed, “sure. But only as cats.”

“That’s fine,” Horangi said, “honestly, I usually waited until you went to sleep and then slept on your chair.”

“So only König sleeps with me?” you looked at the big scary man beside you.

“He’s always been the cuddly one,” Horangi drawled, “what did you expect?”

“Fair enough,” you sighed and slumped back into König’s arm. Without thinking, you slipped and let your head rest on his chest. It was… Comfy.

“So you guys never actually did anything in my sleep?” you checked.

“Never,” König swore, “you’re our… Um…”

“You can say it,” Horangi groaned.

“Our mate!”

You blinked.

“You think I’m your… mate?” you put together slowly.

“One day,” König said, “as we said, we both like you. Very much so. We always thought we could try to date you as men.”

You spluttered, “Both of you? At once!?”

“Well yeah,” König shrugged, “it’s only fair, right? We’ve already shared you for a year, and you’ve loved both of us equally.”

“We don’t love the same, so we figured it wouldn’t be so overwhelming for you,” Horangi added.

You gently pulled yourself out of König’s black hole and put your hands in your lap. You glanced between the men and thought carefully.

“You don’t have to commit to anything right now,” Horangi assured you, “this is a lot to take in. We totally understand.”

“I want an answer…”

“Shut up König,” Horangi hissed then turned to you, “ignore him. He’s a freak.”

You nodded primly, “I think I’ve figured that out by now.”

“So really, take your time with this,” Horangi urged you gently, “nobody’s rushing you but König, and if you haven’t figured it out by now, it’s best to just ignore him.”

“I think I get the idea,” you snickered, “but yeah. This is a lot. Honestly, I know I said you guys can sleep with me, but can you give me a couple of nights to just take it all in?”

König nodded sadly as Horangi agreed immediately.

“And also,” you glanced at König, “what’s with the hood?”

“This?” he plucked at the black hood, “it just helps a lot.”

“With?” you inquired.

“Social anxiety,” Hornagi explained, “he has a few scars too. They don’t show up when he’s in his cat form, but they’re pretty nasty in his human form.”

“Do injuries not show up when you change forms?” you asked then looked at König’s bandaged foot, “but that doesn’t…”

“Injuries transfer,” Hornagi explained, “but unless the scars are especially bad like our friend Nikto, they don’t tend to show up.”

“Nikto’s another hybrid?” you checked.

“Yeah. He had…” Horangi grimaced and König shuddered, “he got it bad when we were on the streets. Real bad. Just… People are awful. He’s got a good home now, but it’s a touchy subject. I shouldn’t have brought it up, honestly.”

You nodded sympathetically and turned to König, “So you’re trying to keep your scars covered?”

“If you saw me without my hood, I was worried you wouldn’t even give me a chance,” König admitted.

“Well, if you want me to be your ‘mate’, I wanna know what I’m dating,” you looked at him expectantly.

König glanced between you and Horangi, then with a nod from his friend, he sighed and took the mask in his hands. He unclipped his helmet and put it by his side. His fingers grazed the edges of his hood, and with a deep breath he pulled it off.

You blinked. Gingerly, you reached out a hand. He flinched back, then slowly let you cup his soft jaw.

“You’re so…”

König scrunched his face painfully.

“Handsome,” you finished softly.

His blue eyes opened wide, perfect mirrors of vulnerability. The light skin scratched over his skin ran across the bridge of his nose. Another line traced through his lips and yet another across his chin. Your eyes lingered on a particularly large line crossed his jugular.

“You’re incredible,” you murmured softly. You turned to Horangi and silently urged him to do the same.

Horangi didn’t have nearly the same hesitation, almost seeming eager to take the mask and sunglasses off. He put his helmet to the side and waved at you with a wide smirk.

“Hey,” his dark eyes sparkled in the warm light of the lamps, his smirk wide on his angular face.

“You’re also…” you frowned, “that’s not fair. Both of you are so hot and I’m…”

“Oh please,” Horangi laughed, “if we didn’t think you were perfect we wouldn’t still be here.”

“I might still eat the food,” König admitted quietly.

“Okay, König might still be here, but there’s no way I’d stick around,” Horangi’s smile softened, “we both think you’re beautiful. I promise.”

You smiled softly.

“Thanks,” you said, “but honestly,” you yawned, “I’m getting really tired. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow or something?”

“Of course,” Horangi nodded towards the cat bed, “c’mon big guy. Girl’s gotta sleep.”

“Princess need perfect sleep,” König agreed sagely.

You tottered back to your bed. As you shut the door behind you, you heard a couple of small poofs, and then König’s whine as Horangi smacked him.

Konig Dump

Konig Alternate Universes

Cat Hybrid!Konig

[cakypa120]

About Billy keeps dying au

Is it crazy to think that if an interdimensional portal were opened, Marvel who was reborn after being killed could meet up with fellow Leaguers from his past lives?

Like, is he reborn directly when he died, or does he kind of break through space and time and always be born in the same year he was supposed to be born? So does he generally have a standard age in relation to the infinite possibilities of Leagues?

Billy sighed. This wasn't how he'd pictured his long-awaited mission with the Flash of the new world. They were currently standing in the middle of another dimension's goddamn Gotham. And their home dimension was three dimensions away.

Flash: Where are we?

Marvel: Gotham. And also in another dimension.

Flash: Dude, when you said that mage could send you to other dimensions, I thought you were kidding.

Marvel: Well, now you're going to listen to everything about magic. That's the lesson.

Flash: Right. Shit, are we stuck here forever?

Marvel: No, we're just a long way from our home world. But I guarantee if we hurry, we'll make it in time for the free food giveaway at the Watchtower.

Flash: Then what are we waiting for? We gotta hurry!

Billy laughs. The Flash of the new world was young. And he had only recently been accepted into the Justice League. Barry was even different from his versions. Black-haired, blue-eyed, and curious to the point of insanity. The Bruce of the new world denies that he mentally adopted the guy, but Billy knows otherwise, Clark knows, and Diana knows too. No matter how much Bruce denies it, it is obvious that he has become attached to Barry. Billy is now eagerly awaiting Dick's arrival.

Flash: Do you have any ideas on how to get back to our home world, Gandalf?

Marvel: Did you just call me Gandalf?

Flash: Dumbledore?

Marvel: *pinches the speedster's cheek* Yes, I do, now calm down. We need to get to Fawcett. There should definitely be a portal there.

Flash: Why is there a portal in your town?

Marvel: Precautionary measure. Let's go quickly.

Flash: Race?

A shot rings out next to them. They turn around and see Red Hood. Billy quickly raises his hands up. Jason standing in front of them was the one who personally slit Marvel's throat when Billy was poisoned by magic and seriously damaged. Everyone wanted to save him then, to cure him, but it was impossible. Then Jason ended his suffering.

Jason froze when he saw Marvel. Just as bright, and just as big. He knew that Marvel would be reborn again. He knew, but doubts penetrated his heart. But now Marvel stood before him. A lump in his throat prevents him from breathing normally. Jason takes off his helmet and puts away his gun.

Jason: Holy shit, old man, you're really alive, huh?

Marvel: Alive as can be. Thanks for last time.

Jason: No thanks.

Flash: Guys? Anyone got something to tell me?

Marvel: Flash, meet Red Hood, he might show up, but we're not sure. Hood, this is Flash. Go easy on him, he's new to the hero business.

Flash: Hey!

Jason: Trying to mentor the new guys, huh, Cap?

Marvel: Sort of. Sorry, but we need to get to Fawcett fast so we can teleport back to our home dimension.

Jason: Try to stay out of sight of the other heroes. They didn't take your death very well.

Marvel: Got it, thanks for the warning.

Flash: Wait, you're dead?!

Marvel: Yeah, that happens sometimes. Now let's go, we need to get to the city quickly.

Superman: I don't think there's any need to hurry.

The three of them freeze and look up. Superman is hovering in the air, watching them like a hawk. Jason lets out a guttural growl and points his gun at the Kryptonian.

Superman: No need for violence, Red.

Jason: I wanted to tell you the same thing, asshole. I told you not to come to Gotham.

Superman: Sorry, but I couldn't ignore such a familiar voice.

Marvel steps in front of Barry. Clark has changed. A lot. This universe was especially violent. Rarely, but it happens. But Billy remembered a different hero. What else happened after he died? Now, the most important thing is not to lose control.

Marvel: Supes, how old are you? How is Lois?

Superman: She's okay. How are you? Still playing superhero?

Marvel: Of course, I'm not going to be thrown out of this job that easily. Well, Flash and I need to get back to our world, so we need to hurry.

Superman: Your world is here, Captain. You're staying here.

Billy didn't like the man's tone. Superman suddenly lunges at him, but Billy ducks just in time.

Superman: Marvel, don't make this difficult.

Marvel: What's wrong with you? Flash, run to Fawcett. I'll hold him off.

Flash: I don't want to leave you here!

Marvel: Flash. Run. That's an order.

Barry flinches at the hero's voice. Marvel rarely gave orders. He glances at the strange Superman, who was looking at Marvel like a dog looks at a bone. But an order is an order. Barry turns and runs.

Marvel: Clark, what happened.

Superman: A lot has changed since you died. Oliver's disability, Barry's coma. This world is losing its light. I just want to keep the light in the world. Will you help me?

Marvel: I don't belong in this world anymore.

Superman: You've already been killed here. Not there. You're safer here. Marvel, stay.

Marvel: Again, the answer is no.

Clark sighs, Jason tenses.

Superman: Then I have no choice.

Jason: Don't even think about it, son of a bitch!!

Clark attacks and pins Marvel to the ground. Billy watches in horror as the hero's eyes begin to light up. Jason points his gun, ready to fire. A sudden flash of light knocks Superman down. The Kryptonian flies away. And Billy looks at Barry.

Flash: Your hobbit saves the day!

Billy looks at Clark. Then he grabs Barry and teleports away, ignoring how loudly Clark screamed. His insides are burning from teleporting to Fawcett. He didn't like teleporting to other universes.

Flash: Dude, I don't like it here. Let's go home.

Billy nods and runs toward the old subway. Barry runs after him. There were many questions in his head, but he decided that he would ask them later. Now they needed to get home.

[hamilton-here]

Your writing is so great, I love it :)

I would love one, where Lewis and the reader are teammates and she has an accident and after that they finally show their feelings for eachother 😊

Have a nice day :)

𝒜𝓁𝓁’𝓈 𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝐼𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝓋���� 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑅𝒶𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Slowly recovering from my sickness. At the moment I’m moving house, so I am very busy. Thank you so much for loving my writing and I hope you have a wonderful day as well. I hope you enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: After a devastating crash at Silverstone, Lewis Hamilton and his fiercely competitive new teammate finally confront their buried feelings. Turning rivalry into something much deeper.

Warnings: mentions of a crash

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Mercedes garage was alive not just busy, but buzzing, like an organism with a thousand moving parts, each one vital and hyper-focused. Engineers hovered over telemetry screens, scanning data streams with eyes sharpened by caffeine and pressure. Mechanics swarmed the sleek silver machines, torque wrenches hissing, tires being wrapped in blankets like swaddled infants. The air was a heady mix of fuel, rubber, and carbon fibre, undercut by the palpable crackle of anticipation.

But the static in the air had nothing to do with machinery.

It was you.

You stood in the heart of it all, posture straight, eyes forward, your helmet resting against your hip. The shimmering vehicle sat before you, its aerodynamic frame gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Your name, stencilled in crisp black letters near the cockpit, still looked foreign to you. Beautiful. Surreal. Replacing Nico Rosberg wasn’t just a seat switch, it was a seismic shift.

He had stunned the world by retiring right after sealing the 2016 championship, a move no one saw coming. But now the world was watching again. Watching you.

And the weight of that was heavy.

But you didn't show it.

You adjusted the cuff of your fireproof undersuit as someone stepped up behind you.

“Looks like they upgraded the team,” came a voice smooth, amused, unmistakably British.

Lewis Hamilton.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting his. He stood there, casually leaning against the wall, race suit half-zipped and hanging around his waist, arms folded, tattoos stark against the rich brown skin of his chest and collarbone. His curls were slightly damp, and a grin pulled lazily at his lips like he was in on a secret.

He wasn’t just confident. He was magnetic.

You raised a brow. “Still bitter Nico got the title before retiring?”

Lewis chuckled, pushing off the wall to close the space between you. “Not bitter. Just intrigued. Replacing the guy who beat me? That’s a hell of a way to make an entrance.”

You tilted your head. “Are you worried?”

“Only about how many times I’m going to have to carry your ego off the podium.”

You smirked, eyes narrowing. “You might want to focus on staying ahead of me before worrying about podiums.”

There was a beat. A moment too long. The tension hung between you not sharp but charged like a storm waiting for the right moment to break.

He stepped closer, voice lower. “Guess I’ll have to find out, won’t I?”

Before you could reply, Toto Wolff walked in, clutching a clipboard like it was the last shred of his sanity. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you two, then closed his eyes like he was already calculating the therapy bill for the season.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “I can feel it. It’s going to be one of those years.”

“What years?” you asked innocently.

“The ones where I regret every decision that brought me here,” Toto said without missing a beat. “Let’s go, people. Media in thirty.”

You and Lewis gave matching innocent smiles.

“No promises,” Lewis called after him.

That afternoon in the press conference room of Albert Park Circuit.

Flashes from dozens of cameras exploded as you stepped onto the stage with Lewis. The air was warm, crowded with the scent of fresh print paper, deodorant, and just a hint of media bloodlust. Reporters practically vibrated with excitement.

Lewis slouched back in his chair with practiced ease, mic already adjusted, one hand on the desk. You sat beside him, back straight, legs crossed, every inch the composed professional. Until the questions began.

“Y/N,” a journalist in the front row started, “how does it feel stepping into the shoes of Nico Rosberg, the reigning champion and are you prepared for the inevitable tension that comes with partnering Lewis Hamilton?”

You leaned into the mic, barely concealing the sparkle in your eyes. “It’s an honour. Nico’s shoes aren’t easy to fill, but I’m not here to fill them. I’m here to win. And as for Lewis…” You turned your head; gaze locked with his. “I like a challenge.”

The room rippled with murmurs.

Lewis arched a brow, then turned to the crowd. “Why do I feel like I’m being flirted with and threatened at the same time?”

The press burst out laughing.

You didn’t blink. “Because you are.”

Toto, seated beside the stage, dropped his pen.

Soon enough free practice 2 was official.

You lit up the track.

Fastest in FP1. Even faster in FP2. You pushed the car to the edge of its capabilities and then some, dancing on the line between risk and brilliance. When you peeled into the garage, unbuckling your helmet and pulling it off, your face was flushed, pulse racing.

And Lewis was waiting.

He stood just outside the engineers' circle, his arms folded, visor already up, suit rolled down to his waist.

“Okay, okay,” he said, clapping once, grinning from ear to ear. “I see you. Coming out swinging.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face. “Gotta keep the world champ humble.”

“You keep this up and you’ll be paying for my therapy.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m worth that kind of emotional damage.”

An engineer near the back of the garage fumbled a wrench with a loud clang.

No one looked at Toto.

That night after completing your nightly routine, you scrolled on your phone in bed, bare feet tucked under the covers. The F1 Twitterverse was melting down.

@f1teatime:

THE FLIRTING. THE SMIRKS. THE COMPETITION. THIS IS A FANFIC COME TO LIFE.

@mercedesgirl77:

y/n and lewis need to GET A ROOM or GET A TROPHY. Either way I’m here for it.

@f1media:

The tension between Hamilton and his new teammate Y/N Y/L/N is already setting up the 2017 season to be unmissable.

The clips were going viral - your smirk, his grin, the toe-to-toe timing charts, Toto’s eternally pained expressions.

You didn’t reply to any of it.

But you watched. You watched the replays of your lap, the press conference, the teasing glint in Lewis’s eye when he looked at you.

You didn’t know where this was going.

But it was already moving fast.

And God, it was going to be one hell of a ride.

You were only a few races into the season, but by the time the paddock touched down in Bahrain, it was clear to everyone:

You were no longer “Nico Rosberg’s replacement.”

You were something else entirely.

The headlines had stopped comparing you to the former world champion.

Stopped framing every move you made in the shadow of the 2016 title winner.

Because the longer you stayed in the car and the faster you went the more obvious it became:

You were nothing like Nico.

Nico had been cold steel beneath the surface. Calculated. Tactical. A chess player in the body of a racer.

You?

You were fire.

You provoked. You teased. You smiled when the red lights went out and snarled when the helmet came off. Where Nico baited with passive aggression, you bantered with bite. While Nico gave quiet interviews, you gave headlines.

Where Nico and Lewis had waged a cold war - all unsaid tension and icy post-race stares as you and Lewis were something else.

Something volatile. Something dangerous. Something alive.

And Lewis?

He didn’t resent it. He thrived in it. Even when you beat him. Especially when you beat him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The desert sun pressed down on the paddock like a spotlight. You sat side-by-side with Lewis during the media pen interviews, legs crossed, sunglasses on, your fireproof undersuit peeled halfway down and tied at your waist. Reporters hovered like vultures, microphones extended, every question laced with the same electric curiosity.

“How’s the dynamic shaping up between the two of you now that we’re into race four?” someone asked. “You’ve already split pole positions and race wins. Is it friendly rivalry, or something more intense?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I think it depends on what you mean by ‘friendly.’”

Beside you, Lewis let out a quiet laugh. “She means she enjoys making me sweat.”

You tilted your head toward him. “Only because you deserve it.”

“You love it.”

“Guilty.”

The reporters lapped it up.

Someone else chimed in. “Y/N, do you think Lewis underestimates you?”

You glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “I don’t think he underestimates anyone. But I do think he was expecting a handshake, and I showed up with a middle finger.”

Lewis smirked, biting back a laugh.

“Didn’t know you were this charming,” he said under his breath.

“Wait ‘til race day.”

Toto, who was lurking at the edge of the pen like a chaperone trying to prevent a scandal, muttered something in Austrian German and walked away shaking his head. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A week later Saturday: Monaco Qualifying

You were flying once again.

The streets of Monte Carlo blurred past in a kaleidoscope of speed, precision and adrenaline. The engine screamed in harmony with your heartbeat as you threaded the car through corners that had claimed legends and yet you treated them like home.

You danced with the track, kissed every apex, flirted with every wall. Sector one? Purple. Sector two? Flawless. In sector three, your rear tires twitched slightly under braking at the Nouvelle Chicane, but you caught it smooth as silk and hugged the inside barrier at the tunnel exit so tightly that the tire brush left a black kiss mark on the guardrail.

The lap was a work of art. Pure poetry in motion. As you crossed the line, your race engineer’s voice crackled through the headset.

“P1. That’s provisional pole. Outstanding, Y/N.”

You exhaled, a grin forming beneath your helmet as the adrenaline washed over you in waves. This was Monaco. This was your lap.

And now, all eyes were on Lewis.

You peeled off your gloves as you sat in the garage, helmet in your lap, eyes glued to the screen. Lewis was still out on track his silver car slicing through the dusk-lit circuit. He was fast. You watched the timing split glow purple in sector one. Then green. And then - Turn 15. A millisecond of instability as he clipped the inside curb. The rear kicked out. He corrected, but he had to lift.

You saw the tenth slip away like water through his fingers.

The screen flashed: P2.

The moment he stepped out of the car, still in his helmet and suit, his eyes went straight to the monitor above the engineers. Then, slowly, they turned to you. He tugged off his balaclava and stalked toward you, sweat glistening at his hairline, jaw tight.

“Seriously?” he said under his breath, voice low enough that no one but you could hear. “You knew I was on a flying lap.”

You stood, arms crossed, unbothered. “What, I wasn’t even on track?”

He tilted his head, annoyed but not angry. Just frustrated. “I want a fair fight.”

You stepped a little closer, the air between you dense with heat and pride. “That was a fair fight, Hamilton. You just lost.”

He stared at you. Long enough that a mechanic nearby awkwardly turned away.

Then his lips twitched. A reluctant smile.

“You’re dangerous.”

You raised a brow, slow and deliberate. “You’re just figuring that out?”

He didn’t answer. He just walked away, pulling his suit down to his waist and muttering something to Bono. But his eyes lingered, and you felt the static he left behind like a spark on your skin. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Everything about race day in Monaco felt dipped in gold.

The bay shimmered with anchored yachts, the hillsides were dotted with sun-kissed faces behind sunglasses worth more than most cars, and every lens in the paddock turned to follow you and Lewis as you made your way to the grid. You in P1. Him beside you in P2. Side by side at the front of the most prestigious race on the calendar, the most unforgiving circuit in the world.

When the lights went out, you launched off the line like you were shot from a cannon. The opening laps were clean. Tense. Calculated. Monaco didn’t leave room for wheel-to-wheel chaos, but the pressure was suffocating and Lewis applied it like a surgeon with a scalpel.

By lap 22, he was on your gearbox.

You could feel him, not just in your mirrors, but in your bones. Breathing down your neck, matching your pace, probing every turn. He never committed not yet. But he was watching. Waiting. And you knew what he was doing. He was calculating the moment you’d crack.

But you didn’t.

You defended like hell. Protected the racing line. Blocked just enough without overstepping. A lesser teammate would have moved aside. But you weren’t lesser, and Lewis wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.

No team orders came.

Whether Toto was trusting you both...or screaming into a couch cushion in the hospitality suite was anyone’s guess.

But then, you made one mistake.

Just one.

You stayed out one lap too long before pitting. Your tires were crying out, the fronts beginning to lock in the hairpins. Your race engineer called you in and you dove into the pits, seconds too late.

Lewis had already pitted.

And he’d undercut you.

When you rejoined, it was behind him. Behind traffic. Trapped. Furious.

You slammed the wheel, muttering through clenched teeth, “You clever bastard.”

Your engineer’s amused reply was barely containing laughter. “Copy that.”

You pushed like hell, got past the traffic but Monaco offered no second chances.

Lewis won. And you finished second.

You’d barely unbuckled when Lewis was there at the paddock gate, helmet in hand, sweat on his brow, looking for you. You half-expected the signature smirk, the subtle dig. But he surprised you.

Instead, he just said, “Now we’re even.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, stepped closer. His voice dropped.

“Oh, I will.”

And then, for a second, it felt like something cracked. Something shifted between the rivalry and the banter. Like maybe it wasn’t just about racing anymore.

The afterparty was held at the Hôtel de Paris, the kind of place where history dripped from the walls and every champagne bottle had its own sommelier. The ballroom was glowing with crystal chandeliers and classical string quartets; elegance wrapped in decadence.

You walked in wearing a black satin gown that fit like a second skin, open-backed, thigh slit high enough to draw attention but not outrage. Your hair was swept up; your earrings sparkled under the low lighting. You knew you looked good.

But the look on Lewis’s face when he saw you?

It was something else entirely.

He stood near the bar, a flute of champagne in hand, wearing a tailored tuxedo with the top button undone and just enough swagger to make it lethal. When your eyes met across the room, something in your chest tightened.

He made his way over, slow, deliberate.

“You clean up alright,” you said, sipping your drink.

He handed you another glass perfectly chilled, of course. “I was about to say the same, but I’m a little distracted.”

You raised a brow. “By what?”

His gaze swept the room, then returned to you sharp, possessive and somehow both a warning and a confession. “By the fact that every guy in this room is looking at you. And I can’t tell if I want to punch someone...or ask you to dance.”

You took a slow sip, letting the silence hang between you. “Maybe both?”

He leaned in slightly, lips near your ear. “You always ruin my smooth lines.”

You looked at him over the rim of your glass. “You always give me something to ruin.”

His smirk turned molten.

And for the first time that night, the racing lines between the two of you blurred. Just a little.

Thursday – Press Conference, Montreal

The media room crackled with the usual pre-race tension of humming cameras, the soft rustle of notepads, lights too bright for comfort. You sat next to Lewis at the long table, arms crossed, legs casually stretched out, the brim of your cap pulled low enough to shade the quiet smirk on your face. Your fingers tapped lightly against your knee, equal parts nerves and anticipation.

By now, it was routine. You and Lewis, shoulder to shoulder, playing your well-rehearsed roles of the rising star and the reigning titan. But Montreal had a particular energy, one that electrified beneath your skin and made your heartbeat a little louder in your ears.

The journalists started off polite enough. Predictable questions. Tire choices. Weather forecasts. Championship predictions. You and Lewis answered like seasoned pros, never missing a beat until one voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

“Lewis, do you think having Y/N as a teammate is pushing you harder than Nico ever did?”

Silence, sharp and immediate, followed. Then Lewis’s lips quirked but not into a smile.

“Y/N doesn’t push,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “She shoves.”

Laughter rippled across the room. You tilted your head toward the reporter, resting your chin on one hand, eyes half-lidded with mock innocence.

“What can I say?” you murmured. “I like making him sweat. He said it himself once.”

The laughter got louder. Cameras clicked, trying to capture the side glance Lewis gave you a part glare, part grin.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes on you now instead of the press. “That explains the tire strategy you pulled last race,” he said lowly, just loud enough for the microphones to catch.

Your smirk widened, unapologetic. You shrugged one shoulder as if to say sorry, not sorry.

Between you, Toto let out a long, audible sigh. “I’m going to need blood pressure medication before Austria.”

You and Lewis, in perfect sync, didn’t miss a beat:

“Sorry, Toto.”

The room laughed again, but this time, you barely heard it.

Because when you looked at Lewis again - really looked the tension between you sparked. Not angry. Not flirty. Something quieter. Something simmering. Something you weren’t quite ready to name.

But it was there.

And you both knew it.

On Saturday, the day had drained you. Qualifying had been brutal every sector fought down to the millisecond. You’d taken pole, but only by the skin of your teeth. Lewis was right behind you, less than a tenth off. The debrief had been stiff, full of long stares across the table and passive-aggressive telemetry talk.

You were back in your hotel room now, trying and failing to wind down. Pyjamas on. Strategy notes open. You were on your third read-through of tire degradation predictions and still hadn’t taken in a word. The air conditioner hummed softly. Outside, the city sparkled, golden and wide awake. But you weren’t thinking about the lights.

You were thinking about him.

The knock at the door was soft. Three quick raps. Hesitant.

You blinked. Pushed your laptop aside. Walked to the door, heart ticking faster than it should have.

When you opened it, Lewis was standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hood pulled up. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he looked at you like he was waiting for you to tell him to go away.

But you didn’t.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply.

You nodded and stepped aside.

“Same.”

He walked in without another word. Sat on the edge of the bed like it was his own. You crawled back under the sheets, legs tucked under you, trying not to feel the shift in the air.

He didn’t speak. Just scrolled idly through his phone. The glow of the screen lit up his jaw, sharp and unreadable. You pretended to return to your notes, but your eyes kept drifting.

Minutes passed. Quiet minutes. Comfortable, strangely.

There was nothing romantic about it. And yet…it was the most intimate thing you’d felt in weeks.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in, and you let your eyes close. Just for a second.

You didn’t even realise you’d fallen asleep.

When you woke hours later, to the dim blue light of dawn bleeding into the room - Lewis was gone.

But his hoodie was folded at the foot of your bed. Left behind like a signature.

You stared at it for longer than you should have.

You should’ve laughed. Sent him a text. Something stupid, sarcastic. Didn’t know you moonlighted as a sleep therapist.

But instead, you picked it up - soft, worn-in, warm and pulled it over your head. His scent clung to the fabric. Clean. Familiar. Too familiar.

You didn’t think about what it meant. You didn’t want to.

You just tucked your hands into the sleeves and went back to your notes.

The next day rolled in faster than you expected but, the Canadian Grand Prix always delivered. This year was no exception.

From pole, you held the lead through the first stint, managing the tires, fending off Lewis who was never more than a second behind. Every lap felt like a chess match at 300 km/h DRS threats, over-cut possibilities, traffic playing interference.

He never let up. Not for a second. But neither did you.

When the pit window opened, you stayed out an extra lap which was a gamble. One you thought might gain you time.

But when you rejoined, Lewis was ahead.

He’d undercut you by half a second.

“Shit,” you muttered into your radio.

The rest of the race was damage control. You pushed. You clawed. You closed the gap to within striking distance by the final ten laps, but the tires weren’t there. Lewis crossed the line three seconds ahead.

P2.

When you climbed out of the car, helmet tucked under your arm, you expected the usual smug grin. Expected a quip. A jab. Something sharp-edged.

But Lewis met you at the paddock gate, helmet still on, visor lifted just enough for you to see his smile.

Not arrogant. Not taunting.

Just proud.

“Now we’re even,” he said, voice low.

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, grin still playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I will.”

After Montreal

Something had shifted.

Neither of you said anything about the hoodie. Or the hotel room. Or the way the air between you had started to hum with something more than competition.

But it was there.

The paddock noticed. The engineers noticed. Hell, even the Sky Sports commentators started speculating.

You still fought each other tooth and nail on track. But in the quiet moments, a look across the garage, a shared smirk during warm-up, a shoulder brush that neither of you stepped away from. The line between enemies and something else began to fade.

Whatever was growing between you and Lewis, it didn’t have a name yet.

However, it was coming fast.

One minute, you were stepping off the plane from Montreal, the champagne still sticky in your hair and Lewis’s half-smile still lingering in the back of your mind. The next, you were in the middle of the Styrian hills, Red Bull Ring laid out like a postcard, sky stretched above you in impossible shades of blue.

Austria was always beautiful. Always fast.

But this year? This year it felt like a storm waiting to break.

The paddock buzzed with something electric. Sharper than usual. Everyone moved with that mid-season intensity, chasing perfection in half-second intervals but underneath all of that, something else stirred.

You and Lewis.

It followed you like a shadow. Your names stacked beside each other on headlines, in interviews, across every trending hashtag. The questions came faster now from fans, press, even other drivers. The tension? Constant. Thick enough to feel on your skin. Like the moment before lights out.

Like standing too close to a flame you couldn’t stop reaching for.

Saturday – Qualifying Day

Q3 was hell.

Fast laps. Dirty air. Nerves wired too tight. Sector times bounced between green and purple like a heartbeat. You were quicker in the middle sector, Lewis in the third. Each lap built on the last, the timing screen an endless taunt.

Final run.

DRS open. Grip on the edge. You nailed your entry into Turn 7, carried perfect speed through the double left and still, it wasn’t enough.

Lewis crossed the line just before you. 0.036 seconds. You stared at the screen. P2. Your name flickering beneath his.

You muttered a curse into your helmet, just loud enough to fog the inside of your visor but not loud enough for Bono to ask questions. When you rolled into the garage, helmet off, race suit peeled halfway down, Lewis was already there leaning against the wall like he’d been born there.

He didn’t even look at you at first.

Just unzipped his race suit a little lower, sweat still drying across his collarbone, before shooting you a look over his shoulder.

“You’re getting slow.” His voice was low. Teasing. Dangerous.

You walked past him, deliberately close, brushing the edge of his elbow as you tugged off your gloves.

“You’re getting cocky.”

His smirk turned razor-sharp. “You like it.”

You paused, gaze flicking to his, something warm and wicked curling in your chest.

“Never said I didn’t.”

For just a second, he blinked. Smirk faltering like a driver who missed the apex by a breath. You saw it the shift behind his eyes and then he straightened, like the moment hadn’t just punched him in the ribs.

He stepped back. Just an inch.

But the space between you stayed hot. Buzzing. Unspoken.

Not quite rivals. Not quite anything else.

Saturday night was the team dinner.

The restaurant sat at the edge of a valley, glass walls framing a sunset that didn’t look real. The whole team had turned out - engineers, strategists, comms. Wine flowed. The food was good. Someone was halfway through a dramatic retelling of Canada 2011 when the chair beside you scraped back.

Lewis.

He didn’t ask. Just dropped into the seat beside you like gravity had pulled him there. Your shoulders brushed. You didn’t move.

He leaned over mid-story to steal a piece of bread from your plate, elbow bumping yours. His thigh pressed against yours not enough to be obvious, but enough that neither of you adjusted.

The jokes flowed faster. Every glance from him lasted a little too long. When you made a crack about his hair taking longer than his tire warm-up, he let out a bark of laughter and reached across to steal your fork in retaliation.

Toto, across the table, looked like he wanted to throw the wine bottle at both your heads.

He took a slow sip. Deadpan. “Did I wrong a god in a past life?”

You batted your lashes. “I’m delightful.”

Lewis raised his glass and clinked it against yours.

“Debatable,” he said, eyes glinting.

You didn’t look away.

And neither did anyone else. But no one said it. Not out loud. Because they all saw it too.

The next morning was race day.

Lights out. Chaos. Heat.

The race was all muscle and instinct.

You stuck to him like a second shadow. DRS flaps opened in perfect rhythm. You hunted him down, corner by corner, lap after lap. There was nothing gentle about it - this was a war fought in tenths of a second, elbows out, every move on the edge of legal.

He blocked you cleanly in Turn 3. You dove down the inside into Turn 7, forcing him wide. He retaliated the next lap, sweeping across the racing line so sharply you nearly clipped his rear.

It was beautiful. Exhausting.

By the final stint, your tires screamed, and your hands ached. The gap narrowed to under a second, but he held you off. Barely.

P2. Again.

You rolled into parc fermé, helmet still on, adrenaline laced with bitterness. Lewis was already climbing out of his car. He caught your eye. Didn't say a word not there. No smug comments in front of the cameras. No podium digs.

But later, when you passed him in the paddock still flushed from the heat, helmet tucked under your arm he was waiting.

That smirk was back.

“You’re starting to make this a habit.”

Voice low. A little too smooth.

You stepped up, so close your words dropped between you like sparks.

“Keep pushing me, Hamilton. I dare you.”

His eyes narrowed, half-amused, half-something else.

“Who said I ever stopped?”

And then, silence.

You held his stare for too long. Too knowing. And for a breathless second, it wasn’t about racing lines or qualifying splits.

It was about the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and back. The way your chest rose like a challenge. Whatever this was it was dangerous.

And you were already too far in to care.

After Spielberg

The internet exploded.

#HamY/N trended globally. Again.

Every clip dissected: the looks on the grid, the thigh-brushing at dinner, the tension in parc fermé. Some tabloid ran a side-by-side photo of the two of you from the national anthem, both staring straight ahead except your heads tilted just enough to catch the other out of the corner of your eyes.

“Rivals?”

“Lovers?”

“F1’s Slowest Burning Flame?”

Neither of you said a word. Didn’t need to.

Because the next time you stayed late in the sim room, Lewis showed up with two iced coffees and a smug grin. He dropped into the chair next to yours like it was routine. No questions. No excuses.

Later, in his hotel room, the silence settled differently.

The TV played some old onboard footage - Monaco, maybe 2008 with the volume low enough to be a lullaby. The light flickered faintly across the bed, the muted glow of past speed and younger versions of the man beside you. Your knees touched under the blanket. Neither of you moved.

He told you about a karting race he lost when he was twelve. You told him about the first time someone told you girls don’t win world championships and how, for a long time you almost believed them. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like it physically pained him. Like if he could go back in time, he’d put his hands around the words before they ever touched your ears.

Eventually, his eyes fluttered shut. Breath deepening. Shoulders relaxing.

Sleep, gradual and quiet, claimed him.

You didn’t mean to stay that long. But something about the weight of the day, the warmth of his side pressed to yours, the way his blanket smelled faintly like him of citrus, salt and something woodsy made you still. And when you shifted, curling ever so slightly in his direction, your head found its way to his chest.

His breathing hitched not quite awake, but not fully gone either. And then his arm moved. Slow. Sleepy.

He tucked you in closer, hand spreading wide across your lower back, anchoring you to him like his subconscious already knew what he wanted like this was muscle memory. You froze for a moment. Just breathed. He sighed in his sleep a soft, content sound and murmured your name so faintly it barely carried.

You didn’t answer. Because that was the moment you let go. Head rising and falling with the rhythm of his chest, you let your eyes fall shut. Let yourself be held.

And for all the chaos that waited outside that room the racing, the press, the questions - here, in this quiet space, Lewis was just a man asleep with his arm around you. And you? You were exactly where you wanted to be.

You didn’t dream of winning that night. You just dreamed of him. Though both of you were just too oblivious to see one another’s feelings.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Soon enough the oppressive weight of Silverstone loomed, not as a harbinger of rain, but as a chilling premonition of impact. Each breath caught in your throat, tight and constricted, a physical manifestation of the immense pressure. This was Lewis Hamilton's home race, the very heart of British motorsport, a crucible where legacies were forged or shattered. The pressure wasn't merely heavy; it was a suffocating shroud that clung to every inch of the paddock.

The air vibrated with an amplified hum, louder than any other race weekend. The British press, a relentless pack, circled with predatory intent, scenting vulnerability. And the fans - a roaring, impassioned sea of Union Jacks, homemade signs, and painted faces unleashed a deafening chorus of cheers. The Silver Arrows, your team, bore the crushing expectation to deliver.

The championship, though still technically within grasp, was a precarious dream, its fragile hold threatened by the encroaching might of Ferrari and Red Bull. Every single point became a battleground, every position a declaration of war. The team itself operated with the precision of a finely tuned machine, sharp-edged and tightly wound, yet disturbingly brittle.

Smiles were absent, relaxation a forgotten luxury. The only thing more fragile than the fluctuating standings was the pervasive sense that any distraction, however slight, could shatter their collective focus.

And you, were rapidly learning that distractions often wore the disarming, elusive and utterly impossible guise of Lewis Hamilton. He was dangerously close, both on the track and off. During media rounds, he consistently stood a little too near, always just beyond reach. You felt his presence before you saw him, the undeniable weight of his attention, a lingering static in the air.

The press, with their keen, predatory instincts, noticed. "Y/N, are you prepared to play support to Lewis this weekend?" one reporter purred, their voice thick with feigned sweetness, the microphone thrust so close you could feel its proximity, catching the barest flicker in your eyes. You didn't blink.

You steadfastly refused to glance at Lewis, even as you felt the searing intensity of his gaze, a palpable sensation akin to the electric calm before lightning strikes.

Instead, you offered a smile sweet, sharp and undeniably lethal. "Tell him to stay ahead of me," you retorted, your voice laced with a subtle challenge, "and we won't have a problem."

A low, warm chuckle escaped Lewis's lips beside you, the kind of sound that instantly became headline news. He attempted to mask it with a cough, but the charade fooled no one. Somewhere beyond the flashing cameras, you could almost hear Toto Wolff's enraged roar echoing into his water bottle.

The internet, predictably, erupted. The hashtag #Y/NvsLewis trended furiously, even before the first free practice session had begun.

Free practice began not long afterwards. The car beneath you felt like an extension of your own body, light and incredibly nimble, possessing the kind of perfect balance that drivers dreamt of. Each lap was a testament to precision, tighter and smoother than the last.

You felt an almost symbiotic connection, as if your very being and the machine spoke a shared, intuitive language. The screens in the garage glowed with your name at the top of the FP2 timings, fastest overall, fastest through the speed traps.

As you climbed out of the cockpit, the garage erupted in a wave of applause, though only one sound truly registered: the distinct clap of Lewis Hamilton. He leaned casually against the wall near your workstation, a water bottle arcing through the air towards you.

His eyes, crinkled at the corners, held a quiet admiration. "Nice lap," he murmured, his voice low and steady, carrying an undertone of something deeper than mere politeness.

You didn't offer a verbal reply, simply took a long sip of water, fighting to suppress the schoolgirl grin that threatened to break through your carefully maintained composure. It wasn't just a compliment; it was something else entirely.

Sunday — Race Day

Five red lights glowed, each one a stark, silent countdown. Your breath hitched, held captive in your lungs.

Then, they extinguished.

Go. A clean start. You and Lewis launched yourselves forward, a synchronised dance of pure power and precision. The world around you blurred into an indistinct canvas of speed. Nothing existed beyond the guttural roar of the engine and the rapid-fire pulse of strategy in your ear.

Lap after relentless lap, you hunted, your gaze locked onto the intricate dance of Lewis's gearbox. He defended flawlessly, with a clean, precise artistry, but you were gaining, clawing back tenths of a second with each corner, your car biting harder, hungrier.

On Lap 7, you closed the gap through the challenging Maggots and Becketts complex. DRS active, you weighed your options, considering a move. He covered, a seamless defensive manoeuvre. You held your line. It was still clean, still fair. But you saw it – the faintest flicker of vulnerability.

Lap 8. Copse. A flat-out, no-lifting, absolute commitment corner. You went for it.

And in that terrifying instant, the world shattered. Mid-corner, the rear of your car violently gave out. Snap oversteer. Zero grip. The tires screamed a desperate, futile protest, unable to save you. The car spun once, twice and then, abruptly, it wasn't spinning anymore. It was flying. There was no time for a scream.

There was only the sickening, visceral crunch of carbon fibre and steel tearing themselves apart against unforgiving concrete. Then: silence. Total. Absolute. Silence. The kind of silence that drowns. Your ears rang, a deafening hum. Or perhaps that was your own frantic heartbeat. Or perhaps, horrifyingly, you were already gone. You didn't know.

A red flag. The race halted. Marshals scrambled, a flurry of orange and white. Back in the garage, radios shrieked with panicked static. And then, Lewis's voice, raw and desperate, sliced through the chaos. "Is she okay?! What happened?! Tell me she's okay!" Nothing. Only static. No confirmation, just the chilling echo of chaos. He didn't care about the race, didn't care about restarts or championship points.

"Y/N?!" he shouted into the comms, his voice cracking, strained with anguish. "Someone answer me!"

Finally, a voice, calm and professional, from the medical team. "She's conscious. Awake. She's being taken to the medical centre." Lewis exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, as if he hadn't drawn one since the moment of impact. But it wasn't relief. It was merely the bare minimum of hope, a fragile thread in the face of overwhelming fear.

He got back into the car when they told him he had to. Lights out, again. He drove like a man possessed, a singular, unstoppable force. He seized the lead, held it with an iron grip, extended it relentlessly, dominating the restarted race. But he didn't celebrate. Not once. The race concluded. He won. Ten seconds clear of the field. Fastest lap. British Grand Prix champion.

The crowd erupted in a thunderous ovation. Fireworks painted vibrant streaks across the sky. And Lewis didn't even look up. He pulled into parc fermé, his helmet coming off to reveal a blank, unreadable face, his eyes dark and haunted.

He didn't pose with the trophy. He didn't take the flag. He walked straight past the throng of press, past the podium, past the waiting champagne.

He was already gone. Already heading for the medical centre, consumed by a singular, urgent purpose.

The world surged back, not with a sudden clarity, but in disorienting fragments. The oppressive hum of fluorescent lights, buzzing like an agitated hive, slowly coalesced from blurred streaks into harsh overhead fixtures.

Shapeless blurs sharpened into the outlines of unfamiliar medical equipment. A dull, persistent ache in your ribs, a grim souvenir of the impact, pulsed with every shallow, agonising breath, reminding you of the violent forces that had brought you to this sterile place.

The distant, rhythmic hum of machines, a symphony of life support and monitoring, permeated the air, punctuated by the insistent beeping of monitors that seemed to track every fragile beat of your heart. Faint, indistinct murmurs of voices drifted in and out of your consciousness, fragments of conversations you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then, cutting through the haze, came his voice. It was low, tense, a raw thread of anxiety woven into every syllable. Yet, it was undeniably familiar, a sound that resonated deep within you. “…you didn’t see her? Nobody saw the rear instability?” The words were sharp, accusatory, and edged with a desperation that sent a shiver down your spine.

You blinked, your eyelids impossibly heavy, feeling like they were weighted with lead. But his silhouette, even through the fuzzy veil, was unmistakable. Lewis.

He was a restless shadow, pacing agitatedly at the far side of the hospital room, his movements tight and jerky. He was still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and hanging loosely at his waist, revealing a sweat-dampened undershirt.

His brows were deeply furrowed, etched with worry lines that made him look as if he’d aged five years in the past five hours, each wrinkle a testament to the agony he’d endured.

A soft-spoken nurse, her expression a blend of professional calm and gentle authority, stepped forward, attempting to block his path as he tried to storm past the flimsy privacy curtain separating your bed from the rest of the room.

“I just need to see her,” Lewis pleaded, his voice a strained whisper, stripped of its usual confidence and bravado. “Just for a minute.” The nurse, understanding the raw emotion behind his words, replied gently, her voice soothing. “She’s awake,” she confirmed, a small, reassuring smile gracing her lips. “But sore. Don’t stress her.”

Your body, still protesting its recent ordeal, responded with a soft groan, a low, involuntary sound of discomfort as you shifted slightly in the bed. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through your battered body, reminding you that every inch of you was a battlefield. But that small sound, insignificant as it might have seemed, acted like a potent spell, freezing Lewis in his tracks.

His head whipped towards you, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw relief. And then in what felt like two impossibly swift strides he was there, suddenly beside the bed, dropping to his knees with a speed that belied his agitated state. He looked like a man on the verge of either proposing a lifetime commitment or shattering into a million pieces.

“Hey,” he breathed, the single word a fragile whisper, laced with an overwhelming tenderness. His voice cracked, betraying the immense emotional strain he was under. “

“Hey.” Your lips, dry and cracked, twitched into a faint, weak smile. Despite the pain, despite the confusion, a familiar spark of your competitive spirit flickered. “You win the race?” you managed to croak out, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

He let out a short, choked laugh, a sound devoid of its usual mirth, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Yeah,” he said, his gaze fixed on you, as if trying to memorise every detail of your face. “But who cares.” The words, usually so important to him, were dismissed with a dismissive wave of his hand, their significance utterly dwarfed by the sight of you.

You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling like sandpaper. “You should be celebrating,” you insisted, a faint echo of your usual banter in your tone. “Not without you,” he countered instantly, his voice firm, unwavering.

Something profound, something fragile and yet immensely powerful, broke open between you in that moment.

He looked at you, as if he hadn’t taken a full, unburdened breath until this very second. His fingers, trembling slightly, hovered near your hand, not quite touching, as if afraid to break the delicate spell. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the words laced with an agonising vulnerability that sent a jolt through your heart.

“You didn’t,” you said, your voice still weak but imbued with a fierce conviction. “I’m here.” He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of relief washing over his features.

When he opened them again, they were clouded with a torment you hadn't seen before. “I watched the crash back,” he confessed, his voice raw with self-reproach. “Over and over. Trying to see what I missed. What I should’ve done differently.” The weight of his unasked questions hung heavy in the air between you. “It wasn’t your fault—” you started, trying to reassure him, to alleviate the crushing guilt you saw in his eyes.

“I know that. I know.” His voice wavered, a tremor running through it that spoke volumes of his barely contained emotion. “But you don’t get it. I’ve never cared like this. Not with a teammate. Not with anyone in the paddock.” His gaze intensified, seeking to impress upon you the profound truth of his words.

You stared at him, your mind racing, trying to process the magnitude of his confession. He continued, his voice softening, becoming almost reverent. “You got under my skin so fast I didn’t even feel it. One minute you’re challenging me, mocking me, laughing at me and the next I’m in the hospital hallway thinking what if she doesn’t wake up. What if I never get to tell her.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with the lingering pain from the crash, and everything to do with this. The raw honesty of his words, the vulnerability he laid bare, stole your breath away.

“What would you have told me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, the question hanging delicately in the silence between you. He looked down, his gaze dropping to your intertwined hands, then slowly, deliberately, looked back up, his eyes locking with yours.

“That I love the way you race,” he began, his voice imbued with a newfound tenderness. “That I hate how much I want to win until I see you smile and suddenly second place feels okay. That every time I lose to you, I fall harder.” A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That I’m falling for you, Y/N. And I don’t think I know how to stop.”

You didn’t reply immediately. The weight of his words, the sheer vulnerability of his confession, left you speechless. Instead, you reached out your fingers, still a little weak, gently brushing over his, a tentative, unspoken invitation. His breath hitched.

“You’re not the only one,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, a fragile admission mirroring his own. “You made it impossible not to.” Lewis blinked, his eyes wide, as if unsure he heard you right, as if the reality of your words was too good to be true.

Then, slowly, deliberately, your fingers laced together, a silent confirmation of the burgeoning connection between you. “I should’ve told you sooner,” you confessed, the words a soft sigh of regret. He shook his head, a small, barely perceptible smile gracing his lips.

“You’re telling me now,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. A beat of comfortable, understanding silence passed between you. “Come here,” you whispered, the invitation a soft plea.

He stood, his movements careful and gentle, leaning over you as if you were made of the most delicate glass. Your fingers remained locked, a constant, reassuring link between you. You lifted your face just enough, your eyes meeting his, a silent permission passing between you.

And then he kissed you. It wasn’t the hesitant, exploratory kiss of a first date, nor the grand, passionate declaration of a dramatic confession. This was a kiss born of relief, of profound gratitude, a silent vow-exchanged between two souls who had stared into the abyss of loss and found each other again.

His lips against yours were soft and reverent, a gentle pressure that grounded you. It was a promise whispered without words, a silent affirmation of your shared vulnerability and the deep affection that had blossomed between you.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, his voice still thick with emotion. “You made it worth it,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed, a profound sense of peace settling over you.

Current time Monday, June 10, 2024 at 12:47:04 AM AEST.

Two days after the terrifying embrace of the hospital room, a subtle shift had occurred. You were no longer just a teammate to Lewis, nor he merely a formidable rival. There was an unspoken current, a tender understanding that hummed beneath the surface of your every interaction. Lying in your stark white hospital bed, still mending, you picked up your phone, a fleeting thought sparking in your mind.

You recorded a quick voice note, the lingering pain in your ribs a dull throb, your voice a little scratchy from disuse. “I’ve watched the crash three times,” you admitted, a wry smile playing on your lips. “I think I’m more upset about your lap time than the wall.” It was a familiar jab, a return to the playful antagonism that defined your professional relationship, a subtle test of the new boundaries.

Lewis’s reply was almost instantaneous, a clear indication of how closely he’d been awaiting your communication. He sent a selfie, a rare glimpse into his off-track world. He was in the simulator, the familiar cockpit surrounding him, but his usual intense focus was replaced by a wide, unburdened grin.

“Heal up fast," his text read, the words accompanied by an emoji of a flexing bicep. "I need you back on track so I can finally beat you without feeling guilty about it." The playful bravado was back, but now, it was tempered with a warmth that hadn’t been there before, a subtle acknowledgment of the stakes that had been so dramatically raised.

Recovery, it turned out, did not suit you. You were a creature of perpetual motion, of high-octane adrenaline, and the forced stillness chafed at your very soul. You hated the relentless downtime, the endless hours of physio that promised slow, arduous progress, each session a frustrating reminder of your temporary incapacitation. What you hated even more was the agonising experience of watching the races from a screen instead of being out there on the grid, the roar of the engines a distant, tantalising echo.

But Lewis, in his own quiet, persistent way, kept you anchored, kept you close. His presence was a constant, comforting hum in the background of your recovery: constant texts filled with mundane updates and genuine concern, late-night calls that stretched into the early hours, dissolving the distance between you, and a steady stream of photos from the garage captioned with a poignant, almost wistful, “your seat misses you.”

You weren't accustomed to such softness in motorsport. The paddock was a cutthroat world, a place where vulnerability was a weakness, where emotional attachments were liabilities. But with him? With Lewis, it didn't feel like a weakness. It felt like fuel, igniting a different kind of strength, a warmth that seeped into your bones and accelerated your healing. And by the time the Hungarian Grand Prix loomed on the horizon, you were not just recovered; you were ready. You were ravenous for the track, for the fight, and for him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Race weekend. Budapest. The very air vibrated with anticipation. Your return was, quite literally, all anyone could talk about. The paddock buzzed with a frenetic energy, and every journalist, every pundit, every fan had an opinion. "She’s back!" echoed through the media centre, a triumphant declaration. "What will this mean for the Hamilton dynamic?" they mused, recognising the intricate dance between you two. "Have the team lost control of their golden duo?" The question hung in the air, tinged with both apprehension and excitement.

You stepped out of the motorhome, the vibrant team colours a stark contrast to the flash of a hundred cameras that instantly swarmed you, their lenses like hungry eyes.

But you didn’t blink, didn't flinch.

You met their relentless gaze with a steely resolve, your focus already elsewhere. Just past the press barrier, amidst the controlled chaos, Lewis was waiting. His gaze, usually so guarded, was open, raw, searching only for you.

His arms opened slightly, just enough, a silent, almost imperceptible invitation. You didn’t hesitate. You walked right into them, the world blurring around the edges as his embrace enveloped you. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense of a passionate, sweeping gesture. Instead, he hugged you the way someone hugs the missing half of a whole. It was tight, desperate in its unspoken relief, an absolute connection that transcended words.

The cameras caught it all, every single click immortalising the unguarded moment, the undeniable truth of your bond.

Later that day, the press conference was packed, the air thick with expectation. The moderator, a seasoned professional, smiled warmly. “Y/N, how does it feel to be back?”

You leaned into the microphone, the familiar weight of it a comforting presence. “Like I’ve been holding my breath for three weeks,” you confessed, a wry smile playing on your lips, acknowledging the stifling frustration of forced inactivity.

Then, the moderator turned to Lewis, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And Lewis,” he began, “what’s it like having your teammate back on the grid?” Lewis didn’t miss a beat, his answer delivered with a smooth, almost theatrical flourish. “Safer, faster, and way more fun.”

Across the table, Toto, the stoic team principal, sat beside you both. At Lewis’s declaration, he visibly sagged, his shoulders slumping. He then closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for an inevitable onslaught. “Please,” he muttered, his voice barely audible, laced with a plea that bordered on desperation. “One race weekend without flirtation. I beg.”

You, emboldened by Lewis’s easy charm and the shared moment, leaned forward, a playful glint in your eye. “Define flirtation,” you challenged, a subtle dare in your tone. Lewis, never one to be outdone, added, “Define fun,” his grin widening.

The room, filled with jaded journalists and cynical analysts, burst into genuine laughter, the tension momentarily dissipating in a wave of shared amusement. Toto, however, merely massaged his temples, a man perpetually on the verge of an aneurysm.

The race itself was a masterclass in controlled aggression, a tight, thrilling ballet of speed and strategy. Lewis led, a familiar sight at the front of the pack. You followed, a relentless shadow, chasing hard, pushing the limits of your still-recovering body. But you didn't push stupid.

Your instincts, honed over years of high-stakes racing, held you back from unnecessary risks. Your body was still adjusting, finding its rhythm, reacquainting itself with the brutal demands of a Grand Prix.

You crossed the line in P2, a second-place finish. And for the first time, it didn’t sting. There was no bitter taste of defeat, no gnawing frustration. Because as the chequered flag waved, a blur of black and white, and the team erupted in cheers over the radio, Lewis’s voice, clear and resonant, cut through the celebration. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath caught in your throat, a sudden, unexpected gasp. You didn't answer not over comms, not where the entire team, the entire world, could potentially hear. The intimacy of his words was too precious to be broadcast.

But later, in the cool-down room, the sterile air a welcome relief after the oppressive heat of the cockpit, you sat on a low bench, sipping water, trying in vain to stop sweating through your race suit. Lewis sat beside you, his presence a comfortable weight, his gaze soft as he watched the replays on the wall monitors. “You know they’re gonna figure it out, right?” he said, his voice a low murmur, a subtle acknowledgment of the cameras that dotted the room, capturing every nuance.

You wiped your face with a towel, the cotton rough against your skin. “They already have,” you stated, a quiet certainty in your voice. He leaned back, stretching out his long legs, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“So, what do we do?” he asked, the question hanging in the air, laden with unspoken possibilities. You looked at him, your gaze unwavering, a confident grin spreading across your face. “You drive,” you said. “I drive. And we keep being us.” He turned his head, his smile deepening, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Even if it’s complicated?” he pressed, a hint of playful apprehension in his tone.

You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. “Lewis,” you said, shaking your head in mock exasperation. “What about this was ever going to be simple?”

Soon enough Monza race day arrived dawned under a sky heavy with the promise of chaos. Rain began to fall, turning the iconic Monza circuit into a treacherous, shimmering ribbon. It was a day for brave hearts and precise hands, a day for mayhem. You thrived in these conditions, your instincts razor-sharp.

You overtook him on Lap 4, a daring move that sent a ripple of excitement through the commentary boxes. He undercut you during the first pit stop, his team executing a flawless strategy that put him back ahead. But you weren't done. You dived past again in Turn 1, a breathtaking manoeuvre that brought the crowd to its feet, a collective gasp and roar echoing through the grandstands. By the final ten laps, you were neck and neck separated by a single second and sheer willpower, an epic duel unfolding before the eyes of the world.

“Let me race her,” Lewis demanded over the radio, his voice urgent, a primal desire to compete with you, unhindered.

Toto’s voice, a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration, came back: “You two are going to drive me into therapy.” Inside your helmet, a wide, unbidden smile spread across your face. “Then book a double session,” you muttered to yourself, the words a silent challenge to the man who held your careers in his hands.

You won. Your second win of the season, a momentous victory on one of motorsport's most iconic tracks. Lewis crossed the line just behind you, a mere blink of an eye separating your cars but his face, visible on the big screens, was plastered with a wide, unburdened grin, as if he’d won too.

On the podium, the air crackled with a triumphant energy. Champagne rained down, a glorious, golden shower. You sprayed him, a playful, victorious torrent, soaking him thoroughly. He didn’t even fight back, he just stood there, letting the cold spray wash over him, his eyes fixed on you, a gaze so intense it felt like sunlight through smoke, seeing only you in that moment.

And then, as the cheers reached a crescendo, as the champagne continued to fall, he pulled you close, still soaking wet from the celebration. He didn't say a word, just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his drenched race suit. And then, in front of the entire world, on the hallowed ground of the podium, he kissed you.

It wasn’t a quick peck, or a tentative brush of lips. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a powerful, raw, and undeniable declaration. His lips, still wet with champagne, met yours with a desperate urgency, a profound relief, and a fierce, burning passion. It was a kiss that tasted of victory, of fear conquered, of love unleashed.

His hand found the back of your head, tangling in your damp hair, pulling you even closer, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Your hands instinctively found purchase on his shoulders, gripping him tightly, as if to anchor yourself against the sudden, overwhelming force of his confession. The world faded, the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the presence of your team - it all dissolved into a singular, all-consuming moment.

It was a kiss that acknowledged every shared glance, every late-night call, every unspoken understanding. It was the public unveiling of a private love, an answer to every rumour, every whispered question. When he finally, reluctantly, pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, breathing you in. The air around you thrummed with a tangible energy, a silent hum of connection.

That night, the headlines didn’t know what to do with you, or with him. They struggled to categorise the raw, undeniable force that had just been unleashed on the world stage.

Sky Sports, usually restrained, ran with a headline that captured the essence of the moment:

“Teammates, Rivals, Lovers — Whatever They Are, It’s Working.”

Motorsport.com, ever the pragmatist, focused on the immediate outcome, but couldn’t ignore the context:

“Y/N Y/L/N Becomes Title Contender. Hamilton Still Grinning.”

The world watched, captivated, as the lines between professional rivalry and profound personal connection blurred, creating a story far more compelling than any championship fight.

This was more than just racing; this was a love story, unfolding at 300 kilometres an hour, for all the world to see.

[lazysoulwriter]

don’t shut me out — i’d rather hear the hard things. - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: misunderstanding, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, soft!Pedro, hurt feelings but lots of love, happy ending. established relationship.

It wasn’t a big fight. But it was the kind that lingers.

You didn’t yell. No slammed doors. Just that quiet kind of tension that builds in the space between words, where a misunderstanding blooms and neither of you knows how to stop it from growing.

It started with something stupid.

A text Pedro saw on your phone while you were in the kitchen. From someone he didn’t know. Friendly, a little flirty — nothing you asked for, but enough to make something tighten in his chest.

And when he asked you about it — gentle, but clearly bothered — you shrugged.

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to worry.”

He nodded.

But he did worry.

Not because he didn’t trust you. He did. He trusted you more than anyone. But some part of him — the tired, bruised part that still remembered past heartbreaks — whispered that maybe this was how it started. A shift. A turning point.

A distance.

The problem was, he didn’t say that.

Instead, he got quiet. A little colder. Not cruel, never that — but reserved in a way that felt unfamiliar. Conversations felt clipped. His arms felt looser when he hugged you goodnight.

And you noticed.

Because you weren’t dumb. And you weren’t heartless. You just… didn’t understand what you’d done.

So you pulled back too.

And for two whole days, it was like you were tiptoeing around each other. Careful. Polite. Heartbreaking.

It all cracked open on a Thursday night.

You were folding laundry. Pedro was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with an expression that made your chest ache.

“I miss you,” you said quietly.

That broke him.

“I’m right here,” he said. But even he didn’t sound convinced.

“No, you’re not,” you replied, voice shaking. “You haven’t really looked at me since Tuesday.”

Pedro swallowed hard, guilt painting every inch of his face. “I know. I—”

You sat beside him.

“What happened?” you asked. “Just… tell me.”

He hesitated.

Then: “I saw that message. The one from—whoever that was. And I knew it wasn’t your fault. I know that. But I just—” he shook his head, voice cracking. “I didn’t want to be the jealous guy. So I tried to let it go.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t. And instead of talking to you, I let it eat at me and now… here we are.”

You exhaled slowly, your hand sliding into his.

“I never replied,” you said. “I didn’t even think to bring it up because it was nothing. But I hate that it made you feel like I was pulling away.”

“I hate that I let myself believe it.”

You turned toward him.

“Next time… don’t shut me out,” you whispered. “I’d rather hear the hard things than go two days without really having you.”

Pedro looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time in days.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For freezing up. For being scared. For letting it get in my head.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until his forehead was against yours.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whispered. “You just have to be you. Let me in, even when it’s messy.”

Pedro kissed you then — slow and apologetic, all warmth and truth.

And when he pulled away, he exhaled against your lips.

“I love you,” he said. “So much it terrifies me sometimes.”

You smiled. “Good. Means you’re doing it right.”

And that night, you fell asleep wrapped around each other — no space left to misunderstand, no silence left to fill.

Just soft, breathing hearts finally finding their way back home.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[callme-holly]

𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 - 𝐃.𝐖

||۶ৎ in which dallas gets arrested again and reader cant handle it

⊹₊⋆.˚୨୧⋆.˚₊ ⊹

The halls smell faintly of bleach and burnt coffee, poignant and inescapable no matter where you stand, the stench lingering and making your stomach turn. It’s almost sterile, or at least as sterile as a police station can be, with people buzzing around you in a world of their own, completely separate from the little life you’re currently living. 

The woman at the front desk hadn’t even looked up at you when you told her who you were visiting, just briefly scanned the list and waved you through with a lazy flick of her hand. She looked bored, completely worn down and on her last thread, smacking her gum with such vigour it seemed as if she was trying to drag the final dregs of flavour from it before disposing of it. You didn’t thank her as you brush past; she didn’t seem to notice. 

The visiting area is the exact same as it had been when you last came: the same pallid and faded paint coating the walls, grey in colour and doing very little to brighten the dimness; the same smeared glass; and behind it, the same broken boy you’d left behind. 

Dallas Winston. 

It had been three weeks since you’d last seen him; a rumble gone wrong. He’d gotten picked up before he could run, taking the hit just to protect Ponyboy and getting dragged back into jail, away from you and the warmth of your presence. 

You weren’t technically allowed to visit; you weren’t family, but somehow your name had ended up on list and you weren’t going to argue it. He’d gotten you a place somehow, and no matter how upset you were with him, no matter how frequently he shattered the last remaining fragments of your heart, you’d always come back.

The chair legs scrape as you pull it back, the wood creaking slightly as you sit, the noise cutting through the din of the space, loud and grating. Dallas watches you with an expression akin to longing, and the desire behind it is irrefragable. 

“DIDn’t think you’d come.” He mutters, voice rough from disuse, the familiarity of it causing the dormant butterflies in your stomach to spark and begin their usual fluttering. 

“Nobody else was going to.” And it was true; he didn’t have any family willing to see him, and it wasn’t in the other boys’ nature to come visit. So really, you were the only person willing to face him. 

There’s still a faint bruise blossoming on his jaw, whether from the rumble or from a run-in with the wrong inmate; you don’t want to know. His eyes are darkened and heavy, like he hasn’t slept since being hauled in, and his hair is longer than before, tangled and slightly matted. The blonde locks curl near the nape of his neck, and your fingers itch. you run through them to brush out each knot with such a tenderness that it scares even you. 

He’s the same boy you left behind… But he isn’t your boy. Not exactly. 

“You mad at me, doll?” He asks, and the question makes you want to scoff and slap him all at once. Of course you’re mad at him; you’re beyond angry. He left you again and went against everything he promised you…

“I think that’s clear, Dally.” You cross your arms over your chest, brows raised, and for a moment you look something akin to a mother scolding their disobedient child, and that makes him feel so incredibly small. 

“I didn’t mean to, baby; you know that.” 

“Do I?” You retort, not even attempting to keep your tone gentle, the line of staying calm having long since been crossed. “You promise me time and time again that you’ll stop doing this: stop fighting, stop stealing, stop getting hauled in like you’re some sort of criminal!” The ‘and here we are again’ goes unspoken, but the point is tacit nonetheless. You don’t seem to miss the way Dallas’ shoulders slump in response. 

“You knew I wouldn’t change.” Blunt, too cold of a response. Because you did know. 

When he’d promised you, you’d both been drunk on each other, your words spilling forth and his response whispered into the crook of your neck between pants and heavy breaths. There’d been no meaning behind them; just the intent to keep you close. Exactly where he wanted you. 

“You keep expectin’ me to be different when I get outta here, that I’m gonna shape up into the typa guy you need. But it ain’t gonna happen, sweetheart. I'm not like that.” 

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach, knocking the air out of you and leaving you winded and breathless. The look you fix him with is blank, jaded, and devoid of anything other than disappointment. 

“I’m not trying to save you, Dallas.” You whisper, leaning close enough to the glass so that only he can hear you. “I don’t think I could if I tried.” 

“Yet you keep comin’ back.” He shakes his head. “Why? You could walk out that door right now and never look back. I wouldn’t stop you.” 

You scoff indignantly. “Don’t tempt me.” 

But you don’t move. You don’t even make an attempt to leave, staying firmly rooted to your seat like the desperate look in his eyes is the only thing keeping you grounded. You want to reach out and pull him close, to whisper how stupid he is between kisses and how easy it would be to just leave him. 

The silence between you both stretches painfully, filled with the occasional murmur from some other poor couple in the same kalopsia as you, delusional in the sense that you’re happy going on like this. With your boyfriend behind bars. 

“I got you on the list.” He says suddenly, looking up from where he’d been toying with the loose skin of his knuckles, raw and scarred from years of fighting and never letting the wounds heal over properly. “Told them you were my girl.” 

You nod numbly, the words like a dagger to your heart. His girl. 

“I noticed.” 

His eyes don't leave you, not even as you try to avoid looking into them. You'd only drown in them, frozen by the icy blue and left to float along, hopeless in the situation. 

"Go home, baby." He sighs, dragging a hand through his platinum hair, the strands flopping limply over his forehead, like even they had given up on him. “Girls like you don’t belong here. Not waitin’ around for a guy like me.” 

It stings—oh, it stings so bad—and no matter how true you knew it was, you’d become inured to the pain. Accepted that no matter how much you wished to, you’d never be able to walk away from him.

“I can’t.” You whisper, the shake in the words evident. “I can’t, Dal.” 

You’re suddenly conscious of the weight in your jacket pocket—his jacket pocket, the leather still smelling faintly of cigarettes—the letter you’d stuffed  into his pocket weighing heavy like a lead weight.

You pull it out gently; the envelope is crumpled and torn at the corners, sections of the paper wrinkled from what could only be tears, the remnants of the pain you’d felt. 

“Here.” You slide it through the little gap beneath the glass, wanting to get rid of it as quickly as possible. 

You’d written it on a whim, a letter containing all the words you wished you could say to him but couldn’t. Everything that hurt you but you couldn’t confront. 

Dallas just stares at it blankly, the same way one would stare at a bomb if you’d placed it front of them with little to no context. His hand hovered over it, fingers twitching as if to grab it but he couldn’t quite bring himself to. 

“Thanks.” 

You nod once, the action robotic and lacking any real emotion. “Yeah…”

He hesitates a few moments longer before pocketing the envelope, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat, eyes flickering down, then back up to you once more, wide and unsure.

“This goodbye?” There’s a slight chuckle in his words, pained and hollow, and you know he finds this anything but humorous.

The shrug you give doesn’t help much. “It’s always goodbye… You just never say it back.” 

And just like that… You leave him again. 

Your boy… But he’s not really yours anymore, is he?  

||۶ৎ dallas masterlist

||۶ৎ tag list. @mrsdillonx , @goingdelux18 , @princesshailierawr , @r0seb100d , @groovydonutpost, @rizzraa , @sheepandlams , @marinefreaakk , @sugarrootwrites , @marilyn-girly , @itonlyhastobetruetoday , @dairyfairyy , @williamafton26 , @mystiqueonfleek007 , @atpeacee , @theoneandonly-vrg

if anyone wants to be added or removed from the tag list lmk x

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 10

Simon loves you. He's just scared to finally admit it.

All parts here

2,235 words

CW: 𝐒𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭.. 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲🫡

(Also, part 10 is crazyyy. Thank you all. I love you so much)

Discharge day. One you and the men have been looking forward to. Price already drilled Simon to take a leave so he can heal and reassess things.

So there he is—stepping out of the medbay, bandaged up, sling on his right arm from a light sprain, and gaiter pulled over his nose. His black hoodie hugs his imposing frame as he shakes his head as all four of you blow party poppers and celebrate something so small.

"Jesus Christ. You're all bloody idiots." He huffs, annoyed yet amused.

Price chuckles and steps forward. "Y/N offered to let you stay at her place during your leave. Can't have you moping around base that you can't do anything."

Simon's eyebrows raise as he looks at you. You just shrug and look at the mess of streamers on the floor.

Soap and Gaz step forward—Soap with a shit-eating grin on his face. "Try not to break her or her bed, yeah?"

Gaz crosses his arms and nods in agreement.

Simon scoffs, trying to downplay how hot his cheeks turn beneath his gaiter. "Fucks sake, Johnny, shut the hell up."

You roll your eyes and smack Soap on the shoulder before nodding towards the door. "C'mon princess, time to whisk you away."

He shakes his head, muttering as he walks by, "Fuckin' hell."

You chuckle and wave to the boys before following him. When you catch up, you look him over.

"You feelin' better?" you question—genuinely concerned despite the teasing.

"Been better, been worse." He murmurs lightly, glancing down at you as you walk side by side.

"Sorry about them.. and that I didn't tell you I offered to let you stay at my place. Figured you would've been stubborn and denied my offer."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I would've. Don't wanna crowd your space."

"You're the only person that can crowd my space without annoying me, Simon." You smile softly before holding the door open for him.

You two walk in silence to your car before you open the passenger side for him. "My passenger princess."

"Shut it." He mutters as he gingerly sits down. You watch him struggle with the seat belt for a moment before leaning over him and fastening it—making sure to kiss his head and chuckle at how grumpy his is needing help for everything.

You shut the door and round to the drivers side, settling in yourself and starting the car.

"My place isn't far. It's on the countryside so it's quiet—I think you'll like it. You'll have it to yourself most days since I'm gonna be here working. So make yourself at home once we're there. Relax for once, yeah?"

He hums softly in acknowledgement. Despite the weird feeling of being in your home... with or without you.

...

Once at your house, you help him out and unlock the front door—pushing the old, rickety thing in with a bit of effort.

"It can be a bitch to open sometimes. So if you wanna go out and it's being difficult, don't strain yourself, use the back door. There's a porch swing back there with a better view anyways."

You let him in and start to ramble—apologizing for the mess, the dust, the old smell. He doesn't understand why you're making excuses for every little thing. This place—your place—is the homiest home he's been inside in years. It's decorated nicely, all things screaming you.

Even if you're not home because of your time on base. The dust, the clutter—all things make it a home. Makes you even more human to him. More perfect... if that's even possible.

His eyes linger on the records on the wall above a turntable stand. Mostly rock and metal records. He smirks slightly at your music taste. The exact opposite of you. You're bright and soft-spoken, but your music taste is heavy and loud. Which makes him even more enamored with the enigma that is you.

He's so lost in taking in your world he doesn't even hear you still rambling.

"Shh. Quit talkin'. Quit apologizing. Nothin' to apologize for," he says, finally turning to look at you.

You stop the moment he tells you too, just looking at him with clothes bunched up in your arms that you had scooped up from the floor.

You stand there, still holding the bundle of clothes, just watching him as his words sink in.

Nothing to apologize for.

Your throat works as you swallow, unsure what to do with the softness of his tone. The sincerity behind it. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the messy house or the dust or the clutter.

He steps toward you—slowly, carefully. Not because of his injury, but because something about this moment feels... delicate. Like if either of you speaks too loud, it'll shatter.

His voice is quieter now. “You don’t have to act perfect around me, y’know.”

“I’m not.” You huff a small laugh, but it lacks bite. “I’m a mess, Simon.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Then I guess I’m in good company.”

The silence stretches. You feel it pulling at your ribs, your chest. His eyes flick to your mouth for just a second. Barely.

You step forward without thinking. Just a little. Barely a breath of space between you.

“I, uh…” You glance down, unsure, then back up at him. “You want help getting comfortable? In bed, I mean—not, like—God, I meant literally, not—”

He raises an eyebrow, and despite the stiffness in his posture, a low, rasping chuckle escapes him. “Bed sounds good.”

You hesitate—but only a moment—then turn and lead him down the short hallway to your bedroom.

He pauses in the doorway, taking it in. It’s personal. Your scent clings to the room. Soft fabrics, half-finished mugs, a hoodie draped over the back of a chair. It’s you, in every detail.

You help him sit on the edge of the bed. Help him out of his hoodie, careful of the sling. His skin is warm beneath your fingers.

His voice is lower now. More intimate. “You always take care of people like this?”

“No,” you answer, without missing a beat.

He looks at you—really looks. “Why me, then?”

You don’t answer right away. You sit beside him, not touching, but close enough he can feel the heat of you.

“Because it’s you,” you say simply.

That’s all it takes.

His hand finds yours.

His lips brush yours—not deep, not hungry. Just a gentle test. Like he’s asking permission.

You give it.

The kiss stays soft, careful. Hands remain still, just a shared breath, a shared knowing. The kind of kiss that says I’m not going anywhere. The kind of kiss that asks nothing but honesty.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, and whisper—

“You should rest. You need it.”

But neither of you moves right away.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “Stay.”

You nod.

You don’t crawl in right away. You help him lie back. Pull the blanket over him. Turn the light off.

And when you do finally slide into bed beside him, you stay on top of the covers. One hand resting over his chest as you lay on your side and look at him.

He stares at the ceiling for a while. Like maybe the words are written there and he just needs to read them right.

You trace lazy circles over the blanket that rests across his chest, your fingers drifting in a pattern that’s more comforting than conscious. The silence isn't uncomfortable—but it’s charged. Like something wants to be said and neither of you knows how to say it.

His voice breaks the stillness, low and almost rough. “Y’ever think about… what this is?”

You blink, then shift your gaze up to his face. “This?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps his eyes on the ceiling like it might collapse if he moves.

“This. Us. You stayin’. Me not wantin’ you to go.” He pauses. Breathes. “Feels like somethin’. And I’m not good at... this sort of thing.”

Your hand stills over his chest.

“I know,” you say softly.

He swallows hard. “I’ve seen a lot of shit. People leavin’. Dying. Disappearing without warning. I don’t... hold onto things. Never really learned how.”

There’s a long pause.

“But you,” he adds, voice lower now, “you’re in my fuckin’ head all the time. Even when I don’t want you there.”

You smile faintly at that. “You love me.”

He finally turns to look at you. Eyes serious. A little wide, like he’s realizing it at the same time you say it.

He huffs through his nose. “Didn’t mean to. It’s not... convenient.”

You laugh quietly, touched and amused. “Love never is.”

He shifts slightly, wincing as he does. “I don’t even know what to do with it. The word feels stupid when I say it. Doesn’t feel like enough.”

You meet his gaze. “Then show me. When you're ready.”

“I’m tryin’,” he murmurs. “But I’m scared shitless.”

Your hand moves from his chest to cup the side of his face, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “So am I.”

You shift, searching his eyes. “Is it... how fast it’s happening?”

He nods once. “We’ve only been on one date. You stitched me up, we kissed in the dark, and now I’m here—half broken—saying I love you.”

“And I’m letting you sleep in my bed,” you add, voice soft with humor. “Yeah. It’s insane.”

He nods, just barely. Lets his eyes close.

“Still mean it, though,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.

“I love you.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle and sure.

“I know. I love you too.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years.

And then—

“I’m not helpin’ with the dishes, or any of that shit."

You laugh, forehead dropping to his shoulder. “You’re such a bastard.”

His good arm shifts to wrap around you and pull you half on top of him.

“Your bastard now.” He teases, comfortably nuzzling into the crook of your neck. Where you both murmur light words and slowly fall asleep.

...

You wake before the sun. The light outside still blue and cold, but his body is warm beneath your cheek.

You’re still on top of the covers, his good arm looped around you loosely. His breath is steady, but his fingers twitch—like his dreams are restless. Like he's restless.

You shift slightly to look up at him, just to check.

His eyes are already open.

Watching you.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t,” you whisper, voice still heavy with sleep.

Your hand drifts across his chest, tracing the edge of the blanket where it rests over his shirt. He’s quiet. Tense.

Like there’s something he’s been holding in all night. Holding himself back.

“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice gruff, “about how I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want to have you like this."

Your throat tightens. “Because you’re hurt?”

“Because it’s you, and you deserve better than some fleeting moment or a quick fuck."

“I want it to be you,” he adds, jaw tight. “But not if it’s just... want. Not if it’s just desperation. Or the adrenaline from all that shit we went through.”

You stare at him for a moment before softly speaking, "You think that's what this is?"

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you like he’s scared of what you might say next.

So you lean in. Brush your lips against his.

Soft. Reassuring.

"Simon," you whisper, "This is so much more than that."

His hand drifts up, fingers brushing your jaw. He studies you like he’s memorizing the exact moment. Like if he looks hard enough, it’ll feel less terrifying.

“I want it to be right,” he says. “For you. First time we do this.”

You smile. “Then just be here. With me. That’s enough if you're not ready.”

He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s trying to breathe out a lifetime of tension. Like he's annoyed at the prospect of waiting.

Then slowly—deliberately—he sits up.

You reach for him instinctively. “Don’t strain—”

He lifts his arm and rips the sling off.

You sit up, speechless. All you can do is gasp his name, "Simon, don't—"

"It's just a damn sprain, doesn't fuckin' matter like you do." he mutters, reaching for you.

You're in his lap before you know it. Large hand find your hips, you barely have time to protest before his mouth is on yours—firm and deep. Still controlled. But hungry.

Starved.

He pulls back only slightly, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven.

“You tell me to stop,” he says, “I stop. No hesitation.”

“I won’t,” you whisper.

He searches your eyes. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

You let him take the lead, though it’s clear he’s never done it like this before—this slow. This gentle. He touches like he’s afraid to bruise, kisses like he’s unsure how much of himself he’s allowed to give.

He trails kisses down your neck, lightly biting on your pulse point making you gasp.

"I'm not gonna break, y'know?" you say softly, running a hand through his hair.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. "Don't say that unless you're sure you can handle me." He grinds his hips up into yours, letting you feel exactly what you're doing to him.

You bite your lip. "Good thing I'm a fast learner."

Taglist🏷️: @tysukier @hypertail @tessakate @givemeangstorgivemedeath @jess-cyt

[preemptivejustice]

Arthur’s silence wasn’t dismissive, instead just a happy pause between the middle of the chaos. He was happy to let it spread out for a bit more than usual, happy to just let Steven take a bit of a lead to talk - his eyes were a bit more tired, his blinking a little bit slower from the effort of the day. But there was something soft in them, too; a quiet fondness that Steven so easily managed to pull out of him, even when everything else ran him down. 

The observations were all fascinating. They were all correct, though Steven wasn’t unique in being observant. Marc was, equally so - though perhaps Marc cared more about environment, and Steven about people? Perhaps. Or maybe Steven was a bit more observational overall. 

It was the only frustrating part of meeting these two at such separate times, having to try and pull comparisons from memory rather than being able to see it all clearly. 

“You’re right,” he muttered, not with a nod but rather with that same, tired stare. “I did… ‘have a day’.” 

A soft breath escaped him, his eyes flickering with amusement. He tried to get himself to relax, forcing his shoulders away from his ears and letting his spine curve into the arch of his chair, even If his leg protested lightly. 

“The tea is a good idea,” he added. He still had his mug, there were probably tea bags in the break room; “I think I’ll take your advice, thank you. That sounds very good.”

After this, he’d try and get something - it was never too late to turn the day around, he supposed. He’d get home and try to spend some time with the cats, maybe, to watch them for anything else - but he’d still be at work for quite a few hours. 

“And I’m very glad to hear you finished a puzzle,” he continued, his lips finally tilting back up into a smile. “That takes patience. And the garden walk. Abby is good company. You’ve done some good things, really - I call those ‘grounding’ things. Things where you interact with the space around you, with the people around you - that’s important.” 

It was something that Marc needed to do more, frustratingly enough - though part of him wondered if Steven was only here because Marc disliked the thought of being grounded so severely. If he was so against being in the hospital that he’d rather be hiding in his own head. 

“I think it’s endearing too,” he agreed. “Sliding a letter under your door, and running off. That sounds like something a younger version of me might’ve done.” He huffed a small laugh, tiny but genuine. “He cares. A great deal. And you could say he’s shy, yes. But… between you and me, I think your letter is one of the few things he really likes, here. He talked about it the last time I saw him, you really brought him comfort with it.” 

His gaze was kind, though he wondered if Marc was hearing that, as well; he was sure that if Marc did, they’d end up talking about it, if that bothered Marc for him to’ve said. 

“You’re doing good,” Arthur continued with a little nod. “Being patient with him. And with yourself.” Arthur let the moment breathe with that, shifting again; writing one little note, before looking back to Steven.

“Can I ask if you asked anyone to join you with the puzzle?” he gently asked. No judgement, not ever, but an invitation to explore. “To be alone with something like that can be peaceful - but… did you ask other people If they wanted to join? Or was there maybe a bit of worry that no one would say yes, so you chose not to?” 

When Steven finally lets Harrow get a word in - pauses long enough for the man to manage to do so - he thinks he can spot some discomfort there, pulsing through the doctor's very being; Unsure what exactly it is, but Steven takes that moment of non-rambling to take a closer look at the other sitting there, as he always does, just...

---More stiff, maybe, yeah. He appears more stiff. More sore, in a way that's hard to describe, as Steven obviously cannot feel whether some soreness really is going on there. Harrow's expression tells that he must've had a day, someting taxing happened, pulled on his nerves, left him tired and a bit exhausted.

Well, Steven's never been really good at such things. He could be entirely wrong, definitely, but... it pokes at him, in a way, and ist causes brows to lift again as that excited expression softens a bit, followed by what is clear empathy appearing within dark brown irises.

"Had a day, yeah?" A gentle inquiry, all soft-spoken and kind, with Steven shifting a bit forward in his seat as he folds his hands onto his lap, blinking once while a few seconds of silence pass. "I, erm, I'm not saying that you look--- bad, or something, no, not at all! Just... a bit tired, maybe? Tense - around the, uhm, jaw-area. Shoulders. ...Something like that."

Mentioning all this sure as hell is a great way to make friends, huh? Steven cringes a bit - internally, that is - before he clears his throat, then allows another smile to tug on his lips again, head tilting a bit, nostrils flaring as he exhales a breath. That previously mentioned empathy continues to exist, however, because it is genuine in nature, sincere; Steven's not one who likes to see other people suffering, and he wants everyone to be okay - which is stupid, honestly, because life is shit sometimes and there's no way for a man like him to make everyone's day be a bit better.

But he cares, still. Has a heart made of gold - which he himself does not really see, not at all.

"Y'know, it might sound stupid to some, but... whenever I feel a certain way, I like to have a cup of tea. It's a warm beverage, therefore makes one feel more relaxed, and it smells - and tastes - very nice. ---Depending on the kind of tea, of course, and whether someone's able to make it the proper way." A slight jab at the psych ward's canteen? Definitely. Steven clears his throat for a second time.

"...What I wanna say with that is, that, uhm... maybe have a cup of tea, yeah? I'm sure it will help you deal with whatever caused you trouble today. --- I mean, yeah, People keep saying that it isn't the case, but I think that tea can help to fix everything!" A true Brit he is, but he might also cling on some childhood memories there, who knows? Steven might not even be aware of it - he just believes in it, the magic powers of a good cup of tea, and he thinks that others can profit from it as well.

Another soft gaze, another kind smile, and Steven inhales deeply, then exhales - looks at the succulent again, being very much fond of it, before his attention is back on Harrow.

"To answer your question - sorry, I just... y'know..." A hand moves, gestures at the doctor, then drops back onto his lap as Steven nods, shrugs, then clears his throat once more. "...Uhm, yes, things have been good for me! ... As far as they can be good, since I'm here and not at home, but!" A finger is lifted, accompanied by a nod, brows rising along the shape of that forehead - so expressive, always. "I did finish an entire puzzle yesterday! No one really wanted to join me, unfortunately... but that's okay. I also went for a stroll in the garden; That lovely caretaker named Abby joined me, and we talked about birds! Very interesting. ---I kinda hoped to find another letter this morning, but... yeah, Marc probably takes his time, huh? ... I hope he's okay and doing well, all things considered. ...I have to admit, I found it rather endearing that he must've made his way over to my room in the early morning just to slide the letter under the door without me noticing, and then probably hurried back to his own room; Wished he would've knocked or stayed for a chat, but... I guess he's shy. That's okay! I can wait."

[toxicanonymity]

spectators

Tommy Miller x f!reader (500 words)

Tommy Miller masterlist

Blurb for @iamasaddie's 24 h writing sprint 🩷

WARNINGS: 18+ Degradation kink, slut-shaming, infidelity, ref to dp incest. Mean!Tommy

It was bold of you to show up at Tommy's son's ballgame. A single woman in a short sundress turned a lot of heads... especially when you were rumored to be carrying on an affair with the Miller brothers. You had no business being there, and the side-eyes from other community members only turned you on.  Crossing the lawn, you waved to Tommy, and he barely acknowledged you in response. He clenched his jaw, then gave a short nod and a seething stare past you.  He was manspreading on a cooler, drinking. As you got closer, he swallowed and shifted his eyes away from you, holding his beer between his knees in a way that had his arms guarding the perimeter of his lap.

Your knee nudged his wrist, making space for yourself, and when you moved to sit on his thigh, he stood up and said, “I don't think so, sugar. You lost your goddamn mind?” His gaze scanned the spectators, and his cheeks heated as he noticed the other parents whispering.

You pouted and complained, “You treat me like a doll, you know. You just pull me out of the toy chest whenever you feel like and then expect me to stay hidden.”

“Sounds about right, doll face,” Tommy answered. “What'd ya expect, a boyfriend?” He scoffed. “Spreadin’ your legs, beggin’ to be used... wanna be more than just a hole? Fuckin' act like it.”

“Okay....see if I spread'em next time,” you threatened. "You wish I was sitting on it right now, don't you?"

Tommy chuckled and stepped back. “Yeah, okay. Shit, look at you trottin’ out here, half naked. Lookin’ for dick anywhere ya can get it, huh?”

“Clearly I started at the bottom,” you snapped back. 

"Who's next, Seth?" Tommy asked.

“Maybe I need some more alone time with Joel,”  you mused.

He didn't take the bait. “He don't want nothin’ to do with ya outside the bedroom, sugar,” Tommy claimed.

Face burning, you threatened, "Who else knows the Miller brothers like to rub their cocks together?....What would the rest of Jackson think, knowing how much y'all love to cram your big dicks into the same cunt and fill it up... the way y'all cum so fast when you're together..."

Tommy raised his eyebrows with a smile into the distance. "You'd love that, wouldn't ya? Tellin' everybody what a filthy whore you are?" He looked you up and down and pulled up his jeans, resisting the urge to adjust himself. "How one cock ain't enough for your used up snatch..." His gaze settled on your breasts and their efforts to bust the seam of that dress. The sun was setting, and you relished the way his eyes consumed your body. His chest expanded as he took one last look at your tits. Then he turned his head, spat on the ground, and said, "get the fuck outta here."

“Try not to stare,” you said, and turned to walk away. When you had made it only a few steps, you bent over to pluck a flower, and Tommy got an eyeful of your bare cunt, glistening with a milky glaze. 

-

-

-

Joel and Tommy sharing masterlist

thank you for reading!

Next: Concessions (Joel)

[prettydaisygirl]

hey! here i am again~

what about a bouquet of 🌼, with Royal AU and the prompt "kiss me harder"?

do i really need to tell you with who? if it's not pretty obvius, with James Potter

hi my love! thanks for your request <3 hope you enjoy :)

🌼 daisy (innocence, loyalty, pure love): pick a character and an AU from the lists above & a prompt from this list and I will write a <500 word drabble

daisy's 500 follower celebration bouquet

James Potter, royalty, and "Kiss me harder."

cw: King!James, Queen!reader, the morning after the wedding night, suggestive

°˖✧✿✧˖°

James looks different this morning. There’s a glow about him, not just the soft waves of morning sunlight reflecting off his skin, but James himself seems to be glowing. His dark curls rest against the silk sheets and you reach out to brush a hand through them, loving the softness of each one against your skin. Your fingers tangle between them, watching as they bounce back once your hand brushes past them.

You sigh contently, pressing closer to him. James snores softly, his face turned toward you as he lays on his back, sprawled out against the silk sheets. You curl into his side, brushing your nose against his own before pressing the softest kiss you can to his lips. You don’t want to wake him, you just can’t help it. You pull back to admire his face, the face of your new husband. 

“Kiss me harder.” James’ voice makes you jump, you thought he was still sleeping. But then you find yourself chuckling and obeying, pressing another kiss to his lips, this one much firmer. He pulls you into his arms, his hands sliding down your back. You pull away to look at him, and he smiles up at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Good morning, my Queen…” He greets you in a soft whisper, his hand finding yours to interlace your fingers together. You can feel the cold metal of your rings clink softly as he slots his fingers between your own. His words have your heart fluttering and you find yourself moving to hug him. He accepts you easily, the two of you fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Meant to be.

“Good morning, my King.” You whisper into his neck, then add softly, “My husband.”

James rolls so he’s above you, his eyes dark but a sweet smile on his face. “I love you so much.” He doesn’t give you a chance to say it back, his lips are on yours. You smile into the kiss, which only makes James kiss you harder. He lets out a light sound of frustration when you start to giggle. 

“I’m trying to make a move,” He nips at your bottom lip before narrowing his eyes at you, “Can you stop laughing?”

“I’m sorry,” You say even though you aren’t sorry at all. “I just… it doesn’t feel real.” 

James raises an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth. “Really? After all I did for you last night, you don’t feel like my wife?”

You can’t help but laugh brightly, shaking your head. “That’s not what I meant,” You can feel your face warm but he doesn’t let you get shy. “I meant… being Queen.”  

“It will,” He tells you, and his words are so certain they don’t leave you any space for insecurity. Especially not one he lowers his face to your neck and sucks on a spot that leaves your body tingling. 

Being Queen will come, you’re sure. For now though, you’re just going to focus on being his wife. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[mcrdvcks]

Hi! Sorry, I just woke up and saw the 2000 followers challenge (timezones are a bitch). I love your writing so, so much and I wanted to send in an ask if it's okay.

Could you write headcanons for Logan with a very shy/insecure reader and how he'd reassure her that she isn't annoying him and he loves her and to stop apologizing for existing?

Thank you!

i might've veered slightly off what you wanted, but i tried to stick to it! i took a little inspiration from myself, because i'm the type of person who apologizes to my desk when i bump into it. or my dresser. or my chair. or my bed. or-

*clears throat* anyways, i'll never get tired of writing shy!reader and logan, it's a perfect combo imo

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: insecure/shy!reader, feelings of inadequacy, slight emotional!reader, protective logan, soft logan

You weren’t used to people noticing you. Though, most of that was your own doing. You never liked attention or people, preferring solitude.

You were the kind of person who apologized when someone else bumped into you. The kind who quietly cleaned up after everyone without being asked, then apologized for cleaning up.

Logan noticed.

At first, you figured he only tolerated your presence. You didn’t speak much, barely made noise, and tended to shrink away when conversations got too loud. But he started sitting next to you. Close. Like he was comfortable there.

You flinched once when someone shouted across the room—and you swore you saw Logan’s jaw clench before he slowly, casually moved to block your line of sight. Just stood there. Solid. Like a wall. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you while I’m around,” he said once. You nodded. Tried not to overthink it.

You apologized a lot. For asking questions. For needing help. For existing in a space where someone else might need to walk by. “Sorry,” you’d whisper as you scooted aside.

Logan looked at you sharply. “Stop sayin’ that.”

You blinked, startled. “S-sorry—”

“There. You did it again.” His tone was gruff but not mean. “You don’t gotta apologize for bein’ alive, darlin’. Not to me.”

You started bringing him coffee sometimes—black, always hot. You’d leave it on the counter and vanish before he could say anything. One day he caught you. Took the cup, nodded, and said, “that’s real nice of you.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted it. I can stop if it’s annoying—”

He set the coffee down and stepped closer, gently hooking one finger under your chin to tilt your face up.

“You don’t annoy me,” he said, low and steady. “Not even a little.”

You whispered, “You sure?”

“Sweetheart, if I didn’t want you around, you’d know.”

You’d gotten used to flinching when people raised their voice—even if it wasn’t at you. Logan started talking softer around you. Not because he was embarrassed of you—because he noticed.

You once cried over something stupid—burnt toast, a hard day, some mean comment—and kept trying to apologize between tears.

Logan pulled you close, rough hand cradling the back of your head. “You don’t gotta earn space, alright? You already got it. Right here.”

You sniffled, still trying to apologize, but his grip didn’t loosen. “None’a that,” he murmured. “You feel somethin’, you feel it. That’s it. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

After that, he started noticing more. The way you held your breath before speaking. How you always sat on the edge of a chair like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to get comfortable.

Logan would nudge you gently until your shoulders relaxed. Sometimes he’d pull you into his lap and mutter, “there. Better.”

If someone talked over you in a group, Logan would pause—let them finish—and then turn to you. “What were you sayin’, sweetheart?” Like your voice mattered more. Because to him, it did.

You had a habit of saying, “I don’t know if this makes sense, sorry—” every time you tried to explain something. Logan would stop whatever he was doing, look at you dead-on, and say, “it makes sense. I’m listenin’. Don’t talk down on yourself like that.”

After that, he’d quietly echo your ideas later in conversations—“like you said the other day…”—just to prove he was listening. That what you said stuck.

You once made a self-deprecating joke in front of someone else. Logan didn’t laugh. He just looked at you, all quiet and serious, and said, “ain’t funny when it’s about you.” Then reached over and brushed your pinky with his, gentle as anything.

The first time you said, “You don’t have to stay with me,” after a bad anxiety day, he looked you dead in the eyes and said, “ain’t about ‘have to.’ I want to.” Then pulled you into his chest so tight you could barely breathe through the warmth.

Logan wasn’t great with words—but he always showed up. Your favorite snack in the cabinet without asking. A soft shirt he thought you’d like tossed onto your bed. A warm hand on your thigh when your knee bounced too much. Soft, deep murmurs: “You’re alright. I got you.”

You worried about being clingy. Logan—who healed from bullet wounds but not abandonment—told you, “you wanna be close? Be close. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

When you struggled to accept compliments, he started slipping them in casual: “You’re real smart, y’know that?” or “you looked cute this morning. Just thought you should know.”

If you tried to brush them off or make a face, he’d raise an eyebrow and say, “didn’t ask for your opinion on it. Just sayin’ facts.”

You once mumbled, “You’re just saying that ‘cause you love me,” and he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your cheek, and whispered, “damn right I love you. That don’t mean I’m lyin’.”

[thezombieprostitute]

The Arrangement - Part 15

Summary: Jake's done a lot of things to keep his sister, and then his niece, safe from his parent's influence and manipulation. If he wants to keep them safe, he has to marry you.

Word Count: ~1.7k

Warnings: Bad parents, Body shaming, Talk of abuse. Let me know if I missed any!

Part 14 -- Part 16

Series Masterlist

"It's taken a longer than it should've, but I think we've got a solid plan here," Clay sighs. "Can't say everything's been accounted for 'cause that's a fool's errand, but we've covered just about everything we feasibly can."

"Okay," Jake nods. "Just let me know where and when to press the button. I'll make sure Sharky and I are packed and ready to go."

"How much of this plan have you told her?"

Jake sighs, "not...not a damn thing. She knows you and I are working on keeping Sarah and Jadah safe. That's it's."

Clay raises an eyebrow. "You might wanna get to talkin' to her, young man. Don't wanna undo months' worth of trust building."

"I know," Jake hangs his head. "It's just not an easy conversation to have."

"Lookin' at our timeline, you're gonna wanna start that conversation sooner, rather than later."

Jake nods, trying to think how best to approach the subject. The two of you have been getting along so well, you've really been coming out of your shell. Hurting you is the last thing in the world that he wants right now.

You say goodbye to Clay as he heads out. He always makes sure to thank you for the food and for taking care of Jake before he leaves. Honestly, you can understand why Jake is so loyal to the guy; he looks out for his people. Plus, like Jake, he respects your space. He always stays out of the kitchen unless given permission and he never even looks at the door to the master suite. It wouldn't surprise you if Jake thought of Clay as a father figure, he's a decent role model. Then again, your standards on that front are pretty low.

Jake comes out of his room, formerly the home theater, and hesitates.

"What's wrong?" you coax. "Bad news?"

"No...really, well, potentially really good news, depending on a few things. A number of which I really should've talked about to you before but I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to scare you or get your hopes up or any---"

He's cut off by your finger on his lips and your gentle "shh. You're rambling, Jake."

Jake's heart flutters at your touch, but more so at your behavior. It wasn't that long ago you were too scared to correct him on anything, now you're actively interrupting his ramblings with a gentle touch and no fear of him.

You give Jake a soft smile as your cheeks warm. You've learned to recognize his heart eyes. It's still difficult to believe he feels that way about you, but for months he's backed up his words with action.

"So, um...you know how I've been working with Clay?"

"Yes, he's still your boss."

"Umm...he's been...he and the team, we've been...working on plans to keep my sister and her daughter safe."

You give him a confused look. "I thought that's what the marriage was for."

"It is," Jake nods. "But this is a plan for keeping them safe without us having to be married." Jake immediately recognizes his mistake when he sees your features crumple. "Wait, wait, wait! Please let me finish!"

You don't hear what he's saying. All you can hear is your blood rushing. He's going to leave you. He never really wanted you. It was just convenience and proximity. None of it was real and you're furious with yourself for thinking it just might be.

"Sharky! Sharky, come back to me, please!" Jake grabs your shoulders and pleads.

You look at him, tears pouring. "You don't want me?"

"I do! I do want you, Sharky! That's the reason it's taken so long to get the plan worked out. I couldn't stand the idea of leaving you behind!"

"How...I don't...I want to trust you," you whisper.

Jake gets a determined look in his eyes. He gently moves you to the door of his room. You tense, just enough for him to feel it, and he hates himself for not being more careful with his words.

"Wait here for just a minute, please?" he begs.

You give him a small nod and he runs into the room.

You've never actually seen what Jake's done to the room. Clearly the giant screen makes for a great computer monitor. There's a lot of windows open that you're not sure what they are. What little you can see of the desktop looks to be a marine life photo, probably the default. It looks like he's got the massive recliners rearranged so that there's one for working at his computer, one for a bed, and the two others for conversation, likely with Clay. He's clearly made efficient use of the space.

"Aha!" A cheer from Jake startles you out of your thoughts. He runs over to you, a small box in his hand. "I'd bought this for you, for after we got out of here, when we weren't under the thumb of our parents."

He drops to one knee and opens the box, revealing a gold hammerhead shark ring. "I was going to save it to ask you to marry me when things had settled down. I even made sure to get a hammerhead shark because they travel in groups and I wanted to remind you that you don't have to be alone anymore!"

You bring your hands to your face and let out a small sob.

"I know...I know we haven't known each other long," Jake admits. "But I've never met anyone so wonderful as you. So kind, strong, understanding, able to put up with my...me-ness. I want to be with you, without the pressure from others pushing us together. I want to be together because we want to be together."

"I'm so sorry, Jake," you cry. He swears his heart stops. "I'm sorry I doubted you. I'll understand if you want to take the ring back. But, if you're willing to...to forgive me, I'd love to be with you."

Jake jumps up and hugs you. "Oh god, you scared me! I thought you were sorry because you didn't feel the same!"

"Just...just do me a favor and hold onto it? If my parents catch me wearing it they'll...It won't be good."

"I'll make sure they never find it," he promises. "Can...can I kiss you?"

"I'd like that," you giggle.

And you really do enjoy Jake's kisses. Your experience with kisses is limited but Jake's are, by far, the best you've ever had. They're earnest, exciting, just like him. You're also able to enjoy them because, time and time again, he's proven he's willing to stop whenever you need him to.

This time, though, you think you're ready.

You break away from his kisses. "Jake, would you...would you be willing to um...my bedroom?"

"Are you sure?"

You nod and lead him to the master suite, smiling.

Naturally, that's when your mother bursts in to the penthouse.

"As you can see, we need this space more open," she's telling the man she brought with her. "There's just no room for all the guests!"

You and Jake quickly separate.

"Mother? What...what's going on?"

"I can't say I'm surprised I'm not interrupting anything," she rolls her eyes. "We've got to get this place ready for hosting parties. Now that you and Jake are the face of the families, you have to start hosting parties. This penthouse was meant for family meetings more than anything. Gus here is going to be in charge of the construction!"

"You...you couldn't give us a heads up?" Jake shakes his head.

"Why would I need to do that? You know it's not your names on the deed." She turns to Gus, "kids! So ungrateful!" Gus gives you and Jake a sympathetic smile but nods along with your mother. You can't blame him. Business is business and she's not wrong about who actually owns this place.

"Looking over the layout for the place, we could easily open the place up more by taking out the home theater section," he offers. "We can move the theater system elsewhere."

"What? No!" your mother argues. "Just get rid of the kitchen. Parties are meant to be catered and without a kitchen it'll be easier for her to lose some weight."

"Mother, please! Not the kitchen!" you cry.

"Seriously, why are you cutting out her...her best skill? Even you know she's a great cook!" Jake adds, almost giving away that the kitchen was your safe space.

"Would you be interested in a mini-kitchen?" Gus asks Carol. "There's a lot of...inner workings, like water and heat lines, that would be easier to repurpose than get rid of."

"Ugh, only the smallest of kitchenette areas so the caterers have access to water sources or whatever," she rolls her eyes. "Now let's talk about how to keep that kitchenette out of sight while still opening the floor space."

She walks towards the kitchen, Gus following, when Jake whispers, "can I move my clothes into your closet?"

Your eyes widen at the realization you might be caught not sharing a bed. "Yes!" you whisper. "Move as fast as you can. I'll block her view of the hall."

"Thank you!" he gives you a peck on the cheek before running off.

It takes a little finagling on your part, but Jake manages to get his stuff moved over without your mother noticing. The entire time you hear her talking about all the "wastes of space" in the kitchen. Every time Gus brings up questions about living space they're dismissed as not important, just like you are.

No, like you were. You're important to Jake. He's made that clear. Jake's never purposefully hurt you. You've only known each other for 7 months, but in that time, he's done more for you than anyone else in your life. He's shown you what it's like to be important to someone, dear to someone.

There's an anger and resentment you can't remember feeling before. You've gotten a taste of something better, and he's offering a chance to escape.

When Carol and Gus finally leave, Jake turns to you, expecting to see tears, ready to reassure you with hugs and kisses. Instead you take his hands and look him in the eye.

"When do we leave and what do you need me to do?"

Part 14 -- Part 16

Series Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @ashdoctor; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @embarrasingmf; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @kmc1989; @lokislady82; @missaprilt23; @peaches1958; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63; @watermelonslut

[inqti]

To love you again.

Pairing: NONE MC Reader x Xavier (Reader would be addressed as Y/n, mc is still mc ofc)

Tag: angst, bittersweet, mention of d€ath.

Synopsis: Maybe you’ve mistaken his action for such feeling as love. All these times you’ve thought you and him could’ve become something more than just the guy next door.

A/N: TT ok I’m not that experienced with angst but I wanna try it. Please don’t mind it I’m still an amateur writer. Idk if I wanted to make pt2 but that’s gonna be depended how this part go first

Who would have thought that a mere stranger who helped you out on the day when people who you've grown up with, people from your own bloodline abandoned you had somewhat become the most important person you've cherished above all.

Xavier, the man who had saved you from your dire situation 6 years ago now is your partner in crime, not so reliable when it come cooking but the best for fighting off wanderer. Though your evol isn’t as fascinating or as strong as his you wondered how you even ended up pairing with the strongest Hunter among the associations until you’ve discovered that he personally request captain Jenna for you to be his partner from your other co worker, Tara.

You’ve started to become aware of his little action toward you little by little and soon those action made your heart flutter every now and then. It took you long enough to gather your courage for today you’ve decide to come face to face to confess to him.

You were standing right in front of his flat taking a deep breath before knocking over his door. Silence.

Huh that’s weird. You thought to yourself before knocking again. Yet again all you got back was silence. You called out his name incase he was unaware of your knocking.

“Xavier? Are you there?” You called out to him but still no answer back. You were about to grab the door knob and turn it but a lady passed by suddenly spoke up.

“Oh were you looking for this owner of this apartment ? He had moved out few days ago.”

Huh..? Move out? Since when..? Why didn’t he tell me. You bow to the lady thanking her for telling you.

You took out your phone and was about to text him and bombarded him with questions that’s been piling up in your head. The moment you open your contact you suddenly stopped yourself..

“Why should I asked him..? It’s his choice to move out. Why do I have to involved in his personal business” you scoffed at yourself for being worked up over the man who probably just see you as his friend..

After all it’s not my right to demand to know everything from him…

On that same evening as you were strolling down back to your place after your mission you’ve spotted Xavier walking with someone..

That familiar girl..isn’t she the new girl who joined us a few days ago why are they walking together

You couldn’t help but wonder your head off and suddenly it clicked when you saw them walking into the same apartment building. Is that why he moved out.. a pang of pain hit you right in the face when you finally connected the dots.

You’ve learnt he moved out from his place to be here close to her. And just as this wasn’t enough the next day at your work you’ve gotten assigned a new partner and Xavier would be working with the new girl..MC

“Y/n?” Tara voice snapped you out from your day dreaming after dazing into your report paper that you supposedly need to submit to captain Jenna.

“You’ve been spacing out since last morning..are you doing ok?”

You let out a sigh before giving her slight nod

“I’m ok..just a bit tired didn’t sleep well last night that’s all.”

Obviously how could you be sleeping well after finding out the reason why Xavier had moved out from your neighbor without letting you know and he couldn’t care enough to let you know even just a text from him would make you at least be at ease but no.

You were used to him telling about what he did daily..either it’s a small thing such as him getting a proper meal or big news such as him learning new recipes and succeed it.

And when he moved out, he didn’t even text you let alone telling you face to face despite seeing each other very often at work. He just moved out leaving you in the same place while he finally found a new place where he’ll probably be way more contented there. He moved out as if your memories with him where you spent every single moment with him when you both going in and out each other places for movie, for late work together, for sleep over..

This feeling gave you a sense of deja vu back when you first met him 6 years ago when nobody was there for you but he was there for you. He was like a ray of light into your life opening up a new chapter for you to finally lift of your dark place. You thought you finally found the one who would stay by your side but now that hope snapped and now you’ve found yourself back in that same situation all over again.

But at least this time, you were doing better. Maybe it’s better to not bother him anymore. You let out a sighed before getting off your seat and head toward captain Jenna office until you came across a room filled with laughter and joy..and you recognize the voice too well..that you wish your ears were lying to you.

And in that room you saw him, Xavier stood side by side with her, laughing with her so effortlessly, as if the years between you meant nothing. As if he hadn’t once stayed up all night patching up your wounds, sharing stolen meals in quiet alleyways, or making your world just a little less dark. It would be lying to say you weren’t hurt to the gut for witnessing this moment but what can you even do…you can’t force a love onto someone.

You quietly left before they both caught onto you and went to captain Jenna and submitting your report to her. Before leaving she suddenly asked. "Did something happen between you and Xavier?"

You turned to her and give her a smile before answering

"No, nothing happened between us captain" Jenna let out a sigh before rubbing her temples. "I just want to confirm since yesterday Xavier came in and request me to change a partner which I thought did you two get into a fight"

How ironic...he was the one who request for me to be his partner and now he just change me out as if I was just a placeholder waiting to replaced at any moment and I guess now is the right moment.

You almost let out a sneered at the thought but you held it back before denying all of Captain Jenna assumption and left her office.

That same night you went to the HQ rooftop, your escape space. The cold wind blew brushing your face sending you chill.

Just as you were admiring the stars a memory brought you back to the time you would sat here with Xavier counting stars with him and naming them with silly names.

"Y/n?"

You didn’t need to turn your head around. You didn’t have to. You knew that voice too well.

“What are you doing out here it’s getting late.”

“Nothing. Just trying to let everything sink in.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry…?” You let out a dry laugh as a lump started to form in your throat. “Don’t you think it’s too late now?”

Xavier flicked his gaze avoiding your eyes trying to find the right word to put in to you. A moment of suffocating silence pass by until he broke the ice.

“Y/n, it’s just…I’ve found her…the girl I’ve been searching for years…the sole reason and purpose for me to be here”

And it hit you, you had expected this day will come sooner or later but you weren’t prepare for it to hurt this much. You knew about him more than any other hunters among the association.

“So just when you finally found her you’re just gonna abandoned—“

You paused mid sentence and had to bite back your words knowing it all useless to vent your heart out. Plus you and him weren’t together why should you have to be mad over this matter, the least for you to do as for right now is to congratulate him.

He’s been wandering around this earth over centuries to find his one and only girl, his girl, his queen.

“Congratulations Xavier.” You forced a smile that didn’t reach your ears and fight back your tears from rolling down your face.

And since then you gradually distance yourself from him silently love him from the sideline until you can’t anymore.

The moment you opened your eyes you found yourself in the familiar white ceiling and the smell of disinfectant fill your nose. It's been days, you've been bedridden and you have taken some days off from work.

You wondered if Xavier would’ve noticed anything. You hated yourself despite being in this stage where your life barely clinging on to the string you still thought about him hoping he would notice your absence.

But you couldn’t blame him, you knew how long he’s been waiting for the moment his true love showed up. You’ve known him long enough to understand this side of him because if you were in his shoes you would’ve done what he did too.

As for now, you felt nothing more than gratitude toward him because before she showed up you were there. You were grateful for the experience of what it meant to be loved. He was there and make your life a little less darker.

“At least, I was able to love him. That’s enough for me. And if there’s another life, I’d love to fall for him over again…because that’s what keeps me going…”

You gave a weak smile to Tara and Captain Jenna as tear fall down your cheek one last time before everything went completely blank. You didn’t tell anyone about this, especially Xavier.

“He can finally spend his spring with his beloved this time.”

And after that the world had gone completely blank. Your consciousness slowly fading as your body finally gave up, you didn’t want to fight this anymore. All you could hear was Tara soft sobbing beside you and everything become a blur..and the only one memory you remember was back how happy you and Xavier were when you two were sitting together counting stars together sharing a cozy blanket before shutting your eyes completely.

[fayelero]

Can I req Kirishima being insecure and afraid to show his s/o his dorm room after Hagakure said “If I found out my boyfriend had a room like this, I’d dump him.”

ⓘ 02. YOU LOVED IT ANYWAY !

⤷ FLUFF ﹫ kirishima eijiro x fem!reader ﹫ thanks for this cute req! sorry for delay lol. I love kiri <3

⚠︎ fluff, none .ᐟ.ᐟ

Eijiro Kirishima remembered the words like a kick to the stomach.

“If I found out my boyfriend had a room like this, I’d dump him.” Hagakure had said it with a laugh, tossing her invisible hand through the air like the sentence was nothing. A joke between friends during the usual tour of dorm rooms in first year. Everyone had gone around, showing off their space, giggling at Mineta’s tragic attempt at romance posters, marveling at Todoroki’s minimalist zen den. When it got to Kirishima’s room, it had been met with… well.

Silence.

Then the laugh.

He hadn’t said anything. Just chuckled along like it didn’t hit him square in the ribs.

He thought about that sentence more than he liked to admit.

And now, months later, with you as his girlfriend—his actual, unbelievably cool and amazing girlfriend—he still heard it. Like an echo stuck to his brain. Like it carved itself into the walls of his very manly, proudly red-and-black, poster-plastered room.

The truth was, he liked his space. The All Might posters from three different eras. The racks of protein powder lined up like collectibles. The bedspread that looked like it was designed for a sentient gym bag. It felt like him. But now that you existed in his life in this soft, warm, sunshine-on-his-skin way, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it wasn’t enough.

Or worse—maybe it was too much.

You hadn’t seen his room yet. You’d hung out everywhere else: the common room, your dorm, the training grounds, outside the school on dates that made him feel like the luckiest man in all of Japan. But any time you’d hinted at seeing his space, he’d dodged. Shrugged. Thrown a towel over his shoulder and said, “Let’s go spar instead, babe!”

Until today.

You’d looked at him, wide-eyed and suspicious in that way that meant you knew something was up.

“Why can’t I come in, Eiji? Are you hiding something?”

“N-No!” His voice cracked. God, pull it together, man. “I just—It’s not clean! And uh—there’s stuff all over. Real chaotic in there, y’know?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ve seen Bakugo’s room. I can handle chaos.”

He panicked. “It’s—manlier chaos!”

You stepped closer, all cute and determined and making his knees go weak.

“Okay. So let me in.”

He flinched. “Baby, I—”

You raised an eyebrow and reached for the doorknob.

He didn’t stop you.

Couldn’t.

You were his girl. His woman, damn it. And he was a gentleman. If you wanted to walk straight into the source of his greatest dread, then so be it.

His doom came with a click of the door.

And you stepped in.

There was silence. The kind that made his heart threaten to break out of his ribcage.

You looked around. Slowly. Curiously. Like you were genuinely trying to take it all in.

He swallowed hard. “So, uh. This is—Look, I know it’s a bit much, and if you wanna go, I get it. It’s dumb. I’ve just always liked red and—those are my weights, obviously, and the All Might posters are from different arcs, like the Shizuoka era’s kind of underrated if you ask me—”

You turned toward him, brows scrunched. “What’s wrong with your room?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“It’s nice in here.”

The world went quiet.

Like…earthquake-quiet. Mind-silencing quiet.

“You… like it?”

You nodded, walking over to one of the shelves and picking up a small, slightly scuffed dumbbell trophy with his name engraved. “It’s so you. I mean, look at this. It’s like stepping into your brain. Strong, determined, bright red, kind of chaotic but in a charming way. I love it.”

You loved it?

His jaw went slack.

And something inside him—some tightly wound, hidden place—unclenched. Not just relaxed. Melted.

He stepped forward, slowly, like he was approaching something sacred.

“Wait. You think it’s charming?”

You grinned at him. “Totally charming. I mean, this wall over here? That’s just… protein tubs and posters. It’s adorable. I love that you just went all in.”

He felt himself blush. Hard.

He rubbed the back of his neck, all bashful and flustered. “I-I didn’t think you’d—like, I thought maybe you’d find it too much.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, looking perfectly at home, and patted the space beside you. “Show me your favorite stuff.”

And just like that, he lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Okay! So—this over here, this is my first real lifting belt. Got it when I was thirteen. Still keep it around for luck. And this—okay, this is a signed photo of Crimson Riot. My uncle waited in line with me for four hours to get this. Worth it.”

He watched your eyes sparkle as he spoke, and it made something giddy flutter in his chest.

“And here,” he said, nearly breathless with excitement, “this is my punching log. Like, where I record how many reps I do daily and try to beat my own records. I know it’s kinda dorky but—”

“That’s not dorky,” you interrupted gently. “That’s really cool.”

You weren’t faking it. He could tell.

No judgement. No laughter. No Hagakure jokes. Just… pure, soft curiosity and care.

He wanted to pull you into his arms and never let go.

Instead, he sat next to you and let his hand brush yours. “I’ve never brought anyone in here before.”

You tilted your head, smile sweet. “Not even Bakugo?”

He snorted. “Okay, yeah, he’s been in here. But he called my dumbbell rack a shrine to fragile masculinity and walked out.”

You burst into laughter, and God, it was the best sound.

“I’m glad you let me in, Eiji,” you said softly after a beat, leaning your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t reply right away.

He just smiled, full and slow, like the warmth in his chest was too big to fit.

Maybe his room wasn’t for everyone.

But it was for you.

And that was all he needed.

You stood in the middle of the room like a storm of gentleness. Turning slowly, curiously, fingertips grazing his shelves, pausing at the corner where his sparring gloves hung like old friends. Your eyes lingered on the mini Crimson Riot figurine stuck between two protein tubs like he lived there rent-free. You weren’t laughing. You weren’t judging. You were genuinely interested.

Kirishima didn’t say a word at first.

He just stood there. Watched you.

And something swelled in his chest that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

You were smiling at his weird little keepsakes. Tilting your head at his handmade “Manly Motivations” board taped to the inside of his closet door. Running your hand over the worn edges of the lifting belt he never had the heart to retire.

He’d spent days worrying you’d hate this room. That it was too much—too loud, too rough around the edges, too red. But now, watching you in it?

You were perfect here.

You fit.

You weren’t some dainty porcelain girl afraid of his rugged edges. You walked right into his world and sank into it like it was warm water and safe hands. Like this place, with all its loudness and loyalty, felt like home.

And the proudest, softest smile broke across his face.

You turned toward him just then, holding up a cracked old keychain shaped like a tiny dumbbell. “This is so you,” you said, eyes shining.

He laughed. “Yeah? You like it?”

“I like all of it,” you replied. “It’s real. And you’re real. That’s why I love it here.”

He stepped closer, slow and sure, eyes never leaving your face.

There were a thousand things he could’ve said. Something charming, something teasing, maybe even a dumb joke to break the tension rising in his chest like a balloon on fire.

But instead, he reached out gently and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You really mean that?” he asked, voice lower now. A little rougher.

You looked up at him, right into his eyes. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

Something in him melted. Just crumbled under the weight of your kindness.

He wanted to scream into his pillow. He wanted to lift 300 pounds with one arm. He wanted to thank every single version of himself for somehow becoming the guy lucky enough to have you in his life.

But instead, he leaned down and kissed you. Slow and soft and so full of love he almost laughed through it.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little unsteady. “You know, I was scared you’d walk in here and think I was just… too much.”

You grinned, eyes sparkling. “You are too much.”

His stomach dropped—until you added:

“But that’s exactly what I love about you.”

His heart flipped over like a clumsy gymnast. He couldn’t stop smiling if he tried.

He grabbed your hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Wanna stay for a bit? I can tell you about the time I accidentally dropped a protein tub on Kaminari’s foot and he cried for thirty straight minutes.”

You laughed, bright and sweet. “Only if you show me every Crimson Riot collectible you own.”

He puffed his chest a little. “Deal.”

And as you sat beside him on the edge of his bed, legs swinging slightly, attention rapt as he pointed to each little piece of his world like it mattered — he felt it deep in his bones:

He didn’t just love you.

He adored you.

Not just because you accepted his space.

But because you looked at him — all of him — and never once asked him to be anyone else.

[lampridius]

Good day/ afternoon/evening to you! Since the request is open.. how would Aventurine, Dan heng, Sunday, and phainon react to their partner being 'strong minded' but as soon it's behind doors, they will cry in their arms after a long day? Their partner is quite affectionate and yearns for them for sure. I would like to see that especially most of them aren't much of emotional type based on my knowledge about them so this would be interesting! I hope this isn't a hard request and thank you!

⋆.ೃ࿔🌸*:･ 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘬𝘢𝘪: ꒱ 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘭 ✴ ───────── ❝ 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩'𝙨 "𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙" ❞ －𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘴 ．．• ♡︎

─ .✦ 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀: aventurine, dan heng, sunday, phainon ─ .✦ 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁: @mauserre, @tremendoustragedybard ──── .✦ 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 ──── .✦ 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨:

he doesn’t say anything the first time it happens. just opens his arms with a soft, smug smile and lets you fold yourself into him. he strokes your back gently, listens to the tiny tremble in your breath, and holds you like he's been expecting this for a while. “you really keep it together out there,” he’ll say lowly, brushing your hair back. “but i like this side of you too.” you think he might tease you about crying, but he never does. instead, he makes sure your favorite drink is nearby, your legs tucked into his lap, the room comfortably warm. aventurine loves how much you lean on him - it makes him feel like the luckiest man alive. “you don’t have to be strong with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your temple. “just be.”

he notices your exhaustion before you speak a word. his touch is subtle but certain - taking your bag, gently guiding you to the bed, kneeling in front of you as your walls finally crumble. he doesn’t ask questions; he just lets you cry into his shoulder, grounding you with a steady hand against your spine. dan heng isn’t big on words, but he’s constant. calm. quietly present. he makes space for your vulnerability without judgement or pity. and when your tears fade into sniffles, he’ll lift your chin with a soft, rare smile. “you carry so much,” he whispers. “but you don’t have to do it alone.”

he’s gentle in the way he catches you. like you’re a delicate miracle unraveling in his arms, and he’s honoured to hold you. he’ll close the door behind you with a soft click, sensing the shift before you even speak. his voice is low, smooth, like honey poured into tea: “tough day?” you nod, and the second your face folds, he has you wrapped in his coat, holding you like the world outside doesn’t exist. sunday knows the cost of keeping a strong face. he knows the loneliness behind it. “it’s alright to fall apart with me,” he breathes into your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i’ll always catch you.”

phainon’s heart clenches every time he sees the shift - how your shoulders drop the second you're alone, how your voice breaks when you finally let go. he’s patient, always patient. he holds you wordlessly, pressing soft kisses to your head, his fingers stroking along your back. “you really fooled them all today,” he murmurs, trying to make you smile. but his gaze is serious - warm, unwavering. he adores your fire, your strength, but this rawness? this softness? he cherishes it. “you don’t have to pretend here,” he says, guiding your hand to his heart. “i know who you are. and i love all of it.”