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angelseraphines · 26 days ago

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ೃ⁀➷ body electric ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ suguru niragi x former!lover!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! please note that i do not agree with the choices of niragi and for any fanfictions i write about him, those controversial actions will be omitted!

˚ ༘♡ it was the strangest thing, stepping out of your bedroom and into a world that had ceased to exist. the familiar cadence of life, the hushed creaks of the old family estate, the distant sounds of the city beyond, had been swallowed whole by silence. you called out, expecting an answer, but none came. the lavish halls stretched empty, the doors left ajar as if abandoned in an instant. outside, the streets of tokyo stood frozen in time, emptied of their ceaseless crowds, their neon-lit chaos. no cars idling at intersections, no distant murmur of conversation, no footsteps beyond your own.

˚ ༘♡ for hours, you wandered, a lone figure adrift in a dead city. the absence of life gnawed at your mind, an eerie stillness pressing against your skin. you searched for movement, for any sign that you weren’t the last person left in the world. then, at long last, you found them, a handful of strangers clustered in the remains of a building complex, their faces etched with the same confusion and fear that pained your expression. pitiful consolation burned in your chest, only to be doused by frustration. they knew nothing. no one did.

˚ ༘♡ then came the notification, it read the following, “visa: 3 days remaining.”

˚ ༘♡ your heart pounded as you turned to one of the others, demanding to know what it meant. their answer was worse than anything your mind had conjured. you had three days to play. three days to win. fail, or refuse, and your visa would expire. and when that happened, you would die.

˚ ༘♡ it sounded absurd, a nightmare spun from exhaustion and fear. but then the first game began.

˚ ༘♡ a siren wailed through the building, red emergency lights casting the halls in an unnatural glow. a door slammed open. and then he appeared.

˚ ༘♡ a towering figure draped in dark clothing, a horse mask concealing his face, the gleam of a gun heavy in his hands. he did not hesitate. the first shot rang out, cutting through the confusion, splattering blood across the walls. screams shattered the air. chaos erupted, bodies scrambling for cover as the game of tag began, except this wasn’t a game. not really.

˚ ༘♡ you ran. every breath burned, every heartbeat a countdown to death. the masked man moved with terrifying precision, his steps unhurried, methodical. you turned a corner just as another shot rang out through the air, a body hitting the ground behind you. fear coursed through your veins like fire, but survival drove you forward.

˚ ༘♡ in the end, you lived, not by skill, not by strength, but by sheer luck. a young man and a woman, moving like they had done this before, found the safe zone in the final moments. you barely made it, collapsing against the wall, lungs heaving, the taste of fear still thick in your throat. the masked man vanished. the sirens cut off. eerie silence returned.

˚ ༘♡ your phone buzzed again. your visa had been extended.

˚ ༘♡ the next day, you could hardly move. fatigue and shock weighed you down, pinning you to the cold floor of the abandoned building you had taken refuge in. your mind refused to process what had happened, but deep down, you knew. if you didn’t move, if you didn’t act, you wouldn’t survive the next game.

˚ ༘♡ it was pure chance that you ran into them again, the two who had saved you. the young man introduced himself as ryohei arisu, the woman as yuzuha usagi. you thanked them, though words felt meaningless after what you had just endured. when they asked if you wanted to join them, you didn’t hesitate.

˚ ༘♡ arisu mentioned a location called the beach, a rumored sanctuary where players had gathered. a sliver of hope in a city that had become a graveyard.

˚ ༘♡ it took time, careful observation, and calculated risk, but after following a group of players you recognized from the game of tag, you knew you were close, but without warning a devastating blow was delivered to the back of your head and you were entrenched by darkness.

˚ ༘♡ when you woke, your wrists were bound, the scent of lavender incense thick in the air. a lavish room stretched before you, unfamiliar faces standing in the dim light. a man entered, draped in a loose robe, his presence far too casual for the circumstances. he grinned and extended his arms in a welcoming gesture, “i am sure you all have questions, and we have the answers you are searching for.”

˚ ༘♡ the robed man, who introduced himself as the hatter, was the self-proclaimed ruler of the beach. with a charismatic grin, he explained the laws that governed this facade of a sanctuary, his voice smooth, practically hypnotic, as if he had rehearsed it countless times before.

˚ ༘♡ one. all playing cards collected from the games belonged to the beach. they believed that obtaining a full deck would grant them passage back to the original world, though there was no proof, only blind faith and desperation. two. all members were to follow the will of the leader, the hatter himself, and his chosen executive members. their word was law. questioning it was not an option. three. the most sinister of all, betray the beach, and you will be executed without mercy.

˚ ༘♡ his delivery was casual and lighthearted, but the dread of those mandates settled akin to lead in your stomach. there was no room for dissent. you were not being invited, you were being conscripted.

˚ ༘♡ with no choice but to comply, you were ushered away, given a simple command: change into swimsuits. no exceptions. it was a method of control, a way to ensure no weapons could be concealed. but beyond that, it was humiliating. a stripping away of your identity, reducing you to just another body in the beach’s twisted paradise.

˚ ༘♡ you were led into a grand dressing room, its gilded mirrors and velvet benches a stark contrast to the world outside. racks of swimwear lined the walls, bright, revealing, designed for spectacle rather than function. hesitant, you sifted through the options before settling on a pearl-white one-piece with a sweetheart neckline, elegant yet understated. even so, the thought of baring yourself in such a vulnerable space made you uneasy. for a sliver of modesty, you grabbed a sheer cover-up, draping it over your shoulders before stepping out into the heart of the resort.

˚ ༘♡ and what you saw left you speechless.

˚ ༘♡ the beach was alive with indulgence. men and women in vibrant bikinis and neon swim trunks danced freely, their bodies moving under the golden glow of the sun. cocktails sloshed in their hands, music pulsed from unseen speakers, laughter rang out like the city had never vanished. it was surreal, a fever dream of excess set against the backdrop of an abandoned world.

˚ ༘♡ but beneath the revelry, there was something off. something calculated.

˚ ༘♡ as you moved through the crowd, you felt it, the leering gazes of men trailing after you, drinking you in like you were just another prize in this lawless haven. your grip tightened around your cover-up, pulling it closer, shielding yourself as best as you could without drawing attention. searching the crowd, you finally spotted familiar faces, usagi and arisu, standing off to the side, their expressions indistinct.

˚ ༘♡ relief rushed through you as you hurried over. “i thought i’d never be able to find you two.”

˚ ༘♡ usagi glanced up, her eyes taking you in. she wore a navy blue two-piece, a peach zip-up jacket pulled tightly around her frame despite the heat. her voice was low, almost conspiratorial as she muttered, “can you believe they’re making everyone dress like this? it’s humiliating.”

˚ ༘♡ arisu, arms crossed, let out a slow breath, gaze drifting toward the endless stretch of blue sky. “you think what the executives said is true?” his voice was laced with doubt. “that if we gather all the cards, we can go back?”

˚ ༘♡ neither you nor usagi answered. because what was there to say? it was a fool’s hope, a dangling promise intended to keep the beach running, to keep its members playing the games. no one knew if escape was even possible. and something told you that the people in charge of these depraved, debauched games didn’t care.

˚ ༘♡ the vivacious laughter and excitement that had consumed the resort mere moments ago began to wane, like a tide pulling back, exposing something far more menacing beneath the surface. you felt it before you saw it, a change in the air, an unspoken tension that rippled through the crowd, silencing the drunken revelry. turning your head, your breath became erratic.

˚ ༘♡ a group of men strode through the party, their presence suffocating, the very energy of the beach seeming to warp around them. at the front of the pack, you recognized him immediately, the man who had taken down the tagger during your first game. his presence had unnerved you then, and it unnerved you now. he moved with the quiet confidence of a predator, his muscled frame tense beneath his tank top, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with indifference. he looked like a member of the yakuza with his shaved head and vicious attitude.

˚ ༘♡ yet, it was the figure behind him that truly sent a chill down your spine. a man dressed in black, his hood drawn up over his head, a long, gleaming blade clutched in his grip. his head was shaved clean, but tattoos inked his stark white skin, crawling down his neck like a web of curses. he didn’t speak. he didn’t need to. his very presence was suffocating, a walking omen of violence.

˚ ༘♡ your gaze steadily drifted to the figure on the left, and your entire body locked up.

˚ ༘♡ no.

˚ ༘♡ your heart lurched, your stomach twisting into knots so tight you felt nauseous. your breath caught in your throat, your knees going weak beneath you. your mind screamed at you that it couldn’t be, that it shouldn’t be. but it was.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, aguni, who is this jerk staring at you?”

˚ ༘♡ the masculine voice with a taunting edge, slashed through the unbearable silence, your gaze landed on him. niragi.

˚ ༘♡ he stood before you, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder, his smirk razor-sharp and laced with cruelty. but your eyes weren’t on the weapon. they weren’t even on the piercings that now lined his eyebrow and tongue, nor the unruly strands of black hair that had grown out since you last saw him.

˚ ༘♡ the same eyes that once held warmth, shyness, devotion. the same eyes that once looked at you like you were his entire world. but now? now they were malicious and dark, devoid of anything kind and compassionate. the cocky bravado was there, the smirk, the teasing edge to his voice. but for a fleeting second, just a fraction of a second, his mask slipped. his expression faltered. he recognized you. he wasn’t expecting this, he wasn’t expecting you.

˚ ༘♡ arisu, beside you, blinked in surprise. “you’re the guy from the game of tag.”

˚ ༘♡ aguni, the man leading the group, barely spared you a glance. instead, his gaze flickered over the three of you, his lips curling in something that wasn’t quite a sneer, wasn’t quite pity. “i see your friend died.” his tone was cold, impersonal. “what a shame. the weak ones survived.”

˚ ༘♡ niragi, however, was no longer looking at arisu or aguni. his full attention was on you. his fingers twitched at his side, his head tilting slightly, like he was trying to piece together if this was real or some bizarre hallucination. then, before you could even think of what to say, he took a step forward, closing the distance between you just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

˚ ༘♡ ”it’s been a while, honey.”

˚ ༘♡ his voice was laced with mockery, with that menacing brutality, but there was something else too, something genuine. a sliver of sincerity buried beneath it all, a trace of something that made your heart ache, remnants of the niragi you once cherished so deeply.

˚ ༘♡ “why are you hanging out with this loser?” niragi seethed, his voice ridden with contempt as his glare locked onto arisu. before arisu could even process the insult, let alone defend himself, niragi swung the end of his rifle into his face with a sickening crack. the impact sent arisu crashing onto the cold, tiled floor, his head snapping back against the hard surface.

˚ ༘♡ blood gushed from his nose and mouth almost instantly, painting the shining white tiles in deep crimson. he barely had a chance to react before niragi loomed over him, lifting his boot and slamming it into his ribs. arisu curled inward, gasping in pain, but niragi wasn’t done. he kicked him again, this time in the head.

˚ ༘♡ usagi let out a panicked cry and dropped to the ground beside arisu, her hands flying up to shield him. “stop! please!” she shouted, desperation cracking her voice. she tried to shove niragi away, but he barely stumbled. without hesitation, he turned and shoved her back with enough force to send her sprawling across the floor.

˚ ༘♡ “what the hell are you doing?” you snapped, horror and disbelief flooding your veins. your mind reeled, unable to make sense of what you were seeing, of the man standing before you. niragi had once been the one suffering under the weight of cruelty, bullied relentlessly until he had nearly been broken. you had been the one to step in, to defend him, to pull him from the insults and beatings of others. and now, here he was, standing in the shoes of the very monsters who had tormented him.

˚ ༘♡ what happened to him?

˚ ༘♡ “niragi, enough! no more!” you yelled out, but he ignored you, lifting his boot again as if he had already decided arisu’s fate.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t think. you acted. you threw yourself in front of him, your body a barrier between niragi and the bloodied mess of arisu curled up on the floor. usagi was already huddled beside him, shielding him as best as she could. you could see niragi’s rise and fall as adrenaline coursed through his veins, feel his eyes boring into you, but you didn’t care.

˚ ༘♡ “what have you become?” you shouted, your voice shaking, your emotions threatening to swallow you whole. “have you lost your mind because of these games? is this who you are now?”

˚ ༘♡ niragi stood motionless, his expression darkening. for a minute, something unreadable glistened in his gaze, something vanishing, something buried beneath layers of cruelty and indifference. then, his lips coiled into a sneer.

˚ ༘♡ “what have i become?” he mocked, his tone laced with amusement. “why are you being so melodramatic?”

˚ ༘♡ your heart pounded as you looked past him, at the men standing behind him, watching without saying a word. this was for them. niragi wasn’t just acting out of anger, he was performing, playing the role expected of him, preserving whatever foreboding image he had built here.

˚ ༘♡ he exhaled sharply and tilted his head, his smirk growing. “get out of my way, would you?” his voice was almost teasing, but there was a dangerous edge beneath it. he reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that once would have made you feel more beloved than any woman in the world. but now? now, it was no different than the most potent of venom.

˚ ༘♡ your grimaced with revulsion, and before he could even register it, you jerked away, stepping back like his touch had burned you. niragi chuckled, shaking his head. “come on, don’t be like that,” he mused. “i promise we’ll have all the time in the world to catch up, after i finish with these two.”

˚ ༘♡ he moved to step around you, his patience wearing thin, but you blocked him again. this time, your stance was firmer, your hands clenching into fists at your sides, your fingernails digging into the skin of your palms. you could feel your pulse pounding in your throat, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze, unflinching.

˚ ༘♡ “niragi, please.”

˚ ༘♡ his name left your lips softer this time, stripped of the anger, stripped of the disbelief. it was a plea, not simply for arisu’s sake but for his, for the young man you once knew, the one you once loved.

˚ ༘♡ niragi hesitated. for a short while, something in his expression changed. you held his gaze, hoping, praying, that somewhere beneath the layers of cruelty and violence, he still remembered, those late-night phone calls, the way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t watching, the warmth of his fingers laced through yours on lazy afternoons at the café. if there was anything left of that niragi, maybe, just maybe, he would stop.

˚ ༘♡ his smirk twitched, his tongue flicking over the silver piercing on his lip. then, with a lazy wave of his hand, he scoffed. “eh, whatever,” he muttered, swinging his rifle back over his shoulder as if nothing had happened. “this is no fun with you whining in my ear.” he turned away without another glance, striding off like he had already forgotten all about you. the rest of the men followed, their presence dissipating as quickly as it had arrived. aguni lingered for a tad longer, his expression obscured and harsh, before he, too, disappeared into his horde of followers.

˚ ༘♡ you stood bewildered, the tension in your body unraveling all at once, leaving only nausea in its wake. the atmosphere still buzzed with energy from the resort party, but it all felt so far away, like a different world entirely. your mind returned to arisu and usagi, they required your help.

˚ ༘♡ you spun on your heel and dropped to your knees beside him. he was still on the floor, barely conscious, his face drained of color, his body limp. usagi knelt beside him, pressing her zip-up jacket against his forehead to slow the bleeding. the fabric was already stained deep red.

˚ ༘♡ panic surged through you. you reached out, brushing arisu’s shoulder tenderly, trying to ground yourself as much as him. “i’ll get help, okay? stay here.”

˚ ༘♡ usagi nodded, her jaw tight, her focus entirely on arisu. you pushed yourself to your feet, your heart hammering as you turned and ran. you didn’t know where you were going. you didn’t even know who you could turn to in a place like this. but you had to hurry. arisu was losing too much blood, his life was in danger, because of niragi.

˚ ༘♡ your mind still couldn’t fully grasp it, the sheer impossibility of what he had become. your sweet and loving boyfriend you once knew was gone, replaced by a man who could smile through savagery, who could beat someone half to death and consider it entertainment.

˚ ༘♡ niragi was gone. whatever had taken his place, you weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

a/n: my first alice in borderland fanfiction! if you have any thoughts or requests, please let me know! 🤍

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lucentloo · 2 months ago

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Broken Vases and Hot Chocolate

Summary: A broken vase makes you believe the brief paradise you gained at the Potters will be shattered but James helps you realize that you won't get hurt again.

James Potter x fem!reader

Wc: 1070

Content Warning: Fem!reader, Black!reader, reader is Sirius' sister, flinching, past abuse, Mrs. Potter to the rescue with her emergency hot chocolate!, Comfort, James and reader are in a relationship.

A/N: Hello guys! I am posting one fic after the other and there might be more bc I've got a lot of free time but I wouldn't expect this for the future unfortunately. I hope you're enjoying the New Year and I hope you enjoy my fifth fic on this blog! Have a good rest of your day/night and make sure to have some water!

You knew deep down that this was a mistake; your instincts screamed at you that you shouldn’t have followed Sirius when he begged you to come along. The intensity in his gaze, the way his heart ached for you to join him—along with Regulus—made it impossible to say no. With a heavy heart, you left your little brother in the care of those who had inflicted pain upon you and stepped into the unknown alongside Sirius at the Potters’ house.

Sirius was relentless in his reassurances, insisting that the Potters were kind and that you had no reason to fear them. He spoke with such conviction, claiming they would never raise a finger against you, but as the shards of glass glistened ominously at your feet, doubt clouded your mind.

You had been playing a spirited game of pass with James, the vibrant quaffle soaring back and forth between you, laughter escaping your lips like music on the warm afternoon breeze. But in an unfortunate moment, the ball slipped through your fingers, crashing into one of Mrs. Potter’s beautiful vases. The sound was deafening, a shatter so loud it seemed to echo through the air, alerting not only James but likely every neighbor on the block. In that instant, the blissful atmosphere transformed into one of panic, leaving you with the weight of uncertainty and dread.

James muttered a string of curses under his breath, his frustration palpable in the air. You flinched at the disturbance it caused, instinctively dropping to your knees to swiftly clean up the mess sprawled across the floor. The cool surface pressed against your skin as you worked, your heart racing. Sirius had mentioned that the Potters were generally more forgiving than others, so perhaps if you hurried, you could erase the evidence of your mistake before they noticed. You hoped that your diligence would spare you from their displeasure.

“Woah! Hey, what are you doing?” James asks as he watches the glass dig into your knees as you clean it up with uncovered hands.

“I’m cleaning,” you responded in what you hoped was a collected voice but knew that there were some cracks in there.

James quickly put on his deer slippers Sirius gave him for Christmas and stepped over the glass to stop your hands. “Sweet thing, you don’t have to do that, it was my fault the throw was too hard, come on.” He says gently as he brushes off the few small flakes of glass off your palm.

‘But I didn’t catch it. If you just let me clean it up then there would be less trouble and-”

You were cut off by James who put his on your waist and hoisted you up like you weighed nothing. He carried you over to the couch and set you down gently. “There is no trouble, just a knocked-down vase. Sure I might get in trouble with my mom but it was a vase given to her by my grandma, and honestly? My mom's been complaining about it for years.”

The only thing you managed to get from that was the fact that James might get in trouble with his mom. You thought Sirius said that the Potters weren’t as bad as your guys’ parents.

When James went to leave you grabbed his hands tight. Anxiety courses through you as the image of Hogwarts golden boy getting hurt flashes through your mind. That’s not right, he’s too good to be hurt like that. “Tell them it was me, that it was my fault.” Your words are desperate and pleading and James’ eyebrows furrow in concern when he starts to realize what this is all about.

“It’s fine, it was my fault and I’m fine with taking the blame.”

“But I don’t want you to get-”

“Nobody’s gonna get hurt,” James says with conviction. He raises his hand and slowly places it on your cheek. When he wipes away your tears you finally realize how much you were crying and shaking. You sniffle and try to hide your face in embarrassment but James wouldn’t let you.

“No matter what happens here, what you or anybody else does, no one will get hurt. I promise.” He says the last two words a bit softer as his hand travels from your cheek to the back of your neck so he can move your head to his chest.

You let him as you slump against him. You start crying even more and he doesn’t move or give any indication of how uncomfortable he is while crouching. “That’s it, just let it out. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

You hear the door open and hear the silence that follows. You try to move out of James' hold, and he lets you, but he keeps his hand on your back while he looks at his parents. Sirius gives you a concerned look but you look down in your lap.

“What happened, dear?” You look up as Mrs. Potter comes over to the two of you. You choke up before you answer and look over to the corner of the living room instead. When she follows your line of sight she relaxes and sighs. “Oh James, again?”

You look over to James who has now moved to help his dad and Sirius with the groceries. He wears a shit-eating grin as he shrugs. “That boy.” Mrs. Potter says and to your surprise laughs while shaking her head. With a single wave of her wand, the mess is cleared and your injuries are healed as she places her hand on your back as she stands up.

You both make your way to the kitchen. “Do you like hot chocolate? I say it’s a must in the holidays.” With that, your usual smile comes back and you nod. You make your way to where James and Sirius are talking by the counter.

“Thank you, James, for dealing with my mini freak out.” You say quietly as Sirius pulls you into his side.

James just smiles fondly. “How many times have I told you, sweetheart, it’s not dealing with you, it’s loving you. Two different things.” He kisses your head and squeezes your hand before going to help his mom with the hot chocolate.

“I still think it’s disgusting that he’s dating you.”

You laugh and nudge Sirius's side. “Sirius!”

He shrugs his shoulders and holds you closer. “Just saying.”

You smile warmly and lean in more, knowing you could use a few minutes of just hugging.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x you #the maruaders #sirius black #black!reader #black!fem!reader #love #flinching #comfort #hurt/comfort

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exorcxqsm · 6 months ago

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The price of desire.

ᯓWord Count: 4,4k

ᯓ tags - WARNINGS: mdni, reader isn’t the lnds!mc, explicit sexual content, alterations to the main story, toxic relationship, dr/y humping, t/easing, (lowkey) o/rgasm control, b/egging, f!receiving oral, p in v, unprotected sex, breath play, sensory play, spanking, mention of breeding!kink (toxic if you squint really hard), creampies, dom!sylus, use of pet names (kitten, sweetie), violence, mentions of blood and injuries.

ᯓnotes: This is my first published work here, it took me some time to write but I believe I’m content with how it came out. At first, the idea was to keep it a part one which is connected to an event of the series. Ending this part, I can think of some ways this can go, but I’d still want your opinion:) If you want to see more of this, please go ahead and ask. Any reblogs and likes will be appreciated.

You were a dangerous woman, a fact well-known throughout the N109 Zone. As the assistant to one of the most feared men in the underworld, your reputation was built on the edge of a knife.

But today, the real danger sat directly across from you at the table—your boss's most formidable and deadly rival: Sylus.

His silver-white hair fell messily over his forehead, creating a disheveled yet intentional look that only added to his unsettling charisma. A smirk played on his lips, while his crimson eyes held an unreadable intensity, as he sat on the table with his henchmen on each side of him. Luke and Kieran.

You had done your research, uncovering every scrap of information about the three men before you. It was a challenge, of course; the leader of the most notorious illegal organization in the N109 Zone wasn’t one to divulge valuable intel easily. Yet you had pieced together enough to know the depths of Sylus's ruthlessness.

You were certain of one thing: Sylus would not hesitate to sacrifice anyone—including his own men—if it suited his purpose. The black-red tendrils of his mist would mercilessly end the person and he wouldn’t blink an eye while his lethal capability, capable of extinguishing a life in an instant, would take over.

The only individuals he seemed to protect were Luke and Kieran, his unwavering henchmen, whose loyalty was both a strength and a potential weakness in this deadly game.

Everyone claimed that the twins were somewhat adopted by him—a complex relationship in which he protected and provided for them in exchange for their loyalty and services.

If you were being honest with yourself, you found yourself drawn to the twins. They exuded a carefree spirit that brought an element of fun, even in the context of business. You often wished you could shed your own uptight demeanor and embrace life as they did.

Your thoughts were abruptly pulled back to the present when one of Sylus’s men dropped two large armory boxes onto the table that separated your group from his. As the man opened the boxes, a collection of modified and illegal firearms was revealed, each piece looking as lethal as the man who had crafted them.

Dante, your boss, rose from his chair beside you to inspect the guns. After all, that was the purpose of this meeting—a trade, a business transaction between two men who despised each other's very existence, yet could not deny that, in times of crisis, their respective resources could prove invaluable to one another.

Dante provided the protocores, and Sylus expertly modified them. When Dante requested his part of the deal, the modified protocores were returned to him in the form of firearms capable of ending a life in less than the blink of an eye.

“Resourceful as always, Mr. Sylus,” your boss mused, but Sylus’s gaze was locked onto yours, seemingly ignoring Dante entirely.

“Oh, Dante,” he said, the man’s name dripping with disdain, “my little black heart is shattered into pieces. One would think you’d have learned by now not to question my methods or my work.”

You rolled your eyes at the silver-haired menace, your heels clicking against the carpet in a rhythm of impatience. You were growing weary of this standoff. Dante needed to state the agreed price and move on already.

“Set the price.”

Sylus’s smirk widened at Dante’s request, his eyes now fully focused on him. He seemed to stall deliberately, taking slow, measured steps around the room. His imposing aura filled the space, the coat draped over his broad shoulders swaying slightly with each movement. Finally, he came to a halt by the table, gripping its edge with both hands and leaning forward.

“Such a pretty kitten you have with you, hm?” he taunted.

Your gaze turned icy as Dante’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Are you referring to Miss Y/N?”

Sylus tilted his head to the side, his crimson eyes locking onto you once more, studying you with an intensity that made you uneasy. “You’re a foolish man, Dante.”

“What the hell did you just say?”

You exhaled through your nose, frustrated by your boss’s inability to keep his pride in check when it came to Sylus. This man ran an entire organization yet seemed unable to handle a little provocation.

“I said…” Sylus drawled, relishing the moment, “you’re a foolish man. Only someone with the brain capacity of a goldfish would keep a pretty kitten like her uncollared.”

You shot up from your seat faster than lightning, leaning dangerously close to Sylus, your hand itching to grab one of the weapons from the boxes in front of you.

“You should watch your mouth when speaking to a lady, Mr. Sylus,” you seethed, your voice low but fierce. “Only a man with the brain capacity of a goldfish would disrespect a woman for no apparent reason.”

Sylus chuckled at your retort, a wide grin spreading across his sharp features, revealing his teeth.

“Feisty,” he mouthed, a smirk playing on his lips, meant only for you to see.

Just then, Dante stepped up behind you, and you almost forgot he was there until his hand landed firmly on your behind, giving it a squeeze. Your hand was so close to the gun that it took all your willpower not to reach for it.

Sylus's expression shifted, the amusement fading as his brows furrowed, re-centering on his forehead.

“Set. Your. Price,” Dante reiterated, his body uncomfortably close to yours.

You had served as his assistant for far too many years, becoming accustomed to his unpredictable behavior. Yet, deep down, he knew you wouldn’t dare act against him with all his guards surrounding him.

You were a capable assassin, more than capable of matching his malevolence, but you were just one woman up against his entire army. He was well aware of your skills, which is precisely why he always kept a close contingent of guards present during your meetings in his office. You were his most valuable asset, yet he was frightened of what you could do if pushed too far.

Despite this knowledge, he often seemed to forget the extent of your capabilities, choosing instead to provoke Sylus.

“Her.”

“No.” Your response was immediate, your tone firm. He couldn’t be serious.

Dante’s chest shook with laughter beside you, his golden teeth glinting in the light.

“She’s off the table, I’m afraid,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Very well, then.” Sylus retracted from the table and rose to his full height, a shadow looming over both you and your boss. “So is the deal. Have a good one, Mr. Dante.”

Your shoulders relaxed for only a brief moment, but before you could even blink, you found yourself lifted off your feet and thrown over the table like a ragdoll.

Fucking bastard.

Of course, the deal was too important for him to let it slip away. Sylus knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled this stunt.

“Don’t even think about it,” you spat, your voice harsh and defiant. “I am your right hand; your business will crumble without me!”

Sylus seemed to revel in the chaos, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest. As his black-red mist began to swirl around the room, it coalesced around your body, lifting you off the table and bringing you effortlessly to his side.

Your struggles were utterly futile. No power could match his evol.

“Bastard!” you yelled, directing your fury at your boss.

Dante let out a deep sigh, visibly irritated but choosing to remain silent. His organization was already on the brink of collapse, a fact known only to you—and apparently Sylus too. That was the reason he had recently struck a deal with Onychinus; only their resources could possibly uplift him now—if anyone could, that is.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Dante.”

The plush sofa of his dimly lit living room felt uncomfortably rough against your bare thighs as you took in your surroundings. Your revealing dress had ridden up significantly due to the twins’ rough handling as they placed you there, while their boss prowled around the sofa like a predator circling its prey.

The record player in the corner emitted a classical melody that only heightened the unnerving atmosphere, each note echoing with an eerie elegance.

“So uptight,” Sylus whispered in your ear, causing you to jump as his breath brushed against your skin. You hadn’t even noticed when he had gotten so close. “My, my… and so jumpy, aren’t we, kitten? Just try not to scratch my ceiling.”

You turned to glare at him, and if looks could kill, he would have been slain by the fire in your eyes. Nevertheless, you managed to keep your voice steady. “Why am I here?”

He didn’t bother to meet your gaze as he sank into his enormous cushioned chair across from you. A black-and-red mist began to swirl around your body once more, and before you could react, it lifted you off the couch and positioned you right on his lap, straddling him.

“What the hell?”

His hand shot up, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Shh, just keep your claws sheathed for a moment.”

You could feel your patience wearing thin. “Why. am I. here?”

Sylus's jaw tightened slightly, and if you weren’t intently observing his every expression, you might have missed it. “Because, kitten, Dante and I had a transaction.”

“Isn’t your typical price protocores when dealing with my boss?”

“Typically…” Sylus’s gaze was fixed on your face as an eerie silence enveloped the room.

Before you could process his words, his hand snaked around your throat, pulling you closer. His eyes locked onto your lips, a predatory glint flickering within them.

“What are you doing…” you whispered, your body tensing in instinctive response.

“Show me, kitten.”

“What?”

Sylus chuckled softly, a mocking sound that sent shivers down your spine. “I know you’re a smart kitten; don’t play dumb with me. It won’t help you.”

Of course, you understood what he was implying, but how did he know?

“I have no idea what you want,” you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

His hand tightened around your throat, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. Then you noticed it—the red glow of his eye—and you realized what he was doing. “Show me.”

Ironically, he was now in control of your actions, even though he sought the opposite.

You slowly removed your glove, compelled by the white-haired man in front of you. Your bare hand pressed firmly against his chest, and in an instant, his heartbeat ceased.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

You stared at his face, dumbfounded, as the glow in his eye faded and his complexion turned an ashen pale. Before you could comprehend what was happening, a low chuckle echoed through the dimly lit room.

Sylus’s chuckle. He was alive. Wait, what the hell?

His laughter grew more vibrant with each passing second as he took in your horrified expression. You shot your hand out again, daring to touch him, but he caught your wrist, tossing it aside with ease.

“Ravishing…” he breathed, his eyes darkening to a richer shade.

You watched him for a moment, trying to make sense of everything that had unfolded in the past few hours, until suddenly, everything clicked into place.

You gasped.

“You fucking bastard!” you shouted, fury igniting in your voice. “Is this why you didn’t take the protocores? Is this why you asked for me?”

Sylus’s arrogant smirk returned, dominating his features. “He wasn’t aware of the precious possession he had in his own house, sweetie. But I am.”

“You are… sick.” The expression on his face darkened, and something twisted in your gut, though you wished it was anything but excitement at his subtle praise. “You will not control me. I belong to no one.”

“Oh, kitten, I’m not trying to control you. This is just… a deal.” His eyebrows shot up, his face tilting slightly to the side as if he found your defiance amusing. “Isn’t business what you excel at? Or do you want me to believe it was Dante who called the shots?”

Your own expression faltered, but your body began to relax atop his, a fact he noted with a small, apprehensive smile that curled at his lips. “Are you trying to extract intel from me?”

He rolled his eyes at your tactics, a playful smirk on his face. “You are so gullible, kitten.”

He leaned in impossibly close, your breath catching in your throat and a shiver coursing through you as your body responded to his proximity. This was all so wrong.

“He didn’t value you nearly enough, sweetie,” Sylus whispered against your pulse, his warm breath sending a jolt through you. “But I can.” His teeth grazed your throat, and as your mouth opened, no sound dared to escape your lips.

“I…” You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I have no idea what—”

In one swift movement, you found yourself perched on the edge of the chair, Sylus looming over you like a consuming inferno. Your chests were nearly touching, and his eyes held a dangerous allure as he stared directly into your own. “I believe you do.”

His hand drifted from beside your head, descending to your collarbone as his fingertips caressed the delicate skin with a featherlight touch. “You can end someone with just a touch…” he whispered against your neck, and you had to fight against the electric shivers coursing through your body. “I am the only person you can’t kill, even if you tried, kitten.”

Your mind was slowly turning to mush as his hand roamed over the sensitive swell of your breasts, his lips planting tender kisses against your throat. “Don’t you see where I’m going with this? We’re meant for each other. Kindred spirits.”

“You’re insane,” you wanted to accuse him, but your voice came out breathless, betraying your mounting desire. A soft grunt escaped his lips, a sound that only fueled the tension between you.

“If I’m insane, what does that say about you, sweetie?” He began kissing his way down from your neck to your collarbone, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “I can smell your arousal from up here.”

You gasped at his bold accusation, your body jerking in response, but it only heightened the sensation as your clothed core pressed against his torso. You tensed, and his lips curled into a dangerous smirk. “So insatiable…”

“This is so wrong…”

“I’ve never been a righteous man.”

You leaned back instinctively, your hands reaching out as if to find comfort around his neck, but he halted your movement just before contact.

In your hazy state, you noticed him licking his lips, his gaze searching the floor for something—your glove.

“As much as I can’t think of another way to go, I’d prefer to be fully conscious when your pretty cunt is all over my mouth.”

“You’re… outrageous,” your voice faltered, betraying the rush of emotions coursing through you. Your body reacted in ways that contradicted your words.

“Do you prefer gentle, kitten?” Sylus asked, his fingers teasingly tugging at the neckline of your dress, unveiling your flushed skin. His tongue flicked over your right nipple, while his other hand caressed the neglected one. “Would you rather I whisper sweet nothings and cherish you gently?”

His tone dripped with playful mockery, and you arched your back, responding instinctively to his touch and taunting words.

“Would you like me to take it slow? To tell you how beautiful you are?” he teased, his laughter rumbling softly in the air.

Your resolve crumbled as he nipped at your sensitive bud, his hand expertly working the other. “No!” you moaned, your gloved fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, caught in the intoxicating desire in the air.

He growled against your chest, his body pressing forcefully against your legs as they parted to accommodate him. He felt a thrill of compliance wash over you, nearly tempting him to follow through on his suggestion to take it easy.

“More,” you demanded, your fingers tugging insistently at his head, guiding him downward to where your dress had pooled around your waist, leaving your red lace panties tantalizingly exposed.

Sylus grinned at your eagerness, his gaze lingering on your clothed cunt. “God, kitten…” he grunted, pressing his nose against the damp spot on your panties, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks as a thrill of shame coursed through you. “Did you wear my favorite color on purpose?”

His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Or did you wear it for him?”

You could only whimper in response, arching your body desperately to bring his face where you craved it most. Instead, a sharp sting greeted your cunt, your eyes widening as a gasp of surprise escaped your lips.

He slapped your pussy again, his expression darkening into a scowl. “Answer me, kitten. Did you get all dolled up for him?”

You clenched around nothing, the possessiveness in his tone igniting a deeper need within you. “No,” you whimpered softly. “It wasn’t for him.”

In an instant, he tore your panties away, his mouth descending on your cunt, his tongue skillfully lapping at your folds. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

Your fingers clawed at his shoulder, sounds of pleasure escaping you uncontrollably as he toyed with your sensitive clit. “Such a sweet pussy,” he grunted against your core, sending shivers through your body. You slid down the chair, his face pressed firmly against you, your lower body lifted almost into the air. His strong arms wrapped around your thighs, hoisting your legs over his shoulders as he devoured you.

“Say my name, kitten.”

You felt yourself teetering on the edge, already giving him too much. “N-no.”

His teeth grazed your clit, sending waves of pleasure and frustration coursing through you as he slid one finger against your entrance, teasingly. “No?”

“No.” Your voice trembled, betraying the mix of emotions swelling within you as you neared your release with each stroke of his tongue, yet your stubbornness held firm.

“Very well, then.” In an instant, his mouth was gone, leaving you feeling cold and exposed as he stood to his full height.

“What…?”

Sylus leaned over you again, delivering a sharp slap to the side of your breasts that made you squirm and gasp. “This is my zone. My side of the board. Here, you either play by my rules and win, or you go against me and lose.” His voice was low and commanding as his hand reached down again, sliding two fingers inside you, curling them to find your sweet spot. “What will it be, kitten?”

By this point, your entire body felt like it belonged to someone else. “Please…” Your voice was laced with desperation, the plea spilling from your lips, unrecognizable even to you.

“Please what? Just say it, sweetie,” he urged, a teasing glint in his eyes.

His fingers quickened their pace, and your legs trembled under the mounting pleasure, each mewl that escaped your lips a symphony to his ears. “So—Oh my god… S-so close.”

The moment he sensed your walls beginning to clench around his fingers, a satisfied smile crept across his face, and you returned it through a haze of bliss—until you felt him start to withdraw.

Your hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist with a desperate grip, pulling him back toward you. “Sylus!” you cried, your stomach twisting in knots as sweet release threatened to crash over you.

“Sylus, yes, oh my god, yes…” You were barely coherent, the words tumbling from your mouth, but Sylus grunted, his pants taut against his rock-hard cock.

“That’s it… That’s it, sweetie, I know. Drench my fingers; they’re all yours.” He moved with an urgency that took your breath away, thrusting deeply inside you, sending shivers through your entire body as you rode the wave of your climax.

You panted, your chest rising and falling heavily. As the haze began to lift, your mouth fell open in awe, watching Sylus suckle on his fingers, his eyes glowing with satisfaction as he savored your essence.

A fresh wave of slickness coated your folds, and Sylus cursed under his breath as he stood, taking you with him. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your bare, wet cunt smearing against the fabric of his pants, leaving a tantalizing mess.

The coarse material of his attire heightened your senses, making your body arch in his arms as you ground your hips down, chasing that blissful friction.

“So eager…” he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your skin before he nipped at your earlobe. “And so fucking wet.” He strode toward his desk just a few feet away, easing you onto your feet. “I’m going to devour you.”

In one swift motion, your belly pressed against the polished surface of his mahogany desk, your body bent over, your ass perfectly positioned for him. He didn’t allow you a moment to breathe before two sharp slaps landed on your cheeks, your body jolting forward in response.

Your moans filled the air, driving him wild, and the way your back arched instinctively shattered any semblance of his control.

You heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper, and a thrill raced through you as his cock was freed from its confines, teasingly brushing against your entrance.

Turning your head over your shoulder, your eyes fell on him, and a rush of desire coursed through you. He was enormous, his veins prominent and pulsing, the tip glistening with precum that trickled down, landing directly on your cunt.

“Sylus…” You brought his attention back to you, and the look on your face made his brows knot slightly in concern.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” he asked, his voice thick with lust yet surprisingly calm. “Do you want me to stop?”

You placed your hand lightly against his abdomen, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, and shook your head. “No, it’s just…” Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, almost mirroring the color of his eyes. “It’s not going to fit.”

Sylus paused, momentarily dumbfounded, before releasing the breath he had been holding along with a low chuckle. “We’re going to make it fit, kitten.”

Skepticism flickered in your eyes, and he noticed.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.” You answered honestly. He had been your rival until now, and you couldn’t fully grasp how your dynamic had shifted to this moment, you bent over his desk, spread and exposed.

He grinned, shaking his head in amusement. “You shouldn’t.”

In one powerful thrust, he was inside you, and your eyes rolled back in your head as pleasure surged through your body, overwhelming your senses.

“Fuck!” you cried out, but there was no pain—he seemed to know exactly how to plunge into you.

“Shit… You’re so tight,” Sylus growled, his hips slapping against yours as he took you roughly, driving deep against the surface of his desk. “It would’ve hurt more if I’d taken it slow, sweetie.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to speak, but even if he could, you wouldn’t have heard him. Your mind was consumed with the exquisite fullness of his cock filling you completely.

Your eyes crossed as he continued to thrust in and out, your lips parted in a silent gasp, drool escaping the corner of your mouth and trickling down to the polished surface of his desk.

“Cock-hungry little whore,” he grunted, folding his body over yours to penetrate you even deeper. “And you claim you hate me.”

“I d-do,” you managed to moan, your legs trembling from the intensity of the sensations.

“You hate me, yet your sweet cunt is squeezing my cock like it’s her lover.”

Your mewls and whimpers grew louder with each thrust, your head spinning from the overwhelming pleasure. “Sylus…” you moaned his name, urging him onward toward his own release.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“I-I’m… s’close. So so close.” Tears were welling up in your eyes, and Sylus moaned deeply behind you as he felt your cunt squeezing him, clenching around him like he belonged there. Because he did.

His hand shot up, wrapping around your throat as he kept pounding you from behind, his whole desk shaking from the force of his thrusts. You were sure a bruise would form on your abdomen where it made contact with the wood.

Your eyes rolled as he applied more pressure, making it difficult for you to breathe. “Such a pretty kitten…” He moaned in your ear. “And now she’s collared. As she should be.”

Your orgasm broke through you with a new force, the tears escaping your eyes and your cries lulling Sylus to fall on his own release right after you.

“Fuck.” He moaned, his teeth clamping down on your shoulder. Rope after rope of cum filled your cunt, his thighs shaking slightly from behind you as he emptied himself inside you.

You were so overstimulated and sensitive by your encounter when Sylus caught his dripping cum from your thighs and pushed it right back in.

Your legs threatened to give out, your mind clouding the moment he began to fill you with his seed once more. “Such a pretty cunt, used and bred by me,” Sylus murmured, his voice low and possessive. “What will your boss say when my kids are running around his base, huh?”

You weren’t even aware of how or when it happened, but suddenly you were moaning his name, sweet and desperate, as you drenched him once again. This time, the force of your release was blinding, your vision fading to a brilliant white.

Confused, you turned to see Sylus, his abdomen glistening with your essence, his fingers slick and dripping as he stared at you with a manic edge in his eyes.

“Oh my God…” Heat rushed to your cheeks as the realization of what you had just done washed over you. “I’m sorry… Sylus, I’m—”

Before you could finish, his hand pressed firmly against your lower back, forcing you back into position as you tried to shrink away from his gaze. “Kitten…” His voice was taut, barely contained. “We’re not leaving this room until you do this again.”

1K notes · View notes

happy74827 · 6 months ago

Text

You Must Be Haunting Me

[Brian Moser x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Even after a year, you’re still haunted by the Ice Truck Killer.

WC: 2643

Category: Angst, No Comfort {TW: Not Proof Read 😞}

I did another one!! Are you guys proud of me? 🥹

So, rewatching the season, I forgot how sassy he was so I wanted to really show off that aspect in this one. Then my patience was over it, so the ending is just kinda… bland. But it’s okay because it’s Brian (he seriously needs more attention FOR REAL).

Anyway, for those 14 Brian fans… this one’s for you 🫶

『••✎••』

The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way you can barely stand on your feet, your body so exhausted that you can hardly lift a finger to defend yourself. You’re like a walking corpse, and he's the one responsible for putting you in this state.

It started one year ago. One year ago, you moved to Miami and became the victim of a killer. It wasn't until his brother came along and put him six feet under that you began to heal and get back into the normal, everyday routine. But then he showed up.

It was one of those nights where you’d randomly get a jolt in your sleep. You sat up straight, the sheets pooling at your hips as you looked around the room. Your breathing was shallow, and sweat was beading on your brow. You felt a shiver run up your spine as you slowly laid back down.

"You sleep soundly."

His voice caused your heart to stop. You knew who it was, the same man who had terrorized you, who made your life a living hell. Slowly, you turned to your side, staring wide-eyed at the dark figure at the end of your bed. Your hands began to shake and tremble as you reached for the lamp on your nightstand.

"Oh, don't bother."

In an instant, with the sound of fingers snapping, the lamp's light went out. You could hear a chuckle coming from the intruder, and you were paralyzed, afraid to make a move.

I mean, it couldn’t be him, right? It was just some sick joke. He was dead. He couldn’t be here.

He couldn’t.

But, god, he looked the exact same. The curly dark hair, the pale skin. He was just a silhouette in the darkness of your room, and yet, you could tell that the grin he wore was the same grin that he had on the day you met him.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost." He mused, moving closer towards you. His weight caused the bed to dip slightly, and you could feel the fear begin to take over your body. "Should I start saying boo?"

Your throat was dry, and you couldn’t speak; all you could do was stare at him, frozen in place. He lowered his head in amusement and chuckled, leaving his lips once more.

It was when his eyes weren’t on you that broke you out of your daze. You shot up from the bed, nearly tumbling over yourself as you ran to the dresser, grabbing the nearest thing you could find and throwing it at him. It was a vase, one that held a bouquet of flowers, that shattered against the wall, causing him to look up.

"…Was that supposed to scare me?" He asked, raising a brow as he tilted his head, an almost bored expression on his face. "You’ve got the aim of a blind man."

"Get out of my house!"

The sound of your own voice startled you. Anger wasn’t necessarily the emotion you normally felt, but now it was the only thing that was running through you. Anger and adrenaline.

He stood from the bed, taking a step closer to you, the broken glass crunching beneath his feet. You didn’t care; you took a step back, holding your hand out as if it would stop him from coming any closer.

"Get away from me, you psycho."

He laughed. He actually fucking laughed.

"Psycho?" He repeated, "That’s a new one."

"Stay back." You hissed, feeling the tears well up in your eyes.

He took another step.

"Don't touch me!"

Another. He was only inches away from you now, and the thought of him being so close made you want to vomit.

The annoyed sigh he let out when he noticed your hand trembling was enough to set you off. You didn’t think twice; the only thought in your mind was to get him out, and so you did.

When he was walking towards you, your mind remembered the small kitchen knife that you left on the counter. Quickly, you ran past him, dodging his hands as he reached out to grab you, and grabbing the knife, and in one quick motion, you turned and stabbed him.

"That’s not going to—"

It went right through his chest. He stared down at the knife, then up at you, with that all-knowing expression.

He sighed again, "…work."

What the fuck?

In the next moment, he vanished, and the knife fell to the ground, the clattering against the linoleum floor echoing through the house.

For a minute, you thought it was a dream. That is, until he appeared in the chair beside you, his arms crossed, his eyes boring holes into your face.

"You can’t hurt me." He said, his tone flat, his eyes narrowed, "I can’t either. Not physically, anyhow."

You stared at him. He stared at you.

"I can fuck you up, though." He continued, "In many ways. Mentally, emotionally… The possibilities are endless."

"What the hell is this?" You questioned, your brows furrowing, "Are you some kind of— of, what, demented Casper?"

His expression was unreadable, but then again, he always had that look on his face.

"Casper? Wow, seriously? You remind me why I don't watch movies." He groaned, shaking his head.

"You didn't answer my question."

"And you won't like my answer."

"Try me."

"You’ve lost it." He shrugged, "Completely off the hinges, you know? And that's saying something, considering who you’re talking to."

"I don't—"

"Have a mental disorder."

"What?"

"That's what it's called. When someone has delusions of grandeur, where they think someone is after them. Someone, of course, meaning me." He explained, a grin spreading across his lips. "But, no. It's all in your head. Just. Like. Me."

The words sank in, and you stared down at the floor, your mind processing everything he was telling you.

"No, I'm not crazy." You murmured, mostly to yourself, but loud enough for him to hear.

"You're not? Well, how else would you explain me being here?" He asked, cocking a brow, "I’m dead, remember? My dear brother made sure of that."

"I—"

"And you know damn well I’d never wear this out of the office. It's not exactly the most flattering."

It was then you noticed what he was wearing.

He had his lab coat on. His entire outfit was the same thing he wore the day he met you. You were with Debra to question him about Tucci’s recovery and, god, if he didn't make the biggest impression.

It was pretty hard not to like him when he was giving one of his patients, a little boy, a lollipop from his jar and making a joke.

You remember telling Deb, 'What a nice guy'.

Oh, the irony. The fucking irony.

"What a nice guy." You found yourself repeating before looking him up and down, your lips curling in disgust. "You were just fucking with me the whole time, weren't you?"

He shrugged, "What's it matter now? I'm dead."

"It matters to me."

"Would you like me to apologize? To beg for your forgiveness?" He asked, a mocking tone in his voice, "Would that make you feel better?"

You were silent.

"Wouldn’t do anything." He continued, "And it certainly wouldn't change a thing. But, hey! By all means, you go right ahead and play pretend. Maybe then, you'll sleep better at night."

You scoffed. He was such a piece of shit.

"How much are you gonna torture me, huh?" You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, "Torture me like you did, Debra? Like your brother? Are you just going to follow me around like a bad smell? Make my life a living hell, like you did theirs?"

"I didn't torture him." He stated, a hint of malice in his tone, "He's my brother."

"Like that means shit."

"He was just like me. A lot like me, in fact." He went on, his eyes flickering over to you. "I could see myself in him."

"Well, he killed you." You countered, "That doesn't really seem like brotherly love."

"He did what he had to." He shrugged, "That Harry… he was a real piece of work, wasn't he?"

You were quiet again.

"And Debra?"

"A pain in my ass. Always sticking her nose in places where it doesn't belong." He replied, shaking his head. "But, then again, that was her job, wasn't it?"

"You broke her. You tore her apart." You snapped, the memories of the past year filling your mind. "She really loved you. She really did."

"I know."

"You don't care."

"Not at all." He said, the faintest hint of a smirk appearing. "Not in the slightest."

"Fuck you."

He laughed, his laughter filling the room before it faded out, leaving the both of you in a heavy silence.

He had a different aura around him this time. It might be the aura of a dead man, a hallucination. But he still felt so… present. Even his mannerisms were the same—the way he moved his hands, the way he tilted his head. His eyes still had that glint of mischief. It was so real.

So. Fucking. Real.

"If your just in my head, why can’t I just kick you out?" You asked, finally breaking the silence, "Make you go away."

"Because, even after a year, I still affect you." He answered, his voice low. "Even though you try to ignore it and push the memories back, I’ll always be there. In the back of your mind."

"Why couldn’t you be my dead childhood dog or something? Why do you have to be some crazy serial killer that ruined my life?" You said, shaking your head.

"I'm not boring."

"Neither was my childhood dog."

"Rocky didn't have a single interesting thing about him. All he did was drool and lick himself." He countered, his lips pursing.

"How the hell do you know— oh, fuck this. Just go away." You groaned, rubbing your temples.

He didn't respond, and the room was quiet. For a second, you thought he actually listened. Then, you heard him hum.

"Hm. No."

"Jesus Christ."

"Now, that's really a name I haven't heard in a while."

This was how it became. For months, you would have these random conversations with him, and no matter how much you tried, he would never leave. Everywhere you went, he was there.

Work.

Shopping.

Even at the damn bar.

You had no idea what this was. You didn't know if this was a side effect of the trauma you went through. Whether it was your mind trying to cope or just the result of a lack of sleep. Whatever it was, it was draining the life out of you.

You felt like a shell. Your coworkers knew something was wrong. The way your eyes were dull and lifeless, the dark circles, the slump in your shoulders.

They were concerned—except Debra. She was too concerned about the case to pay attention to anyone else.

You weren't really sure what day it was. Or month. Time was going by, and you were slowly dying mentally, as he put it.

"Is this because I can't sleep?" You asked him one night, staring at the ceiling, your voice hoarse, "Because I can't go to sleep without seeing your face? Or is it because I don't have the energy to live?"

"I would say both."

You groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes, "What did I do to deserve this?"

"It's not what you did." He replied, his eyes locked on yours, "It's what I did."

"Yeah, well, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

The two of you sat there in silence before he cleared his throat.

"How are things with my favorite bloodhound?" He asked a curious tone in his voice. "Is he still sleeping with that cute blonde, or did he wise up and break it off?"

"Rita. Her name is Rita." You corrected him, shaking your head, "She’s his girlfriend, not his flavor of the week."

"Hm."

"And, for your information, they're fine. Great, actually."

"How disappointing." He scoffed, leaning back in his seat. He genuinely looked upset, which caused a snicker to leave your lips. "What's so funny?"

"You are." You replied, looking over at him, "You're so pathetic."

He blinked.

"You're a dead man. Dead. How can you be disappointed about his love life?"

"I'm his older brother." He stated, his jaw tightening, "I want what's best for him."

"Really? Then why aren't you in his brain, harassing him?" You questioned, a smile coming onto your face, "You know what? I bet he's sleeping great. He doesn't have to deal with this. Not like I do."

"I would love to give him a good old-fashioned night terror. It'd be easy, too. He's not exactly the most stable." He replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But his brain is too messy. He's always been that way."

"I guess he takes after his brother."

"He took after our father. The one thing I did was make him forget about it." He retorted, his tone harsh, "Notice how he never talks about the old man? Or the past? Now it’s only me. That's because of me. I took him from that shitty childhood. I gave him a better life. A better everything. I could’ve given him the world."

You were quiet.

"Instead, he killed me." He spat, the venom in his voice obvious. "Because of that stupid, half-witted sailor mouth."

You honestly had to give your brain props for this one. He was too realistic. He was too Brian.

"You know what?" You began, sitting up, "I really am feeling a lobotomy."

At that, he actually laughed. Now that… that was different from the chuckles and snickers, this was a full laugh, something you haven't heard since you met him. It was loud, it was obnoxious, and it was the only thing you could hear.

It was the last thing you heard before the most amazing thing happened.

You fell asleep.

In the morning, you woke up to a pounding on your door and an annoying ringing. Groaning, you pulled the pillow over your head, hoping the noises would disappear. Instead, they only got louder, and you had no choice but to get up.

"Coming, coming!" You shouted, shuffling out of the bedroom and towards the door, the banging and the ringing still going on.

When you opened the door, you saw Debra.

"Good. You're up." She greeted, her expression annoyed. "Where were you last night?"

"Sleeping. What are you, my mom?"

"I called you. I even sent someone by your house. You weren't here." She stated, a slight bite in her voice, "And I'm not your mom, but if I were, I'd spank you."

"For what?"

"We have a meeting in five minutes." She said, checking her watch, "Get dressed. I'm waiting."

"Shit."

In record time, you threw on some jeans and a shirt, and within the next three minutes, you were out the door and in the car with Debra.

But as she pulled out of the driveway, he appeared directly in front of her.

"Hey, watch—"

But he only winked at you before disappearing. And at the time, you found it nothing but him being a prick. But, later on, you would realize.

This was the last time you would ever see him.

A month went by. And another. And another.

Then, a year.

The visions of the past still came. The thoughts of him were still there. The memories were still fresh. And sometimes, if you listened closely, you could still hear that laugh.

But you weren’t afraid anymore. You had no reason to be. And so, you moved on. You continued living because that's what he would've hated. And that made you smile.

Because, now, it wasn't him haunting you.

It was you haunting him.

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vipetas · 11 months ago

Text

i. the radio's revival

The worst possible scenario just unfolded before Alastor's eyes—his beloved antique radio broke.

He stood in stunned silence, his usual jovial expression replaced by one of utter disbelief as the once-majestic device now lay in pieces, its intricate components scattered across the floor. With a heavy heart, he knelt beside the shattered remnants, his gloved fingers tracing the familiar contours with a sense of mourning.

It was a futile gesture, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss for the part of himself that had been taken away with it. For Alastor, the radio was more than just a mere object; it was a piece of his identity. Each scratch, each dent held a story, a memory of a bygone era that now lay at ruins at his feet.

In that moment, he felt more vulnerable than ever before, stripped of the facade of invincibility he had carefully cultivated over decades. However, as he surveyed the damage, the vulnerability was quickly replaced by a flood of other emotions–anger, frustration, disappointment. How could something so precious, so irreplaceable, be lost in an instant?

The faint sound of shuffling feet then drew his attention. As he gazed up, one of the egg boys—those bumbling, loyal lackeys of Sir Pentious—timidly stepped forward with a sheepish expression.

“Uh, sorry about that, mister Radio Demon, sir. It was an accident,” the egg boy mumbled, his voice tinged with guilt.

Alastor's eye twitched in annoyance at the feeble excuse. Accidents were one thing, but this? This was inexcusable. His patience, already stretched thin, threatened to snap as he struggled to contain his frustration.

“Sorry?” Alastor repeated through gritted teeth. “Sorry won’t fix what’s been broken, now will it?”

The egg boys exchanged nervous glances, their carefree demeanor faltering under Alastor's withering gaze. “We didn't mean to, Mr. Alastor,” another one of them stammered.

Yet it was far too late for apologies. Alastor's frustration bubbled over like a pot ready to boil, and with a growl of irritation, his form began to shift. With each passing second, his horns extended, his body swelled in size, and his once elegant silhouette towered over the trembling egg boys like a vengeful deity.

The egg boys recoiled in terror, their eyes wide with horror as they watched Alastor's transformation unfold before them. In their panicked mind, they could only imagine the worst—that Alastor, in his fury, would devour them whole.

Just as their fear reached its peak, Sir Pentious burst onto the scene. Positioning himself between the egg boys and the Radio Demon, his voice rang out in a chorus of apologies.

“Mr. Alastor, sir, I must beg for your forgiveness on behalf of my hapless egg boys,” he pleaded desperately. “They meant no harm, I assure you. It was a mere accident, a foolish mistake!”

Alastor's gaze narrowed as he observed Sir Pentious. As the snake demon continued to shower him with apologies, Alastor suddenly remembered the reason they were all gathered here in the first place—a party, of all things. With a wry smile, he glanced around at the other residents of the hotel, noting the fear etched onto their faces. The sight of their unease might've amused him under different circumstances, but the loss of something so precious to him soured his mood.

With a shake of his head, he allowed his form to shrink back to its normal size. As his horns receded and his imposing presence diminished, he felt the tension ebb from his body, the anger gradually fading away.

But that didn’t mean that all was forgiven.

“What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with my broken radio now?” Alastor's voice dripped with barely contained frustration as he shot a piercing gaze at Sir Pentious.

Sir Pentious, visibly sweating under the weight of Alastor's glare, scrambled to offer a solution. “Ah, well, fear not,” he stuttered, his words coming out in a nervous rush. “I happen to know a mechanic—a fixer, if you will. Someone who can repair anything, no matter how... delicate.”

Alastor's eyebrow arched in skepticism, though a faint flicker of interest danced in his eyes. "Is that so?" he mused, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He had his doubts about Sir Pentious' ability to deliver on such a promise, but at this point, he was willing to entertain any possibility.

“And where can I find this mechanic of yours?”

Following the instructions scribbled hastily on the back of a crumpled receipt, Alastor eventually found himself in the slums of Pentagram City. The narrow alleyways led him to what appeared to be a workshop, its exterior bearing the signs of neglect and decay. The windows were grimy, patches of paint flaked off the weathered walls, and the sign above the entrance barely hung on by a single rusty nail.

It was a far cry from the elegance he was accustomed to, and he couldn't help but feel a familiar surge of anger rising within him. This was the place that was supposed to hold the solution to his problem? The Radio Demon scoffed inwardly, doubting that anyone within these walls possessed the skill or expertise to repair something as delicate as his beloved radio.

Still, he pressed on. Pushing open the creaking door, he was met with a gust of stale air, tinged with the scent of oil and metal. Inside, the workshop was a scene of disarray. Tools lay scattered across workbenches, and half-finished projects cluttered every available surface. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with spare parts, some of which appeared to be salvaged from long-forgotten machinery.

Alastor's lips curled into a disdainful sneer as he absorbed the surroundings. Then, his gaze fell upon the lone figure, hunched over a nearby table—you.

As he drew closer, you finally looked up, and to Alastor's surprise, you greeted him with a wide smile.

“Hi there! What can I do for you?”

Alastor's sneer deepened at the sight of the chipper mechanic, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere of the workshop. He had half-expected to find someone as worn down and weathered as the building itself, yet here stood this bright-eyed individual, seemingly unfazed by the chaos around them.

Suppressing a sigh, Alastor straightened up, the edges of his grin faltering ever so slightly. “Good evening,” he began. “My name is Alastor, and I'm here because I was told you might be able to fix something for me.”

Your smile widened at his words, and you nodded eagerly. “Of course! What seems to be the problem?”

Alastor hesitated for a moment, eyeing you warily. He couldn't shake the feeling that entrusting his precious radio to you was a mistake. Yet, he had little choice in the matter.

“My antique radio is in need of repair,” Alastor explained, his tone guarded. “It's a delicate piece of machinery, and I require someone with the utmost skill to handle it.”

You listened intently as Alastor detailed the intricacies of his radio, nodding along with each word. Despite his cautious demeanor, you could sense the underlying concern in his voice. It was clear that this radio held great significance to him.

As he finished speaking, you gave him another nod. “I understand, Mr. Alastor,” you reassured him. “You won't be disappointed, I promise. Now, let's take a look at what you've got there.”

With that, you gestured for Alastor to follow you to your workbench, where he finally presented the fragmented piece of machinery. As you laid eyes on the broken radio, it became immediately apparent to you just how extensively damaged it was. Fractured casings, tangled wires, missing components–it was a daunting sight, yet you refrained from revealing the true severity of the damage to Alastor, not wanting to add to his distress. Instead, you maintained a composed demeanor as you turned to look at him with a confident grin.

“We'll get this sorted out, Mr. Alastor,” you assured him once more. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor felt a flicker of hope stir in his blackened heart at the prospect of having his radio fixed. Though a hint of doubt still lingered at the back of his mind, he nodded begrudgingly.

“Very well," he muttered. "Just... be careful with it.”

As Alastor stepped back, allowing you the space to work your magic, his eyes remained fixed on you with keen interest. He observed the fluidity of your movements, the subtle shifts in your expression. Whenever you encountered a challenge, your brows furrowed in concentration, and with each successful repair, a hint of satisfaction graced your lips. Alastor found himself unconsciously mirroring your expressions as he watched your steady hands diligently work to bring his beloved radio back to life.

And as time passed, so too did his initial skepticism begin to wane, replaced by a growing sense of admiration for your skill and expertise. There was something captivating about the way you worked, a sense of determination and passion that shone through with every meticulous movement.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, you made the final adjustment. With bated breath, you flicked the switch and awaited the outcome. The room fell into a tense silence, thick with anticipation. Then, suddenly, a burst of static erupted, followed by the unmistakable sound of music emanating from the speakers.

Alastor's eyes widened in disbelief as the once-silent device surged back to life. Your face lit up with a triumphant smile as you savored his reaction, a sense of pride swelling within you.

“There you go, Mr. Alastor,” you declared, extending the repaired radio toward him. “Good as new!”

As Alastor reached out to accept the radio from you, his fingers inadvertently brushed against yours in a fleeting moment of contact. In that instant, a jolt of electricity seemed to course through him, sending a distinct shiver down his spine.

It was a curious sensation, one that he couldn't quite place, yet it stirred something deep within him.

Even after withdrawing his hand, the feeling lingered, leaving Alastor perplexed. His gaze shifted from the repaired radio to your face, searching for any indication that you too had felt the same inexplicable energy pulse between you. However, your smile remained unchanged, oblivious to the tumult of emotions swirling within him.

“Thank you,” he finally murmured, his voice softer than usual, betraying a hint of sincerity that caught even him off guard. “You did a remarkable job.”

You beamed in response, your eyes alight with satisfaction at Alastor's words. “You're welcome,” you replied gently. “I'm glad I could be of help. And remember, if you ever need anything else, you know where to find me.”

Alastor offered a subtle nod of gratitude, though inwardly, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave. Nevertheless, he tucked the repaired radio under his arm and turned on his heel, heading towards the door. Stepping out into the dimly-lit street, he walked with deliberate steps. His thoughts drifted back to the moment his fingers brushed against yours, and despite his attempts to push the memory aside, his free hand instinctively flexed, fingers curling into a tight fist before relaxing once more.

This was going to be a problem.

part i / part ii

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed<3

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor/reader #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel fluff #part 2?

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betterthanyalls · 4 months ago

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Can u do a Reader x epic various where y/n is apart of Ody's crew and during the end of thunder bringer Zeus kidnaps y/n and takes them to Olympus instead of letting them either drown or get washed up onto Calypso's island?🥰🥰🤩🤩 It'd be cool if during God games or something Athena finds out what Zeus did and now instead of the games being just to free Ody from Calypso's island, it's ALSO about freeing y/n from Olympus and reuniting them with Odysseus?? Sorry if this doesn't make sense or if it's too much work lol, just write this however you want if you even wanna write it at all teehee ^^"

blinks i think i went through 37 different emotions while writing this, most of them were bad. Ok so, I'm not sure how good this is but please don't kill me😇 TW: Zeus gives reader Ganymede treatment

Part 2

Masterlist

Stolen Soldier

Various (kind of) x Reader

EPIC: The Musical ~ Oneshot ~ Angst

Words: 1.6K

Published: 11-4-2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thunder roared, winds whipped, and waves rocked the lone ship back and forth. Standing on the bow of the ship was a figure of divine power and presence, waiting with a wicked grin. “Choose,” the king of the gods demanded harshly.

“Choose?” Odysseus muttered, looking at Zeus in fear. “Someone’s got to die today, and you have got the final say. You,” he pointed to Odysseus before gesturing to the rest of the crew, “or your crew.”

The captain looked to his crew, locking eyes with Y/n—his best friend, his rock, his shelter. He took a shaky breath, looking back to Zeus in desperation.

“Please don’t make me do this; don’t make me do this,” Odysseus begged. His mind seemed to be playing tricks on him. Looking back at his crew, he saw a range of emotions: anger, hurt, terror, grief, and more. Taking a daring glance at his closest friend, the soldier felt his heart shatter. Holding back tears, Y/n gave him a hesitant nod to show it was ok.

Then, a new voice tore his gaze away from his crew. Looking out over the sea and to the clouds, a figure of familiarity seemed to take place within the clouds. Illusion or not, that was his wife.

Penelope. Odysseus took staggering steps across the shaking boat and to the edge. Both of his hands latched to the wooden railing, his eyes never moving from the clouded position of his partner. Memories flooded his judgment, from his crew and Y/n, to his family waiting for him. “Captain?” A voice of uncertainty spoke up. Eurylochus. The said captain couldn’t even dare face his right-hand man as the sky darkened and Penelope faded back to the clouds.

“I have to see her," Odysseus whispered, tears brimming in his eyes as he finally looked back at his crew. The general saw all of the hurt and betrayal in his men’s expressions. The fear hurt the most to see. “But we’ll die,” Eurylochus pleaded. Odysseus knew he would regret this option until his final breath. Once he got home, how would he tell Ctimene he was the cause of her husband's death? “I know,” Odysseus’ voice broke, a few stray droplets not belonging to the storm washed down his cheeks.

At the end of those words, the thunder roared, and Zeus grinned evilly. Zeus rose above the clouds, lightning moving to gather in his raised hand.

“Thunder, bring her through the wringer.” The crew drew their weapons in defense, charging towards Odysseus with murderous intent. Y/n stood away from the fight, not daring to lift any sort of weapon against her best friend.

“Show her I'm the judgment call. The one who makes her kingdom fall. Lightning, wield her, use and yield her.”

As the crew closed in on their captain, the air started to become tense and electrified. Y/n took a step back from the chaos, looking up to see a phenomenon of heavenly power. “Show her what she can’t conceal; her true nature will be revealed.”

A bright light enclosed the surrounding sky, ripping down to the center of the ship. In an instant, a deafening crack sounded, and all light faded to black. Y/n felt like her soul was being ripped apart as she opened her mouth to scream her pain, but no noise came out. Then she felt a drop, only to be brought into a suffocating embrace of cold. Finally, her mind cut out. ~~~~~ Y/n felt different. She didn’t sense the shivering water anymore, but instead a subtle warmth. It took a few minutes, but eventually she managed to peek open her eyes. Y/n wasn’t on a ship in the middle of the sea with the night sky above anymore, but instead there was a grand painting on the ceiling of white marble overhead. Looking around slowly, the young woman saw an unfamiliar scene.

A lavish bedroom surrounded her, furnishings a king could only dream of sitting like average decor in each nook and cranny. Moving her hands, Y/n felt the silk sheets of a glorious bed below her. Ivory blankets fell from her body as she slowly rose up from her position. Placing her feet on the cold marble flooring, the mortal stepped through the room. It wasn’t long before she found herself in front of a floor-length mirror.

White and gold fabric draped down on her body—a dress fit for a goddess of divine origin. Confusion clouded her eyes as she scanned her new attire. That puzzlement was quickly replaced with fear as two wooden doors opened, revealing an even more confusing sight.

A tall man wearing a white toga entered the room without a care of knocking. Striding to where Y/n stood, she instinctively took steps back from him. “My dear, why do you back away?” The smile on his face was unnerving, especially with the nickname. Y/n recognized that voice immediately, terror coursing through her veins as her lips parted to let out a gasp.

“Zeus.”

The god in question continued to walk towards her with that two-faced smile until he backed the mortal into a wall. “Mmm, you’re as smart as you are beautiful,” he took her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. Y/n shuddered in disgust and fear; her heart raced faster than a chariot racer's steeds. She wanted to push him away, but her body felt locked in place. Y/n tried to speak, but her lips were closed tightly like a stone wall. “Hm, dear, I think I know a dress that’d fit your body much better. Let me help.”

~~~~~

Within only the second morning of the Heavenly Palace, Y/n had the overwhelming urge to jump off. But she wouldn’t be allowed such a pleasure with the god at her side. Zeus had taken it upon himself to guide the mortal on a tour through Olympus, which only influenced her thoughts.

Y/n kept her eyes on Zeus every second. Not out of intrigue or anything of that sort, but of apprehension. Each movement of his that was near her direction, the mortal would tense up and pause everything. Soon enough, the king of Olypmus noticed and grinned with faux comfort. “Dear, you seem tense. Allow me to ease you.” ~~~~~ Day after day. Weeks after week. Zeus never let Y/n leave his side, threatening any god or goddess who even dared to give her a sympathetic glance. The woman was a shell of who she once was. Her eyes sunk and her soul depleted; she felt her life draining by the day. Not in mortality-wise, no Zeus would never let her perish. But in consideration of her spirit.

Each night she would cry until no more salt would leave, leaving only choking sobs. Each night she was infiltrated by the king of Olympus. Y/n would stare at herself in the mirror, vomit building in her throat as her eyes trailed down to every mark on her body. No spot was untouched. No matter how hard she tried, Y/n could never wash off the sin. The mortal would scrub her skin until she was raw and bleeding, but the phantom touches remained.

Each night she missed her home and friends more and more. Where was Odysseus now? Did he forget all about her when he returned to Ithaca? What about Penelope? Would she miss her best friend?

Seven years. Seven years of misery, force, and agony. Seven years of physical and mental torture she endured to no fault.

But soon, like all stories, her savior arrived. ~~~~~

Athena stood in front of her father, spear and shield in hand, while staring into the king’s eyes murderously.

“I’ve played your game and won. Release them,” the goddess of wisdom demanded, shifting her gaze to where Y/n stood anxiously beside Zeus’ throne. The mortal had gone through so much, and Athena was determined to save her.

Zeus glowered down at his daughter, rage covering his expression. “You dare to defy me? To make me feel shame?” He growled, his fists clenching so tight that his knuckles turned a bright alabaster. “No one beats me; no one wins my game!”

The lightning god stood up threateningly, his hands glowing a static yellow. “Thunder, bring her through the wringer!” The air was caught in Y/n’s throat at the familiar words, her eyes wide in horror. Zeus rose up, the electricity in his hands growing as the woman noticed the alarmed looks on the other god’s expressions. “Show her I’m the judgment call, the one who makes her kingdom FALL!” With a vociferous burst, he threw the lightning at his daughter, forcing her back onto the floor. Once the light faded, everyone looked to see the warrior lying face down, her body still as ice. “Is she dead?” the voice of her brother Ares asked hesitantly. Y/n thought back to every moment her and Odysseus had been with Athena. They were an unstoppable force together. Now though, Y/n only wanted to rush to the goddess side. Before anyone could do anything, Athena struggled to her feet, holding her aegis in defense while pointing the spear tip to her father.

Zeus’ look of utter shock soon turned to rage at her defiance. In response, he sent a barrage of bolts towards his favorite child. Against this attack, the war patroness held her shield strong and pushed against the force, making her way to her father.

Finally, at the feet of the king, she grabbed his arm and fell to her knees.

“Let them go, please. Let them go.” Her plea was finished as the goddess collapsed, her breath slowing to a stop.

#x reader #betterthanyalls #oneshot #ask #epic the musical x reader #epic the musical #epic zeus #zeus #zeus x reader #epic musical #epic the thunder saga #epic the wisdom saga #oddyseus #epic odysseus #odysseus

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aurorasdaybreak · 7 days ago

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the love shot °˖➴ caleb xia (m)

summary: usually, you're able to keep apart love and hate with ease. but with him, you find that the two are not only more similar than they seem, but also deeply intertwined - to the point you can't separate them anymore. info: farspace fleet colonel!caleb x hunter afab!reader | story compliant | fluff, angst, smut | 18+ | 10k words warnings: some angst, some fluff, mostly smut, possessive!caleb bc ofc he is, possessive!mc bc have you seen his myth?? she did not want to let go AT ALL, (light) spoilers for caleb’s myth, timeline wise this happens i’m considering this an extension of painful signal that might be out of timeline whoopsies (;—;), kissing, making out against a wall, teasing, inappropriate use of evol, dom!caleb, sub!f!reader, choking, f!receiving fingering, f!receiving oral, edging, marking, praise, degradation (slut, cockslut), f!multiple orgasms, squirting, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), kinda sappy sex, cervix fucking(ish), caleb checking in bc he’s going hard (and consent and checking in is sexy!), ending is sappy and fluffy?? idk (T_T) author’s note: hi hi hello! i'm new to lads tumblr (but not to writing) and i'm very excited to be here :') it's been a little bit since i've written, so pls be kind but also pls feel free to leave your thoughts in my askbox!! i hope you enjoy :D disclaimer: not beta read, will edit soon for any mistakes!! if you are a minor and you're seeing this, i ask that you turn away and do not read. this is an 18+ story and minors are not welcome. if you are uncomfortable with any of the topics listed in the warning, please do not read this story! °˖➴ inspired by love shot by exo

It’s been hard for you to distinguish what’s true and false these past couple of weeks.

When you took your leave, you had deemed it as a necessary distraction from all of the grief and pain that’s been greeting you in your apartment. You had established your universe’s truths before you touched base in Skyhaven: you’re a Deepspace hunter, you’re here to find links between Ever and the Farspace Fleet, and you’re definitely not using this half-baked mission to run away from what haunts you at night.

An explosion. A necklace just out of reach. Amethyst eyes, dismayed yet hiding something that you couldn’t quite decipher.

You had grown numb to the pain, but that didn’t mean it never left you alone.

When you had gotten into formation waiting for the new Farspace Fleet colonel, you were sure of the reality that you were living in. As lackluster as the world had gotten, it still turned, and you couldn’t wallow and let your anguish eat you alive.

So you stood, holding your breath and waiting to catch a glimpse of the new colonel…

…only for everything you knew to be shattered in an instant.

Because it was him.

But was it really?

In the weeks that followed, you stayed with him and learned new things that kept threatening to disturb the peace you fought to maintain. You learned of his monumental rise through the ranks, the secrets he tried to stash away, even what his workload entailed.

You also learned how wicked he could truly be, bending your trust until you thought it would shatter in between his fingers.

After uncovering the real truth, you had returned to Linkon City and relayed all you knew to Jenna - minus the enigmatic colonel the Association was chasing after. How could you even begin to tell her that the Farspace Fleet’s most feared leader is your childhood best friend? The one that you swore blew up right before your very eyes?

You couldn’t, not without uncovering the truth for yourself first.

So you went back to Skyhaven, spending more days with him.

Looking back on it now, it was almost like when you were kids. He took care of you, cooking your favorite meals and doting on you like he always did. There were soft, stolen moments that you tried to keep at the forefront of your brain, but it was hard to grasp on that warmth when there was an underlying chill in the moments you’ve shared.

You didn’t know then, but you now know the extent of just how wrong things have been within the ranks of the Farspace Fleet. The Toring Chip, memory resets when emotions get too high…people becoming a shell of what they used to be.

You didn’t think that all of this could even exist, much less be possible and be used in such an unfeeling way. In your heart of hearts, you just didn’t want to believe it because it meant that he had gone through it. You had been delusional enough to think he had dodged it.

But all it took was one call from Gideon for you to uncover the truth. Now…

Now, you’re taking in the sight of Caleb Xia’s metal arm in your hands.

You and him are sitting side by side on his makeshift cot, thighs pressed together as you turn the foreign part in your palms. He complies with your silent assessment, moving his arm up and down so that you can examine every angle. Something violent begins to brew in your stomach as you run your fingers along the smooth metal - a rage that you don’t quite know how to quell because you’ve never felt something of this magnitude before.

You almost welcome it. It’s preferable to the gray haze you’ve been living in these past couple of months.

“Do you remember the process?” Your voice is deceptively calm as your palm slides down the length of his forearm so that you can grab his wrist, and you rest his hand in your lap so that you can play with his fingers.

There’s a beat of silence before Caleb lets out a sigh. He pulls his hand from your lap and presses it into his thigh, the joints of his fingers creaking just a little bit at the sheer amount of force he exerts on his own skin. You tut at this, and you grab his wrist again so that you can help his hand relax. You take your time in unfurling each of his metal digits, gently straightening each of them at the knuckle so that they no longer crease. The action has Caleb relaxing, and you try not to shiver when you feel him rest his head on your shoulder.

“I only remember the pain.” It’s a quiet admission, one that leaves his lips and gently ruffles the hair by your ear like a summer breeze carrying a heavy secret. His fingers curl around your own and he squeezes tightly, you returning the same strength. “Looking back, I was thankful for just how excruciating it was. It reminded me that I was alive and that I wasn’t gonna waste my second chance.”

“I hate that you can’t feel much with it anymore.” Your tone is bitter as you shift away from his side, giving you space so that you can properly process all of the information you’ve just been given.

“I don’t just feel much, I feel nothing at all.” Caleb says it with a self-deprecating humor, but you can only scoff as you push yourself off of the cot and stand in front of him.

“I meant what I said about making the Farspace Fleet pay.” You cross your arms and tilt your head to the side, giving him a serious look. “They can’t get away with everything that they’ve done to you and your comrades - hell Caleb, everything they’re doing right now!”

“How do you propose you do that, ____?” He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound as he grabs the back of your thighs and forces you closer, pulling you into his lap so that you straddle him. You tilt your head down so that you can avoid his eyes, and his chest rumbles at your action.

He tilts your chin up with his metal hand, and you shiver at the restrained strength in which he holds your face. His eyes are cold and his fingers twitch slightly. You should be scared, but somehow you aren’t. There’s a fire that ignites at your proximity, one that’s slowly beginning to spread along your entire body and makes your head spin at its ferocity.

“You can’t just burn the Farspace Fleet down.” It’s almost as if he can read your mind, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he gleaned those thoughts from just one look on your face. “I can’t tell you everything, ____ - but I promise you, things will get better for me, for us.”

That last word has you stilling and dropping your gaze so that you don’t have to look head on at him. You catch a quick glimpse of the silver against his chest, the words When U Come Back highlighted by the silvery light of the moon. Those words feel like a sick joke because the man you gave them to may be here physically - but he’s not really your Caleb.

You reach up to gently pull his metal hand off of your chin, and you can feel the burning of his gaze as you drop your mouth to his right shoulder. You feel his breath hitch when your lips meet the junction of skin and steel, his exhalation shaky when your tongue lightly flicks the slight divot. The taste of salty bitterness lays heavy in your mouth, and you pull away to look back up at his failing restraint.

“Did you feel that?” It’s rhetorical and you both know it from the way you’ve rendered him speechless. His lips form a thin line as your hands make their way up his torso, giving you an anchor as you stare into his eyes. “You say you can’t, but it’s clear that you do.”

Your fingers begin to draw circles on his shoulders, and you try your best to even your breathing so that he can’t see just how affected you are. You can’t afford to show any weakness, not in front of this imposter who wears your dead best friend’s face.

“I used to be able to read you so clearly.” It’s a whisper, and you let your forehead fall against his collarbone. “I used to know everything just from one look on your face. I hate that they took that from me.”

“Me wearing my heart on my sleeve and showing my weakness?” It’s meant to come out as a scoff, but you can hear the vulnerability in his tone.

“I was thinking more your honesty.” You feel his chest rise quickly, and you shake your head as you chuckle bitterly. “Of course you’d think it’s a weakness now.”

You bite your lip when you hear his hands leave the sheets, and your eyes slip shut when they settle on your waist. The chilling cold and comforting warmth serve as a reminder of the past you crave so much and the present you’re currently dealing with - the cold and calculated colonel versus your childhood best friend who scored himself onto your heart.

Time ticks slowly as he mulls over his response, and your breaths are shallow as you wait for his words. Above you, Caleb swallows thickly before settling on his carefully chosen words.

“I did it to protect you.”

You quietly suck in a breath, and it’s like even the air in the room has gone still at his quiet admission.

He takes your silence as your permission to continue with his reasoning. The words muffle when they reach your ears though - not because you’re not interested, but because you know it’s not true.

The Caleb you knew would never keep secrets from you. He would be honest, he would never stay away from you for as long as he did.

So why did he?

Are you a burden to him?

Your blood runs cold at the continuous stream of velvet sweetness streaming from his lips, and you shake your head as you push yourself up and away from his suffocating presence. “Bullshit.”

You feel Caleb’s chest stop, your expletive taking him by surprise. “____?”

“I call bullshit, Caleb Xia.”

It’s filled with venom and you clamber away, taking deep breaths and willing yourself to wake up from this suffocating nightmare. You focus your gaze on the single strand of raven hair that sways upright in the nighttime breeze because you know if you look into his eyes, you’ll crumble at his feet. “You didn’t do it for me, you did it to save yourself. Not once did you care for me-”

“That’s a lie and we both know that.” His words are just as harsh as he pushes himself up from the cot, and your eyes pass over his face as his height forces you to see every emotion dancing on his face. “____, I’ve been through the fucking ringer. You have no fucking idea what I had to do to get to this point, what I sacrificed just so I could reach the top all the while protecting my heart.” It comes out raw and his biting words soften at the last word, but you still roll your eyes as you cross your arms to protect yourself.

“So tell me what you did.” They’re quiet but lethally so, satin hiding the steel intent in your words. “Tell me the fucking truth, Caleb. Tell me every painful detail so that I can try to begin to understand you.”

You don’t realize it, but you walk forward until you’re stopped in front of him, back in his space. You hate yourself just a little bit for not being able to fully pull back, but you know deep down you can’t stay too far away from him anymore.

You’re afraid he’ll be taken from you from right under your fingers.

“And in return, I’ll try to tell you the excruciating hurt I went through mourning you and Gran.” Your voice wavers and you grip at your biceps, digging your nails into the muscle to steel yourself. “I’ll try to tell you how fucking awful it felt burying two empty caskets, standing at honor ceremonies, and staring up at my ceiling at night wondering if my dreams would be warm from the happy memories or from the fire that resulted from the blast. I’ll try to explain the emptiness I felt for the months after, because while you were here doing whatever you did to get to the top, I was left with the ghost of you.”

Your lip trembles and you unfold your arms, pressing your palms against your cheeks to furiously wipe away the tears that have begun to course down your face. The room stands still as your shoulders shake, and you can feel his heavy gaze on your head.

“I should have never gone here,” you whisper once your tears subside, leaving you with the bitter emptiness you’ve grown acquainted with. “At least you would’ve stayed dead, and I wouldn’t have grown to hate what you’ve become.”

You turn on your heels and spin around, trying to make your way out of the hidden room. You’re barely able to take two steps before you feel a cool brush against the back of your neck, and you gasp when his metal fingers grasp tightly at your shoulder.

“Repeat that last statement again.” His fingers tighten slightly as he walks in a direction, and a gasp escapes your lips at the sudden proximity and your back meeting a wall. His hand moves up so that his fingers can wrap around your neck, thumb tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at the Colonel standing in front of you as he presses down on the column of your throat just a little bit harder.

“I s-should have never gone h-here.” They leave in puffs, but you still force enough conviction to gain a harsher look in his eyes.

“And?” His voice is clipped, and a sudden pang of fear strikes your spine when you see the wires attached to the machine begin to rise: a sign of him losing his grip on his Evol. “I specifically remember something about hate.”

Your mouth runs dry and your eyes widen, taking in the implication of his words. Caleb laughs humorlessly at your reaction, his fingers slightly loosening and giving you a little taste of the clean air you didn’t realize you were craving.

“Tell me you hate me, ____.” The venomous words are juxstaposed by his gentle tone and his human hand reaching up and gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, his warm fingers squeezing your ear lobe and serving as a reminder that somewhere deep down, he’s still your Caleb. “Tell me you hate me, and I’ll let you leave. I’ll disappear for good. I’ll become the ghost you’ve always wanted.”

Your future hangs in a delicate balance as you process his words, turning over the possible options in your head. You’d grown used to living without him and Gran after the explosion. Life was dull, but you’d begun to move on. Staying here and letting him back in would undo the progress you’ve made - it would force you to confront ugly truths you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

But on the other hand…

You don’t think you can do the rest of your life without him. You need him like the air you breathe and the water you drink - he’s vital to your survival like the weapons you wield when you face Wanderers on the field. He’s an extension of you, a reminder of the life you’ve lived and the life that’s ahead of you.

But that life is meaningless without him…even if it’s this twisted, darker version of Caleb you barely know.

You’ve made up your mind.

“I hate you, Colonel Xia. I loathe you with every fiber of my being.” You barely gasp out the words before your arms wrap around his neck and pull him down, bringing his lips to yours.

His reaction is instantaneous, his hands cupping your cheeks and forcing your neck at a higher angle so that he can kiss you more deeply. His body presses yours against the wall, and he swallows the gasp that leaves your lips. It’s angry, full of bitter resentment from the past couple of weeks. His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip and you barely open your mouth wide enough before he forces himself in, tongues tangling before he ultimately wins the battle for dominance.

His hands shift, going from your cheeks to back down your neck before sliding down your back and cupping your hips. He squeezes the flesh and it has your head reeling, pulling away from his lips to gasp for air.

Your head falls back against the wall, and your chest heaves as you suck in air greedily into your lungs. Your fingers grasp his shoulders and you feel your stomach flip at the tortured groan that escapes his mouth, right before he pulls you in even closer to him and kisses you again.

It’s another battle for victory, and you win a point when your fingers reach up to pull at his hair. Caleb’s mouth falls even wider at the sensation and you use that timing to your advantage, allowing yourself to bite and suck at his bottom lip. He groans again, and the sound sends shivers down your spine and causes you to smirk against his mouth.

“What, tired already?” You can’t help the taunting tone that enters your voice, and he pulls away just enough so that you can see the steely resolve on his face.

“In your dreams,” Caleb retorts. His hands shift from your hips to your ass and you try to mask the whimper that nearly escapes you as an exhale, but you know he knows by the huff against your lips that you’ve failed.

He uses your daze to pull your hips even closer to his front, and your eyes roll back into your skull when you feel his rapidly hardening length in his slacks. “This is what you do to me, ____.” He grinds his hips against yours, and this time you can’t quite help the moan that leaves your lips. “You drive me fucking insane.”

You don’t even offer a retort, instead choosing to pull him back down again so that you can kiss him again. He willingly lets you, and you bite down on his lip hard when his palms squeeze at your ass. He taps two fingers against the flesh and your arms tighten around his neck, giving him the chance to slide his hands to the back of your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist with ease.

Caleb walks out of his makeshift infirmary back into his living room, dodging furniture with ease as you press your lips against his jaw. You feel his chest rumble against yours as you begin to nip and suck blossoms under his chin, and his hands squeeze your ass in warning when you begin to mark up his neck.

You barely register that you’re in his (your?) bedroom until you land onto the bed on your back with a gasp. You bite your lip when you see Caleb kick off his slippers and socks before making his way over to the bed, grabbing your thighs and dragging you to the edge of the bed before letting his palms settle on your hips.

“You know that marking Skyhaven property is a punishable offense?” Caleb’s voice is a drawl as his fingers massage their way up your sides, dipping underneath your shirt and tracing circles that have your patience thinning. “You can be fined or jailed. Depends on the severity, though.”

“W-what does it matter?” Your voice leaves in a gasp as Caleb’s hands finally slide underneath your shirt, giving you the touch you so desperately crave.

“Think about it, pips.” Caleb pulls you up by your waist, and your head spins as he nudges your thighs apart with his knee. “What were you doing just now?”

“Caleb, what-” You can barely think as he guides your arms up, working your shirt over your head before tossing the garment somewhere in his room. He pushes you back down onto the bed, and you feel your eyes begin to close at the hazy, almost animalistic look in his own gaze. His hands pinch at your hips, though, and your eyes snap back open to meet his once again.

“Think, ____.” There’s an edge to his voice as his hands return to your waist, slowly making their way up to your ribcage. “What were you doing to me in the living room?”

You can barely think, mind clouding in need as his thumbs brush the underside of your bra cups. He skims the digits along the underside, letting his nails trace the lacy material - making you swallow thickly as you try to place your answer.

Your eyes catch the blossoming purple on his neck, and you finally put two and two together. “All because I gave you hickeys?”

“Good girl.” There’s a touch of humor in his voice, and he rewards you by sliding his thumbs underneath your bra and running the rough digits along the swell of your breasts. Your head lolls back at the stimulation, although annoyance flares in your stomach - mixing with the desire and lighting a savage flame in your body.

“That’s dumb as fuck.” It’s a moan, but you can feel his annoyance by the way his hands stop.

“Why is that?” Caleb’s hands make their way to your back, and you lift your torso so that he can struggle with your bra’s clasps. “I’m the Farspace Fleet’s colonel, ____. And my uniform’s gonna have a hard time covering the gifts you’ve given me, pips.”

“Because, Caleb,” you laugh when he fumbles with the clasps, and the irritation on his face gives way to a slight look of endearment that has your heart clenching. You make your heart calm down before you continue with faux confidence. “Because, you were mine first.”

His hands stop at your words, and you meet his eyes with unwavering honesty in response to his incredulous stare. “Pips, what-”

“You’ll always be mine.” Your hands tremble when you lift them to his face, but your touch is sure as you brush a strand of hair off of his forehead. “You’ll never be their property because they can’t take my Caleb away from me.”

The air in the room stills as he pulls his body away from yours, registering the weight of your words. You suddenly feel cold all over and you begin to shiver, although it’s not from the temperature of your current surroundings.

Why did you say that in your stupid, lustful daze?

And why do you suddenly feel nervous about his reaction?

Your eyes land on the hickeys your lips and teeth have left on his chest, the littered marks suddenly making you feel self conscious. What a stupid thing to do. Maybe you should stop-

You feel a sudden pressure on your torso as you’re forced back onto the bed, not realizing that you had pushed yourself up onto your forearms. You look up to see Caleb’s stormy eyes - lust and anger and another emotion you can’t quite place clouding his entire face. His palms land on your bra cups, and you can barely gasp in shock when he grips the lace and tears it clean off your body.

“Caleb!” Your annoyance is evident, and you look up at him with a thin press of your lips. “That was one of my favorite pairs-”

Your statement falls flat when he cups your bare breasts, and you gasp when you feel his thumbs roll against your nipples. He readjusts your body so that your hips are on the edge of the bed, and he lets his face fall into the crook of your neck.

“I’ll buy you a new pair.” There’s a new rawness in his voice, and you shiver when you feel his tongue flick at your earlobe. “I’ll buy you whatever the fuck you want, but it’ll be from me.”

His mouth moves down your neck, and you cry out when you feel his teeth catch your nipple. He flicks at the little bud with the tip of his tongue, and his metal hand begins to pinch and rub at the other, making you rub your hips against his as you gasp.

“You’re so fucking mine, ____.” Caleb’s mouth leaves your breast, and he places a soft kiss against the skin where your heart beats. “It’s you and me, pips.”

His tongue leaves a trail from your chest up to your neck, and he kisses your jaw before nudging your nose against his and letting his forehead fall against yours. “You’re not leaving, ever again.”

It’s a whispered promise, and your eyes flutter shut when your mouth meets his once again. While your first kiss was angry and turbulent, this one is sweet and seals his vow - a slow press of lips, a swipe of his tongue against your bottom lip, and a pace that builds the desperation that’s been festering in the pit of your stomach.

Caleb’s mouth begins to leave a feathery trail, slowly mapping a path from your chin and down the column of your throat. Your breathing stops when he reaches your chest, but he elects to pass your nipples entirely and continue his way down your stomach - finally reaching the skin that’s covered by your pants.

It feels like your nerves are going to ignite at any second - the fire that’s been slowly flickering about to consume you from the inside out. You feel his fingertips slide their way under the band of your pants and you don’t even need to think about it, you just lift your hips up so that he can pull the fabric off of your body.

Your eyes blink open at the sharp intake of his breath when he sees you in nothing but the lace panties that match the bra he tore off, and you fight the urge to reach up and cover yourself. Sure, Caleb’s seen you in a variety of ways since your shared childhood, but never in a way that’s been this…intimate.

He catches your gaze, and you can’t help but smile at the flush that’s painting his cheeks. You watch as he kneels in front of you, and you whimper when his hands land on your thighs and open them as wide as he pleases - allowing him to slot himself in between your legs

Your chest begins to rise and fall in much shallower breaths when his left hand reaches up to touch the little white bow at the center front of your underwear. He toys with the little bit of fabric, and a smirk grows on his lips as his metallic fingers squeeze your plush flesh. “These are cute, ____.”

“They matched the bra you ripped.” Your voice is serious, but you bite your bottom lip and look up at him with a coy smile. “How are you gonna make it up to me, Colonel Xia?”

His body stiffens at your words, and a new layer of frost enters the room as he looks down at you coolly. His hands finally toy with the waistband of your panties, fiddling and sliding the band up and down in a way that lets you know that you’ve made a mistake.

“Don’t call me that.” His voice is clipped, but you can’t find it in yourself to heed his warning when he finally drags the scrap of lace down your thighs. He doesn’t take it fully off, though - he instead elects to leave them halfway down your thighs.

“Why not?” There’s a humorous note to your tone, and you’re surprised to find that you enjoy the sight of him blushing and at a loss for words. You bend your knee and lift your leg just the tiniest bit, angling your ankle so that it barely brushes against the bulge that’s straining against the front of his pants. His fingers tremble against your sides as he chokes at the stimulation, and you giggle and let your leg fall back down. “Is something wrong, Colonel Caleb?”

It’s like something in him snaps.

All of a sudden, he’s pressing your hips down onto the bed, and you can barely move. You gasp as Caleb’s body goes, kneeling at the edge of the bed and moving his head dangerously close to your weeping core. Your body heats in embarrassment and you try to snap your legs shut, but before you can do so he’s grabbing your knees and placing them on his shoulders.

“Don’t. Move.” It’s an impossible command, especially since you can feel the way his hair brushes against your core. Your eyes flutter shut, but they snap back open when you feel him pinch your knee. “And keep your eyes on me, ____.”

Time slows as you feel his lips brush against your knee, a whisper that makes you think you dreamt the sensation. You’re brought back to the present when you feel his lips move closer to the place you want him most - featherlight kisses and brushes of his hair enough to drive you to madness, but not enough to push you to the end you so desperately crave.

Caleb’s lips stop at your inner thigh, right before the place you want him most. You try your best to follow his orders, but it’s near impossible. Your patience is hanging on by a thread, and you don’t know just how long you can keep following what he wants.

Caleb feels your thighs tremble underneath his metal palm, and you know he can feel your desperation at the rumble of his laughter as he stops his teasing. “What’s wrong, ____? Can’t wait anymore?”

“N-no,” you stutter out, trying to hide how affected you are by him. “I-i’m just-”

“Just what?” There’s a potent venom that’s disguised by the honeyed tone he injects into his voice. If you closed your eyes, you would almost believe that he was actually concerned. “Just wanting me?”

You don’t know why, but this sets you off in a way you didn’t know was possible. You buck your hips, and you let out a soft cry when your core just slightly meets his mouth. Your eyes slowly slip shut as you buck your hips again and again, craving and wanting and begging-

But suddenly, your hips stop.

Your eyes widen as you realize just what he did to you, and your stomach flips in equal parts fear and want as you look down and see the cold, calculated smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

“I told you not to move, ____.” Caleb’s Evol pins your body to the mattress, and he uses his hands to spread your thighs as far as they can go with your panties restraining you. “And to keep your eyes on me. And since you’ve failed at those two commands, well...”

His teeth bite down at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you cry out as he sucks harshly. Caleb pulls away to examine the hickey he created to match the ones you made on his neck, and you can’t help but moan when you see the possessiveness in his gaze.

“Caleb, plea-” you begin, but the words die on your tongue when he stares at you with that cold, calculated stare he only gives to those under his command.

“How many times did you move your hips?”

“What?” You’re confused by his question.

“How. Many. Times?”

He presses his lips into your skin after every word, his tongue sucking on your flesh and leaving more marks on your skin. Your mind spins as you try to count, and your answer leaves in a clumsy breath: “Three? Why the fuck does it matter?”

He hums at your response, shaking his head and giving you a smirk. “Oh, ____. You’ll learn soon.”

It’s all the warning you get before his metal fingers meet your pussy, carelessly dragging them up against your slit. A strangled cry escapes your body when the stimulation finally registers in your mind, and you try to buck your hips up so that you can begin to chase your high.

You’ve forgotten about his Evol, however, so you’re forced to feel the molten sensation spreading across your body.

“You’re so impatient, baby.” There’s a whisper of a laugh in Caleb’s voice as he continues to slide his fingers against your pussy lips, avoiding the one spot you want him to press down on the most. “What happened to all the patience I taught you?”

“You taught me jack shit-” you try to snap, but it cuts off into a moan when you feel his fingers dip slightly into your sopping hole. You gnaw at your bottom lip and glare at him, but all he does is work his finger gently into your hole and give you a shit-eating grin.

“Mmm, that’s right ____,” he hums sweetly, slowly working in the cold digit. You try your best to hold his gaze, but the combination of how cold and thick his ring finger is has your eyelids slowly slipping shut.

All of a sudden, you feel his finger pushing deep inside of you, and you cry out and meet his gaze. Caleb’s lips continue to display a twisted grin as he slowly retracts his finger, and you can’t even do anything about it because your hips are held in place by his stupid Evol.

“Sorry, pips.” You can tell he’s not sorry at all, but your sarcastic reply is cut off by a moan when he pushes his finger back in slowly. “You’re just too easy to tease.”

“You’re such an ass.” You can barely breathe from the pleasure he gives you with just a single finger, and you know he can see it from the way your head shakes back and forth on his mattress and the sweat that begins to make your body glisten. You hear Caleb groan from between your thighs, and you lift your head as far as you can manage and whimper at the sight of him thrusting his metal finger in and out of your cunt while his warm palm squeezes your thigh harshly.

You feel the telltale sign of your orgasm beginning to build in the pit of your stomach and you cry out, frustrated at not being able to buck your hips up. You close your eyes and let your head flop back onto the mattress, and you let the feeling wash over your entire being. You can feel yourself get closer and closer and closer until-

-until it fucking stops.

“What the fuck?!” Your eyes snap open and you crane your head up in desperation, only to be greeted by Caleb’s pleased face. His amethyst gaze meets your own, and you can only watch as he brings his finger up to his lips and sucks your want off of the metal like it’s the water he needs to survive.

“Fuck, ____-” Caleb groans, and before you can even register what he’s done, he places both of his hands on your thighs and presses his mouth against your soaking cunt.

“C-caleb!” You cry out. Your hands immediately shoot out and you intertwine your fingers with his soft hair so that you have something to anchor yourself in reality. Caleb groans at the dull ache at his skull but instead of slowing down he speeds up - making the sensations he forces on your body that much more intense.

Caleb’s tongue carelessly traces lines up and down your slit, and you nearly sob in relief when you feel the tip of his tongue finally flick at your clit. He repeats the motion again, and he laughs when he sees the way your hole begins to leak with more of your slick.

“I didn’t know you were that desperate, pips.” Embarrassment flares in the pit of your stomach, although it’s quickly flushed away when he presses the flat of his tongue against your entire pussy and licks up in one, slow stroke.

“M-more, Caleb-” You try to fight the tears that threaten to slide down your cheek, but it’s hard when Caleb continues his ministrations on your cunt. It feels too damn good, and you both know that you’re rapidly reapproaching the climax he so rudely ruined the first time.

Caleb looks up at you, and he can’t help but groans against your cunt at the sight that greets him. Your face is covered in both a light sheen of sweat and tears, and in his twisted mind he wants to lick your cheek just so that he can taste every bit of you. His amethyst eyes go lower, pausing to stare at the way your breasts heave up and down with every breath, down and down until he’s greeted again by the sight of the cunt he’s had dreams about for years.

Your hole is fully leaking by now, begging to be stuffed full of his cock and your clit is swollen from his tongue playing with it. Up above, Caleb can hear you begging to just give you what you want and, well…how can he refuse his girl?

You nearly scream when you feel his lips wrap around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud while he begins pistoning his fingers in and out of your sloppy cunt. Having gone from a gentle stream of pleasure to a full on tsunami, your brain doesn’t know what to focus on or what to do. You’re about to fall apart at the seams, so you do the only thing you know to do in this moment in time:

You cry out his name.

“Caleb!”

“That’s right, ____.” He commands in a soft yet dangerous voice. His fingers pick up their pace, and a strangled moan leaves your mouth. “I want you to scream, baby. There’s no one here but the two of us so you can be as loud as you fucking want.”

“Oh fuck-” you hiccup, and your fingers tighten against his hair. “Caleb, your Evol-”

“No.” You can feel his head shake his dissent, but it only adds to your pleasure because his lips rub your clit from side to side. He mumbles something under his breath, but you can’t really find it in yourself to care because you’re approaching your climax again and you desperately want to fall apart.

You try to be discreet in your chase, willing yourself to dig your nails into your palm so that he can’t see the way your hands shake. Caleb takes your silence as your plateau, so he doubles his efforts: pistoning his fingers in and out of your pussy and laving little licks on your clit in a bid to bring you to the precipice.

Caleb’s lips pull away from your swollen bud and you try to protest the action by squeezing your thighs shut but he replaces his tongue with his thumb, pressing and rubbing at the nub to placate you. He looks up at your eyes, and you can feel your false bravado crumble at the devilish grin on his face. “You’re awfully quiet up there, pips.”

A broken moan slips out of your mouth, followed by a gasp of his name. “C-caleb-”

“Are you close, baby?”

All of your pride leaves your body at his simple question, and you nod while giving him your sweetest eyes so that he takes pity on you and allows you to cum. “‘m c-close-”

“How close?” Caleb’s fingers gradually pick up their pace, a smooth push and pull in and out of your cunt. You whimper at the feeling, only to whine into the air when you feel his fingers hook up to press into your sweet spot.

“C-close,” you gasp. Your hands leave his hair and you press your palms against your breasts, gently pinching at your nipples so that you can finally push yourself over the edge. You’re so close, you’re about to fall off-

“Not yet.”

Caleb pulls his fingers away from your cunt and you nearly scream in frustration, attempting to close wrap your legs completely around his neck so that his mouth can finish the job. Caleb’s much quicker, however, and he carelessly pushes your knees off his shoulders before standing up and peering down at you with a pleased smile.

“Is my girl desperate?” Caleb’s presence is commanding, but you can’t help but watch his hands as he reaches down to unzip his slacks. “____, I’ve given you so much pleasure but you don’t seem to remember that I’m human too.”

Your breath stops as he pushes the fabric and his boxers down his thighs, and you swallow thickly at the sight of his cock slapping his abs. For all your years living with him when you were kids, you’ve always been mindful of his privacy and never walking in on him naked. Your stomach flips at the length and girth of him, because how in the world is he going to fit into you?

“I’ll make sure I fit.” It’s almost like he’s reading your thoughts, and you look up to see a tender look on his face in response to what’s probably an apprehensive look on your own. He kicks off his underwear and slacks before grabbing at your panties and pulling them down your legs. He releases his Evol on your hips, and you take this as a signal to push yourself up to his headboard while he drops the scrap of fabric onto the floor, and he crawls up the bed so that he can brace himself on his forearms and look down at you.

Caleb smiles softly at you - a far cry from the man who was edging you to the point of tears. Despite everything you smile back, gently nudging your nose with his and eliciting a chuckle from his mouth. He presses a kiss on your cheek and you sigh, taking his sweet action as a chance to reach down and wrapping your hands around his cock.

A strangled sound emerges from the depths of his chest and his head falls to your chest as you pump his length, wanting to give him a fraction of the pleasure you experienced. Caleb’s breathing slowly grows more laboured, but before you can fully achieve your goals he grabs at your hand and stops.

“Not yet,” he slowly grits out, and he pulls your hands off of his cock and pins them both to the headboard with his left hand. His right hand guides his cock to your pussy, and you gasp when you feel his fat tip catch your clit. “I decide when the both of us cum, ____.”

He rolls his hips and you both moan - him from how your slick coats his dick, and you from how his cockhead slightly catches your sopping hole. Your hips buck up so that he can slip inside, but before you can succeed you can feel the telltale weight of his Evol pinning the lower half of your body down and rendering you immobile.

“Fuck you, Caleb,” you grit out through your teeth, and you want nothing more than to bite his neck. He winks at you in response, and he lets go of your wrists before placing both hands on your waist and rubbing comforting circles on your ribcage.

“I’m getting to that,” he jokes, and before you can offer a scathing response he slowly pushes his cock into your cunt. You gasp at the initial pressure of his tip breaching your entrance, but the gasp turns into a long drawn moan the more he forces his thick length - up until he bottoms out, and his balls hit the swell of your ass.

You can barely breathe in your current position - legs spread, his gravity Evol pinning you down to the bed, and your hands gripping the headboard like it’s your last lifeline to your sanity - and maybe it is.

It feels like the knot building in the pit of your stomach could snap at any moment - and Caleb knows it most of all.

“Tell me you want it, ____.” Your eyes flutter back into your skull as he rolls his hips. His cock hits deep inside of you, and a strangled breath makes its way out of your chest when he pulls back slowly.

“C-caleb-!” It’s a plea, and you try to fight against his Evol so that you can link your ankles against the small of his back and pull him closer into your cunt. “P-please-”

“Uh-uh.” It’s annoyingly patient as his left hand reaches out to brush your hair away from your sweaty forehead. His right hand drifts closer to your mound, and you cry out when his cool fingers roll one agonizingly slow circle onto your clit. “Beg, ____.”

You don’t know how, but your stupid pride has you biting your lip as you try to fight his Evol so that you can writhe on his mattress. Your head flips back in frustration, and you can only force out a small, teary “Fuck you.”

“Aren’t I already doing that?” Your pussy flutters at the smirk on his face, and a slight dose of satisfaction fills your chest at the choked moan he forces back, although you’re annoyed at how cocky he still looks. “Beg, ____.”

“No.” You’re proud at how your voice doesn’t waver, although that quickly goes away when you feel his hips pull back more until only his tip remains inside. “W-wait-”

“You know what I’m asking for, ____.” Caleb’s tone is deceptively sweet as he begins to rub circles on your clit, making you cry out in the painful pleasure. “Beg for my cock, and I’ll make you feel so fucking good you’ll want to stay here forever.”

“F-fuck!” You can feel your climax beginning to build again, rising from the plateau he had previously created with your two denied orgasms. Your eyes fall shut and tears escape as your head writhes on his pillow - body held still by his Evol so that you’re forced to feel every bit of pleasure he wreaks onto your body.

Caleb’s hips threaten to snap forward, but he forces himself still as he takes in the view of you underneath his body, barely speared on his cock but already delirious on the pleasure. It fills him with a sick sense of satisfaction - the fearless leader and daring Hunter reduced to a little cockslut writhing on only the tip of his dick. He has half a mind to pull out just so that he can make you sob from the emptiness, but he holds back and continues to rub little circles on your clit until you break.

“C’mon, ____.” It almost sounds teasing, and you sob when you feel yourself on the edge of the precipice - just about to fall off. “Say you want me.”

You’re deliriously out of your mind, and all pride leaves your body when you open your eyes and look at the face that has haunted you in your sleep for the past couple of months. “P-please Caleb! Please make m-me cum-”

“Fuck,” he swears, and you barely register him releasing his gravity hold on your body before he grips your knees and forces them on his shoulders once again, pressing his cock all the way in and hitting your sweet spot in one fell swoop.

“S-shit, Caleb!” It’s a scream as you cum, your eyes sliding shut. Your orgasm washes over your body and consumes you from the inside out, and all you can do is dig your nails into his shoulders to anchor you in the present. Caleb can barely hold himself together when he feels your release pelt at his thighs and balls, and he groans before gripping your calves tighter and drilling himself into your cunt.

“You’re such a slut, ____,” he rumbles as he angles your body up, pistoning his hips so that he can more easily reach your deepest spot. “You came just from me pushing my cock into your pussy? I thought you had more restraint than that.”

“C-caleb.” You’re sobbing at this point, the pleasure bordering pain. “Oh fuck, Caleb-”

He leans down and presses his mouth against your breasts, biting as he continues to thrust in and out of you. His lips create a trail of marks up the column of your neck until they press against your lips. Your mouth falls open easily, and he breathes harshly as your tongue grazes his.

“Look at what I’ve reduced the top Hunter to,” Caleb murmurs with gentle poison. He plants kisses all over your face, and the sweet gesture almost makes you forget that he’s ravaging you. “The sweetest little cockslut who only knows how to scream my name.”

Your only response is to cry out even louder, your hands sliding down and finding purchase on his broad back. Your nails dig into the muscle so that you can try and keep from spiraling deeper into your pleasure, and you’re rewarded with a groan against your mouth.

Caleb’s hips slow to a torturous pace, designed to make you feel every inch of him sliding in and out. Your walls tremble around his aching length and you whimper when he pushes in one final time and stops, letting the both of you catch your breath. Your head swims in your current position - you’re so unbelievably full of his cock, but you want more.

“Caleb.” You can’t hide the desperation in your voice, and your hips tilt just the tiniest bit so that you can feel a fraction of the pleasure he gave you. “I-I wanna c-cum again, please-”

You roll your hips more boldly this time, and he gasps when his tip hits your sweet spot. Your walls flutter and you squeal, your head falling back as you continue to grind yourself on his cock.

All of a sudden, you feel the heaviness of his Evol settle on your hips once more, forcing you to stop. You cry out and try to fight it, but the cool brush of metal on your chin forces you to open your eyes and look up.

And you find your blood running cold.

Because Caleb - oh, you can tell he’s mad.

His lips are straight, and you can tell that he’s holding himself back for the sole purpose of punishing you. His hips pull back until he’s fully unsheathed from your cunt, and you sob at the way your walls clench pathetically at the sudden emptiness.

You need him.

There’s a dark chuckle above you, and you know he can see the desperation on your face. There’s a wet plap!, and you register the sound of his dick slapping against your pussy before feeling it properly. You cry out again, and Caleb takes your open mouth as an opportunity to slap his cock against your cunt again.

He continues his action over and over until you find yourself at the edge again, begging for his cock deep in your pussy. You can barely make out the babbles escaping your mouth - not when you feel so fucking good and you want more.

All of a sudden he stops, and you feel his warm hand gently cupping your cheek. Your eyes open blearily, and you can see the concern on his face as he looks down at you. “You okay, ____?”

Your heart squeezes at the care on his face, and you turn your head so that you can press a kiss against his palm. You can hear his shaky gasp above you, and you look back at him with a small smile on your lips.

“‘’ okay.” It comes out as a slurred whine, and you look up at him imploringly. “I promise, I j-just feel too good.”

He laughs at this, and his head dips down so that he can kiss the skin of your throat. His lips make their way past your chin and all the way up to your lips, where he presses the softest kiss on your mouth that has you melting.

This is your Caleb.

This is the man you love.

You don’t want to say it, though. You don’t want to shatter the illusion.

So you kiss him back slowly, and you pull away before he can deepen your kiss so that you can whisper:

“Please Caleb, I want all of you.”

There’s a standstill as he processes your words, and he doesn’t give you time to think before his Evol is lifting once more so that he can arch your chest up to meet his. Caleb’s mouth presses against your lips once more, and you gasp as you feel his cock entering you once more - giving you exactly what you need.

There are no other sounds in your shared room besides your gasps and the sound of the headboard smacking against your wall. It feels like it’s just you and Caleb - and that’s exactly how you want it to stay.

Caleb grunts as he begins to deepen his thrusts, and he takes a chance to look down at you when he sees that your eyes are closed. His heart swells in his chest at the sight of you - marks on your neck and chest, sweat making your skin glisten, and feeling so good because of him.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed by all of this - all of you. The one he loves more than the entire world, the one he’s kept carefully locked away in the deepest recesses of his memories. He’s adding all of this to that special place. Every excruciating moment spent at the Farspace Fleet is worth it because he’s protecting his love - protecting you.

Caleb leans down, pressing kisses on your lips as he gradually speeds up again. “I’m gonna cum inside this pretty cunt, stuff you full of my cum and make you mine forever.” Each word is emphasized by a messy thrust, and you can barely register what he means because you just feel too good right now. “I’m going to take care of you f-forever, ____. It’ll j-just be us two, baby, f-fuck-”

His hips start to stutter and you cry out when you feel his metal fingers land on your clit, rubbing hard circles and driving you closer and closer to your edge. His warm hand makes its way to your hand, and you squeeze his fingers tightly when your palms meet so that you have something to hold on to when you give yourself completely to him.

“Let’s cum together, ____.” It’s a plea and you both moan when his tip batters at your cervix. His Evol on your body loosens and you immediately grind your hips up to meet his thrusts, making the both of you spiral closer towards your joined end.

“C-caleb,” you hiccup, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “‘M-m, I’m about to cu-”

“It’s okay, you can cum.” He leans down and presses his lips against your forehead, pressing soft kisses while maintaining his pace so that you can fall off the edge safely. “Cum for me, baby.”

With his permission you finally allow yourself to fall, the knot in your stomach unraveling as you cum. It’s not as painful as the first time - this one is filled with more warmth, accompanied by Caleb’s mouth peppering doting kisses all over your face. You cry out at the duality of his sweet kisses and his hard thrusts, walls fluttering around his thick cock and begging for him to meet you at the end.

Caleb grits his teeth and continues to pump himself into your inviting heat as you writhe underneath him, feeling his hips stutter and his balls tighten at the sound of your sweet gasps and your fluttering walls around him. He brings your fingers up to his mouth and presses reverent kisses on each of your fingertips before bringing your palm to his lips and kissing the skin gently. The sweet gesture makes your eyes open, and you blearily look at him with a blissful haze.

“C-cum for me, Caleb.” It’s a soft command, one that makes him groan as your legs wrap around his waist to pull him in. “I want your cum in me, please Caleb.”

“Oh shit, ____-” He thrusts his cock into you one more time before stilling, his head falling onto your neck as he cums. You whine at the feeling of warmth, your walls weakly pulsing around his cock in an attempt to take all of him. His hands settle on your hips and he squeezes like his life depends on it, and you’re sure that you’ll leave bruises on the delicate skin.

You can’t find it in yourself to care, though. You want all of it.

His head lifts up from your neck, and you can’t help but giggle at the glassy look in his eyes. Your fingers move to push up the sweaty strands away from his forehead, but he catches your hands and pulls it toward his mouth.

You watch as he repeats the same tender action of kissing your fingertips, and your heart aches at the intimacy of it all.

“Are you the Farspace Fleet Colonel or Caleb Xia?”

Your question breaches through the content silence, and you hate that you have to say it. It’s something necessary though - a summary of everything that’s happened between the two of you, and his answer will determine how things go.

Caleb looks at you, a softness in his eyes that has your heart aching. He presses a kiss on your forehead, and he nudges your nose against his own before finally giving you his answer

“I’m both.” You gasp at his words, but his hands gently knead your waist and placate you. “I’m both, and it’s our reality now.”

He kisses your eyelids this time, and you feel your eyes water at the gentle intimacy. “I don’t know how I’ll make it up to you, ____. But I mean what I said. Everything I do is to protect you. I don’t know how, but I’ll make it up to you for as long as you want me to.”

His words taper off as he lets you mull over his meaning. You lips brush over his own, and he leaves a chaste kiss - leading you to come up with your response.

“You can start by cooking breakfast for me tomorrow.” The words are softened by your sleepy tone, and you hum in content at the gentle rumble of his laughter below you. “And by telling me what you remember from the start.”

“I promise.” He seals it with a kiss on your lips, and you smile sleepily at the tender action before you nuzzle yourself into his chest - letting yourself surrender to slumber.

a/n #2: i hope you enjoyed <3 pls leave your thoughts here!

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loganhowlettshousewife · 4 months ago

Note

Okay relating to a recent post, cleaning up Logan after a fight/mission? Maybe you have a kit ready to go when you hear him return, put his favorite pjs on a fluff cycle so they're nice and warm for him. You clean off any blood (maybe a few remaining wounds if it was BAD bad), and wipe down his claws. Maybe shower together, letting you run your fingers through his shampooed hair before getting cozy for the night

I just wanna take care of him

you! you get it!!

comfort

summary: you take care of logan after he comes home from a mission.

cw (treating this like ao3 tags): blood, wound tending, non-sexual intimacy, nudity, not proofread at all, english isn't my first language so beware, reader has hair, i'm pretty sure this is gender neutral but i'm a girl so i may have accidentally added something gendered without realising idk. this is very soft! you can say this is out of character for logan but i believe he's actually a big softie and just wants love!

word count: 1619

logan comes home to you sitting on the couch reading a book. or, well, you’re trying to read, but it’s hard to focus on anything when logan’s out on a mission. you know he can’t die, his regenerative healing factor pretty much guarantees that, and yet there’s still an irrational spark of fear that lives in you, lighting a fire in your heart every time he gets called away by the x-men.

every minute that passes is a dagger, every new star that appears in the sky a reminder of how long he’s been gone. missions for the x-men can be mere hours or last for days, you remind yourself, and time has nothing to do with how dangerous it is.

though logan typically only gets chosen to go on the dangerous missions. he’s not the one they ask to convince new, young mutants to go to the school. he’s too harsh, too jaded.

you immediately drop the book when you hear the sound of the door lightly creaking open. you’re on your feet in an instant, there to catch logan when he falls into your arms, sweaty and bloody and tired - not as much physically, he has insane stamina, but mentally.

“missed you,” he mumbles into your hair, tucking your head under his chin.

“missed you more,” you reply.

you stay like that for a few minutes. you both need the comfort. early on in your relationship, logan would refuse this type of comfort after a mission, claimed he didn’t need it, he’s fought and killed his entire life and never had a sweet thing like you to take care of him when he got back. but you did, you needed to know he was there, with you, a physical presence, proof that nothing terrible had happened to him.

secretly, he revelled in those moments. now, he trusts you enough for those feelings to be spoken out loud, whispered reverently between “i love you”s, declarations of affection and faith. you’re the only one who’s ever been able to get him to open up this way, to verbalise his feelings instead of swallowing them down.

“you’re covered in blood,” you comment, running a hand down his chest.

he shivers, “most of it’s not mine. but they got a few shots in.”

you hum, pulling back to take a better look at him. his shirt is torn in a few places, and in the middle of his chest are multiple neat, round holes in the fabric, small marks showing where bullets pierced his skin. the wound itself has healed, but the blood remains, a visual reminder of the pain your boyfriend was feeling not so long ago.

he may heal quickly, but he still feels pain, feels agony, and your heart shatters at the way others seem to forget that, so quick to put him in the line of fire. he’ll be fine, they say, and while that may be true physically, there’s only so many times a man can play human shield before he breaks.

“let’s get you cleaned up,” you say, the next part of your routine for when he returns from missions.

it’s a dance you’ve almost perfected, the way he wraps his arms around your waist and you have to walk to the bathroom with him clinging to you.

he sits down on the closed toilet seat, closing his eyes and letting you do all the work. his claws come out next, stained with the blood of those he harmed and killed, yet you trace them softly all the same. they protect you - he protects you, really, and so you’ll always be grateful for them, even when logan considers them a curse, a stain upon his existence, turning a man into a monster.

you grab a washcloth and dampen it, wiping meticulously at each sharp blade, from his knuckle to the pointed tip of the adamantium. soon, the washcloth is stained a dirty red, almost brown in its appearance, and the metal gleams brightly under the bathroom lights.

there’s an ease to his posture when he retracts his claws, so slight a difference that no one else would have noticed. he told you once that he can feel the blood remaining on his claws when they pull back into his skin, that it’s an uncomfortable reminder that he’s hurt people, that he’s a killer.

he doesn’t clean them himself, says the reminder is necessary. you disagree, and so you took to wiping them down yourself every time he came home after any sort of fight.

there’s a small spot of blood between each of his knuckles where the claws pierce his skin, the tiniest bit of red that welled up before the cuts could heal themselves and you wipe that away too. then you lean down to press soft kisses to his hands, the part of himself that logan hates most.

he sighs, a shaky exhale leaving him at the sight of you lowering onto your knees to worship him, to prove your adoration.

any other time that would be enough to turn the mood of the evening into something much different, but he isn’t willing to give this up quite yet, this soft intimacy that’s always felt so foreign to him, a type of love he’d convinced himself he would never get to experience.

“i’m gonna go throw our pajamas and a few blankets into the dryer. you can get the shower going in the meantime, ‘kay?” he agrees easily, of course, and you lean up to kiss him, slow and soft.

pulling away is almost physically painful but you manage. you find the fluffy hello kitty pajama pants you originally bought for logan as a joke as well as the matching set you bought yourself and grab the blanket that sits at the foot of your bed, throwing them into the dryer to warm them up.

he sleeps naked most days, a blessing for you, but on his more difficult days he likes to cuddle up to soft, plush fabrics. besides, you like to think that the silly pajama pants bring him comfort, a reminder of your love for him, that you’re thinking about him even at the most inopportune of times.

he’s in the shower when he returns, the water tinged pink as it slides down the hard, muscled planes of his body. you’re quick to undress and join him, stepping under the hot water, feeling it soak into your hair and skin.

“you’re gorgeous,” logan says, grabbing onto your waist with his large hands to pull you to his chest. he brushes your wet hair out of your face. “can’t believe how lucky i am to have you. what did i ever do to deserve you, sweetheart?”

“you don’t have to do anything to deserve me, logan,” you say, “just being you is enough. and really, you do so much for me. every day.”

“loving you is the best thing i ever did,” he admits, “i’m gonna continue to do whatever i need to keep you. wanna be with you until i die.”

you’ve had conversations like these before, usually always in moments of vulnerability, often coming after devastation and horror. he doesn’t say these types of things in the light of day, but he doesn’t take them back later either. they just stay, floating in the air between you.

one day, you think, you’ll be able to have a real conversation about the future with him. it’s a goal to look towards, but he’s not quite there yet, and you’re okay with that. you’re content with what he does tell you, praise that he marks into every inch of your body.

you use your body wash to clean him, knowing he’ll smell faintly of you afterwards, and the possessive part of you is pleased. your hands tangle in his hair, scrubbing the shampoo into his scalp. his head is tilted down so you can have better access.

it gets harder to finish cleaning him as his body leans into yours, two magnets always seeking each other.

you exit the shower before him, allowing him a few more seconds under the water pressure to pull the last remnants of tension from his form. you pat yourself dry and then hurriedly grab the garments you’ve thrown into the dryer, stepping back into the humid bathroom as logan turns off the water.

the adrenaline has made way for bone-deep exhaustion, and so you help logan dry off.

it’s peaceful, quiet, as the two of you finish your nighttime routines. he brushes his teeth and watches you do your skincare routine, unwilling to go into your bedroom if you’re not by his side.

he falls asleep before you, for once. typically, he struggles to fall asleep, worried about the nightmares that plague his slumber and the possibility of harming you while unconscious. it’s nice to see him sleeping peacefully, the stern lines of his face flattening into a soft tranquillity that only you get to see.

you can feel your eyelids growing heavy but you need to watch him just a little longer. so you fight the darkness that wants to pull you under, focusing on the hand you have placed on logan’s chest, the way you can feel the steady rising and falling of his breathing, the way his warm skin feels against the palm of your hand.

“i’ll always come back to you,” he’d told you once when you had expressed the worry that seizes hold of you whenever he’s away for long.

you’re smiling when you fall asleep, those words replaying in your mind. he’s home, with you, and as long as he comes home to you everything will be okay.

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helvegen-s · 10 days ago

Text

step by step

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: After a devastating crash, Oscar Piastri’s road back to F1 is anything but smooth. Stuck with Mandy, his stubborn physiotherapist, he’s forced to face pain, fear, and emotions he never expected. Racing was always his dream—but now, she’s part of it too.

Word count: 12k (wtf)

TW: graphic depictions of injuries, medical procedures, strong language, emotional distress and trauma, disability, sex (not explicit)

A/N: god, I love oscar (even tho i make him suffer like a bitch in this one...) again, i promise it has a good ending, just bear with me

masterlist

Oscar Piastri was living the best moment of his career.

McLaren had made an incredible leap in performance, and though he wasn’t the main title contender, he was constantly fighting for podiums and key points. The season was a dream come true—strategies were working, his confidence in the car was absolute, and the team supported him every step of the way. There was nothing better than feeling that rush of adrenaline when lowering the visor, hearing the countdown on the radio before the start. Everything in his life revolved around Formula 1, and at that moment, nothing seemed capable of stopping him.

It was a race weekend at Spa-Francorchamps. The track, legendary and imposing, always demanded the absolute maximum. Rain had been a constant threat, and the race had started under mixed conditions, with the asphalt in that tricky in-between state—neither fully wet nor fully dry—that tested a driver’s instincts to the limit. Oscar felt in control, managing the tires with surgical precision, confident in every move.

Until he wasn’t.

The crash happened in an instant, a blink that changed everything. An unexpected touch, the car losing control, the barrier approaching at impossible speed.

The impact shook him like a rag doll. The crunch of twisted metal, the deafening crack of carbon shattering, the sheer violence of hitting the barriers—all of it collapsed into a single second of absolute terror.

And then, silence.

He didn’t lose consciousness. He wished he had.

The world slowed down, as if time itself refused to move forward. The pain didn’t come immediately, as if his body hadn’t yet figured out how to process what had just happened. But when it did, it was a burning wave that consumed him entirely.

His leg.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Something was wrong—very wrong. With difficulty, he turned his head and saw it. His right leg… bent at an impossible angle. His stomach lurched. He felt bile rising in his throat but could barely breathe. The blood darkened the bright orange of his suit, sticky, hot. His mind screamed, but his body didn’t respond.

“Oscar! Oscar, say something!” His engineer’s voice came through the radio, sharp and desperate.

He tried to answer. Tried to tell them he was there, that it hurt like hell, that he couldn’t move… but his throat made no sound. He could only gasp, feeling the pain expand, the panic grow with every beat of his heart.

“Oscar, respond! Can you hear me?” this time, he heard Zak’s voice.

Every second of silence only made the desperation on the radio worse. He knew they were all watching from the pit wall, that the cameras were on him, that the entire world was waiting for a sign.

But he couldn’t give them one.

Fear hit him harder than the impact against the barriers. His career, his life, everything he knew… was it over?

A violent spasm of pain made him clench his teeth so hard he thought they would break. His vision blurred. He heard noises around him—the screech of the safety cars, the hurried footsteps of the marshals running toward him, the sharp ringing in his ears.

“Oscar! We’re on our way! Don’t move!”

The emergency team arrived in seconds, though to him, it felt like an eternity. Firm hands touched his helmet.

“Oscar, breathe. We’re here.”

Breathe.

He tried, but the air came in ragged, shaky gasps. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t control it. Everything around him was a whirlwind of noise, flashing lights, faces he couldn’t focus on.

They pulled him from the car with the utmost care, but every movement sent unbearable pain through him. A strangled cry escaped his throat, and the voices around him became even more urgent.

Then the helicopter.

He felt it before he saw it. The pounding of the rotors in the air, the deafening roar that made his skull vibrate. He shut his eyes tightly. His body was shaking—he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, the adrenaline, or pure terror.

Someone placed a mask over his face.

“Oscar, count to ten for me.”

One.

He thought of his wrecked car.

Two.

Of the leg he might never use again.

Three.

Of everything that was at stake.

Four.

Of the fear—the real fear—that maybe, just maybe, he would never be a driver again.

Five.

Darkness.

The days blurred into one another, indistinguishable, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and emptiness.

Surgeries followed one after another. Some days passed without intervention; on others, he woke up to the news that another operation had been scheduled—another attempt to save what was left of his leg.

It was absurd.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him how severe the injury was. He had known from the moment he saw the way his leg had been left in the car, from the instant he felt the indescribable pain as they pulled him out, from the way the doctors spoke in urgent terms, as if every second mattered.

Each surgery was a battle he had never asked to fight.

They administered anesthesia, his body sank into unconsciousness, and when he woke up… everything was still the same.

The same pain, the same feeling of being trapped in a body that no longer responded as it once had.

The same damn certainty that maybe, no matter how many operations they performed, he would never be the same again.

Sometimes, he woke up from the anesthesia feeling confused, disoriented, his mouth dry and his stomach churning. They tried to make him eat, but everything tasted like nothing. The food remained untouched on the tray as he simply turned his head away, unable to even attempt it.

The pain was a constant, a searing presence that settled deep in his bones and refused to let him breathe. The painkillers barely helped, and when they did, they left him in a lethargic state where reality and dreams blurred together in an unpleasant haze.

The only certainty was the passing of the days, marked by the doctors’ visits, by the sound of his own pulse in his ears, by the way night fell without him feeling like he had moved forward in any way.

Nothing.

That was the word that defined his existence now.

Nothing to think about, nothing to do, nothing to look forward to.

Only pain. Only uncertainty. Only the echo of a future that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure still belonged to him.

The hospital clock marked time with cruel precision, each second dragging by like a silent sentence. Light filtered through the window at different times of the day, casting shadows on the white walls, but he never looked away from it.

Looking at anything else meant facing reality.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

His world had shrunk to that sterile room, to the machines beeping around him, to the soft murmurs of doctors coming and going, to the sound of doors opening when someone came to visit.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t look.

He didn’t have the strength to.

His mother had tried to talk to him at first. So had Lando. His childhood friends, the McLaren mechanics, Zak Brown… they all came in with the same worried expressions, with the same look of someone who wanted to say something but didn’t dare to.

He never looked at them.

He couldn’t do it without feeling a raw, burning anger in his chest. He couldn’t listen to them without the frustration building up like a knot in his throat. He couldn’t bear the weight of their concern, their pity.

Because if he did, it meant this was real.

It meant his career was in danger.

That his life was no longer his own.

That he was trapped in a bed, unable to move his own leg without feeling such unbearable pain that sometimes he wished they would put him to sleep and not wake him up until it was all over.

He clenched his jaw every time sharp, stabbing pain shot through his body, every time his leg—or what was left of it—reminded him of his own fragility. The doctors spoke of progress, of successful surgeries, of rehabilitation plans, but it all felt distant, irrelevant.

He knew that at some point, he would have to face it. That eventually, someone would force him to move, to try, to do something other than just lie there, feeling himself wither away.

But not today.

Today, he only stared out the window, lost in thoughts that ate away at him from the inside.

He replayed every second of the accident, like a broken film looping in his mind over and over again.

Could he have avoided it? Could he have turned sooner? Braked differently?

His brain tortured him with every possibility, every alternative, every little thing he could have done to not end up here.

To not be… this.

To not feel like a useless, broken piece of flesh.

And then she arrived.

The first time he saw her, Oscar barely lifted his gaze.

He heard her voice before he saw her—clear, firm, with not a hint of hesitation.

"Oscar, I’m Amanda, your physiotherapist. From now on, we’ll be working together."

He didn’t respond. He had no intention of doing so.

But then she stepped closer, placed a few papers on the table next to his bed, and waited. Not with endless patience, not with the forced sweetness he had noticed in other visitors. She simply waited.

And when he didn’t react, she continued.

"I know you probably hate me. Everyone does at first."

That, at least, made him look at her.

She wasn’t what he expected.

She wasn’t the image of an older therapist, hardened by years of experience. She wasn’t someone who radiated the wisdom of decades in the profession. She was young. Incredibly young to be standing there, to be the one McLaren had hired to fix him.

But she didn’t seem uncertain. Not even for a second.

She didn’t smile, didn’t try to soften her words. She simply looked at him with an impenetrable professionalism.

Oscar didn’t know what he had expected from the person who was supposed to give him his life back, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t someone who introduced herself with that much confidence, who spoke with that much honesty.

It wasn’t someone who, with complete calmness, made it clear that the worst was still ahead.

The sessions started the next day.

And within hours, she became the embodiment of his worst nightmare.

The pain was unbearable.

Oscar thought he knew physical suffering. He had felt it after minor accidents, after grueling races, after brutal training sessions. But this… this was different.

This had no purpose. No satisfying end. It wasn’t the consequence of something great, but of something that had taken everything from him.

“Move it.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I. Can’t.”

“Oscar.”

He hated the way she said his name. As if she had absolute certainty that he would succeed. As if she knew more about him than he did himself.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried, unsuccessfully, to move his leg. A single centimeter felt like a monumental task, and every time he tried, the pain blurred his vision.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t offer empty words of comfort. She didn’t try to minimize his suffering.

She just waited.

Waited for him to try again.

And when he did—when he managed even the slightest progress—she nodded ever so slightly, as if she had expected nothing less.

She never praised him. Never told him he was doing a good job.

As if, to her, getting better wasn’t an option, but an inevitable fact.

Oscar hated that. He hated the certainty with which she believed in his recovery, because he didn’t believe in it himself.

But more than anything, he hated how, despite it all, every morning when he woke up, she was still there.

Always there.

Always with that same determined look.

Always with that same certainty.

Oscar didn’t know what was worse—the pain or the feeling that, somehow, she had no intention of letting him fall, when all he wanted was to let go.

When Oscar left the hospital, he didn’t feel relief.

He had expected that being back to his home in England, near the McLaren headquarters,would make everything easier. That the air wouldn’t smell of antiseptic, that his days wouldn’t be dictated by visiting hours and surgeries, that he could find some peace in the familiarity of his home.

But reality was different.

Being home meant facing life outside the hospital, and that terrified him.

His mother was there with him, helping with everything he needed. She never complained, never made him feel like a burden, but that only made things worse.

This place had once been his sanctuary. Now, every corner felt like a reminder of what he had lost.

Especially the garage.

He had turned that space into his personal gym back when he would spend hours training relentlessly. Now, that same space had been transformed into his rehabilitation room. The weights and machines were covered in dust, replaced by support bars, resistance bands, and a therapy table.

And Amanda—Mandy, as his mother insisted on calling her—was there every day.

She entered with the same energy she had at the hospital, unfazed by his silence or his bad mood. She greeted his mother with a smile before dragging Oscar’s chair to the garage, waiting for him to start the session.

And he did, because he had no choice.

The exercises were unbearable.

The pain burned.

Every time he tried to move, his leg felt like someone was driving a red-hot iron through it.

And Mandy showed no mercy.

“Up,” she ordered, arms crossed. “One more time.”

Oscar gritted his teeth and glared at her.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Mandy, for fuck’s sake…”

“Oscar, for fuck’s sake.”

He let out a sarcastic laugh, incredulous.

She didn’t budge. She never did.

At night, when he dragged himself back to bed, exhausted and aching, he swore he hated her.

But no matter what he did or said, the next morning, she was always there.

Waiting.

But without a doubt, what he hated most about rehab were the days when Mandy helped him lie down on the therapy table, his right leg lifted, pink scars in plain sight.

Oscar hated these moments.

Not because they were the most painful—he reserved that for the rehab sessions where Mandy made him sweat until his muscles trembled—but because they left him completely exposed.

The massage sessions were necessary. He knew that. His leg had been through too many surgeries, too many stitches, too many hours of immobility. The skin was tight over the scars, the muscles stiff, and every movement reminded him that he wasn’t the same as before. Mandy said they needed to work on elasticity, circulation, pain relief. He listened to her say it in that neutral, almost dispassionate voice, as if she were talking about any other patient.

But that didn’t change the fact that it hurt like hell.

At first, he tried to endure it in silence. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and held on. But the longer the session went on, the more unbearable it became. Mandy wasn’t exactly gentle, and even though she used oils and her hands were firm and skilled, she didn’t hold back when she needed to press on the tension points.

So, without thinking too much about it, Oscar started talking.

“You know Eau Rouge has a 17% incline?” he blurted out, his jaw tight.

Mandy didn’t stop but responded calmly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Spa is a brutal circuit.”

Oscar winced as her fingers ran over an especially sensitive scar.

“Technically, the corner isn’t just Eau Rouge. It’s part of Raidillon, but people say it wrong.”

“Mmm. Fascinating.” The lack of emotion in her voice told him she didn’t care at all.

But that didn’t stop him.

“Did you know Formula 1 had its first season in 1950? And that the world championship only had seven races?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know Niki Lauda won the title in ‘84 without taking a single pole position all season?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know—”

“Oscar.” This time, Mandy stopped, pressing his leg a little harder than necessary. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re trying to distract yourself, aren’t you?”

He frowned but couldn’t deny it.

Mandy smirked and went back to work, massaging his leg with precision.

“It’s fine. Keep going. Surprise me.”

Oscar eyed her warily. “You don’t mind me talking?”

“I’d rather you talk than start yelling at me. Besides, I’m learning a lot. Like, what was that Spa incline again?”

“Seventeen.”

“Uh-huh. Good to know.”

The irony in her voice made him click his tongue, but for some reason, his initial frustration faded a little.

The conversation continued in a disjointed rhythm. Sometimes, Oscar complained about the pain; other times, he got distracted enough to forget why he was even talking so much. When Mandy pressed on an especially tight spot, he let out a grunt and muttered,

“I hate you.”

She didn’t even blink.

“You’re not the first to tell me that.”

That response, so unexpected and casual, made a laugh slip past his lips. Almost immediately, Oscar regretted it. He didn’t want to laugh with her. He didn’t want to like her.

But the truth was that, for the first time in a long while, the session hadn’t been just pain and frustration. And deep down, that terrified him.

The months passed, and though Oscar hated to admit it, he was starting to see results.

They weren’t huge, not yet. He wasn’t running, not even walking, but every day, there was something new. A little more mobility, a little less pain, a small victory that Mandy celebrated as if he’d just won a Grand Prix.

And the worst part was… he appreciated it.

The anger was gone. He no longer spent his days hating his leg or cursing his luck. Now, all that remained was frustration. The unbearable, slow, agonizing frustration of not being able to do what his body had been programmed to do for as long as he could remember.

But Mandy was there. Always.

And somehow, she had become the most constant thing in his life.

“Well, Piastri, today we’ve got a new set of exercises.” Mandy flipped through her notebook with a nonchalant air. “And by ‘new set,’ I mean you’re going to suffer.”

Oscar let his head fall back against the wheelchair and groaned.

“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”

“Why do you enjoy complaining?”

“Because you give me reasons.”

Mandy laughed and patted his good leg. “Come on, up.”

The sessions were exhausting. But Oscar had learned to tolerate them, partly because Mandy had stopped worrying about keeping up a strictly professional façade. Now she messed with him, made jokes at his expense, gave him ridiculous nicknames.

“That’s it, champ. You’re an inspiration.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. Netflix probably wants to make a documentary about you. The Rebirth of Oscar Piastri.”

“Mandy.”

“One man, one mission. To reclaim his leg. But first, he must survive his physiotherapist.”

He scowled at her, but the amused glint in his eyes gave him away.

That was the other part of the equation: Mandy knew when to push him and when to let him breathe. There were days when, instead of doing the scheduled exercises, she simply pushed his wheelchair to the park behind his house.

She was sitting on a bench beside Oscar’s chair, the cool breeze on his face, and he took a deep breath.

"You know I want to come back, right?"

Mandy stared ahead, arms crossed over her chest, enjoying the warming sun.

"I know."

"You know I will come back."

She took a moment to respond.

"I know you want it with everything you have."

"That’s not the same."

Mandy turned to him, her expression serious.

"Oscar, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But I won’t lie to you. I don’t know how this is going to end. No one does."

It was the conversation he dreaded most. But it was also the one he needed the most.

"And if I can’t?" he asked quietly.

Mandy was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and nudged him lightly.

"Then you’d find another way to be happy."

Oscar glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Easy for you to say."

"No, it’s not. But it’s the truth."

They fell into silence.

Oscar thought about everything that had changed in the past few months. About the person he had been before the accident and the person he was now. He thought about Mandy, her laughter, her persistence, how she had become one of the few people he could truly be honest with.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to consider that maybe he wasn’t so alone in all of this.

The moment came without warning.

One day, after months of grueling exercises, of falls, of frustration, of pain, Oscar stood up.

It wasn’t heroic or cinematic. His legs trembled, his breathing was ragged, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest. But he did it.

With a crutch in one hand and his heart pounding in his ears, he took his first step without completely relying on someone else.

When he looked up, Mandy was watching him with a smile that held no trace of mockery.

"You’re a damn beast, Piastri."

He let out a shaky laugh, dropping his head forward as he tried to catch his breath.

But the victory was short-lived.

Because as soon as the news reached McLaren, so did the calls.

"How long do you think it’ll take for him to get back in a car?"

"What does his physiotherapist say?"

"Next season is already on the horizon. The sponsors are asking."

Oscar had lost count of how many times he had heard the word "normal" in the past few days, but every time he did, his stomach twisted.

He convinced himself that all of this was helping. Pressure had always been his fuel. If he worked harder, if he gave everything, if he pushed his body to the limit, maybe he could come back faster.

Maybe he could be himself again.

But what he refused to acknowledge was that, when left alone with his thoughts, the idea of coming back terrified him.

It wasn’t just the physical recovery. It was the uncertainty, the insecurity of not knowing if his body would hold up. If he would hold up.

And that was when the invitation arrived: an event at McLaren’s headquarters, with sponsors, staff, executives… Oscar had the sinking feeling they had invited him to reassure people. To put him on display, to let everyone see. "Look at him, he’s fine. He’s still alive. He has both legs."

The last rehab session before the event started like any other.

Mandy had set up a series of stability and mobility exercises. Nothing new. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

But at some point, everything started to fall apart.

The attack came without warning.

Oscar was standing, one hand gripping the crutch, the other pressed against the wall for balance. He had done this before, hundreds of times over the past months. One step, then another. Control the breath. Keep the posture.

But this time, something felt different.

First, a slight dizziness, a sharp pang of weakness in his injured leg. Then, his heart started pounding too hard, too fast. His skin felt hot and cold at the same time, a cold sweat running down his back.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the air wouldn’t fill his lungs.

No. Not now.

He couldn't breathe.

Panic hit him like a clenched fist to the chest. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, his hands trembled, his muscles tensed as if his entire body were in high alert.

Oscar staggered, and Mandy saw it before he could even get a word out.

"Oscar." Her tone changed in an instant. Firm, but concerned.

He tried to lift his gaze, but the room tilted around him. Everything was moving too fast and too slow at the same time.

"Oscar, sit down."

He didn’t know if she helped him or if his legs gave out on their own, but in the next instant, he was sitting on the bench against the wall, his head in his hands.

Everything was spinning.

He couldn’t breathe.

Each gasp of air got stuck in his throat.

“No… I can’t…”

His voice sounded strange, broken, like it didn’t belong to him.

Mandy knelt in front of him, hands on his shoulders, trying to ground him.

"Oscar, look at me."

He tried, but his vision was blurred, his chest so tight it felt like he was suffocating.

“Breathe with me, okay?” she said, taking his hand without hesitation. Her fingers were warm and steady around his. “Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale.”

Oscar trembled, his whole body shaking with chills, with the unbearable tension making him feel like he was about to fall apart at any moment.

“No… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can.” Mandy didn’t budge an inch. Her voice, though calm, held a note of urgency. “Listen to me, Oscar. You’re safe. You’re here with me. You’re not alone.”

You’re not alone.

Those words shattered him.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, burning as they slid down his cheeks.

Months.

Months of holding everything in.

All the pain, all the frustration, all the anger, all the fear.

Months of pretending he was fine. Of smiling at the doctors, of enduring the pressure, of telling himself he had to be strong, that he had to keep going, that he had no other choice.

But there, in that moment, with Mandy holding onto him, with his ragged breathing and trembling body, everything broke.

Oscar gripped her with both hands, without even thinking, burying his face in her shoulder.

And he cried.

He cried like he hadn’t since the accident.

His body shook with every sob, every uneven breath. Mandy didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop him or brush it off. She just wrapped both arms around his back and let him fall apart.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck in an instinctive gesture of comfort. “I’m here, Oscar.”

He could only nod against her shoulder, because words wouldn’t come.

Everything he had buried crashed over him like an unstoppable wave.

The fear of never being the same.

The pressure of the entire world waiting for his return.

The terrifying possibility that, even if he came back, maybe he’d never be enough.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Only that, eventually, his breathing evened out, his grip on Mandy loosened a little, his head no longer felt like it was about to explode.

And she was still there.

She didn’t tell him to be strong.

She didn’t say everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

She just stayed with him.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still wet, but the storm inside him had quieted, at least a little.

Mandy handed him a tissue without a word.

Oscar took it, wiping his face with a tired, embarrassed laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a list of clients who’ve cried in your arms.”

Mandy smiled, but her eyes still held concern.

“No, but you’re officially my most dramatic case.”

He let out a shaky chuckle.

She sighed, studying him with a sharp, assessing gaze.

“You don’t have to go tomorrow.”

Oscar looked down, twisting the tissue between his fingers.

“Yes, I do.”

Mandy didn’t argue.

She just placed a hand on his injured knee, steady as always.

“Then we do it your way. Not theirs.”

He didn’t answer right away.

But this time, when he looked at her, he felt like he could breathe.

The morning of the event arrived too fast.

Oscar looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt with trembling hands. He had spent months preparing for this moment. To prove to the world—and to himself—that he was ready, that he could come back.

But now, with the weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt felt too tight against his chest, like an invisible noose.

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Ready to dazzle the media?" Mandy peeked her head in with a half-smile.

Oscar exhaled sharply, letting his shoulders drop.

"If by ‘dazzle’ you mean not falling flat on my face in front of everyone, then yeah, I guess I’m ready."

Mandy stepped inside, crossing her arms as she looked him over.

"That’s not going to happen. You’ve worked too hard for this." She moved closer, automatically straightening his tie. "Besides, I’ll be there."

Oscar blinked.

"What?"

"I’m going with you."

He frowned, confused.

"Mandy, you don’t have to—"

"I’m not here because I have to," she cut him off, her tone firm, the one she used when she wasn’t taking no for an answer. "I’m here because I want to be."

Oscar didn’t know what to say.

There was something different in the way she looked at him now, something softer, warmer. It wasn’t just the professional watching over her patient. It was Mandy, his Mandy, the person who had seen him at his worst and never once backed away.

So instead of arguing, he just nodded.

"Thank you."

And this time, he didn’t just mean for the event.

The McLaren conference center was packed. Journalists, executives, sponsors—everyone was waiting for Oscar Piastri’s return.

Camera flashes flickered through the air, and voices blended into a constant hum. For a second, Oscar felt dizzy, the grip on his crutch making his knuckles turn white. Then, he felt a hand on his back.

Mandy.

"Breathe," she murmured next to him, so quietly only he could hear.

He did.

Every step he took was deliberate, measured, the cane clicking against the floor. He knew every eye in the room was on him, assessing him.

But he wasn’t alone.

Mandy walked beside him—his shadow, his anchor. Not in an obvious or overprotective way, but just enough for him to feel steady.

They approached the small stage where Zak Brown and Andrea Stella were waiting. The McLaren executives smiled at him, and though their words were encouraging, Oscar could feel the pressure behind every question.

"When will we see you back in the car?"

"How are you feeling physically?"

"Are you ready to compete again?"

Each question was a reminder of everything expected of him.

He smiled. Answered calmly.

"I’m working really hard on my recovery. I’m focused on coming back as soon as possible, but I want to do it right."

It was the right answer. The answer everyone wanted to hear.

But deep down, his chest tightened again.

The press conference went on, and while Oscar kept his composure, Mandy knew him well enough to notice the stiffness in his posture, the subtle clench of his jaw every time someone mentioned his return to normal.

When it was all over—when the cameras were lowered and the executives drifted into side conversations—Mandy stepped closer, leaning in just enough so no one else could hear.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar didn’t answer right away.

He looked around at all the faces expecting something from him. Then, he glanced down at his crutch—the constant reminder that he wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.

But when he lifted his gaze again, the first thing he saw was Mandy.

She wasn’t looking at him with pity, but with confidence.

And something in his chest, something that had been too tight all day, loosened just a little.

"Good," he finally said, with a half-smile. "A lot better because you’re here."

Mandy smirked.

"Of course I am."

And though Oscar knew he still had a long road ahead, for the first time in a while, he felt like he didn’t have to walk it alone.

The afternoon of the event passed in a blur.

After the press conference, Oscar endured the conversations with executives, the unwavering smile on his face, the pats on the back, and the promises of a bright future. He handled every question with the patience of a saint, but when he finally stepped outside, with Mandy beside him, he felt like he could breathe again.

They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, neither in a rush to leave.

"Alright," Mandy said, crossing her arms. "On a scale of one to ten, how unbearable was that?"

Oscar huffed.

"A fourteen."

She laughed—that soft sound that always did something to his chest—and shook her head.

"You survived."

"So did you," he replied with a slight shrug. "You had to sit through all of it with me."

"I always do," she said, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.

Oscar felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Not discomfort, but… awareness.

Suddenly, he was more aware of her than ever before. Of her presence, the way the breeze lifted a strand of her hair, the ease with which they talked, as if there was no longer any barrier between them.

Oscar cleared his throat and looked away.

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.

Mandy raised an eyebrow.

“Are you asking me out to dinner, Piastri?”

“No,” he replied immediately. “I mean, yes. But… as a thank you, you know? For being here.”

Mandy looked at him with amusement.

“A thank you, sure.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Dinner started with the same relaxed energy as always.

Mandy didn’t sit across from him but beside him, in the corner of a small Italian restaurant that smelled of basil, garlic, and freshly baked bread. It was a cozy place, unpretentious, the kind of spot where people talked loudly and steaming plates of homemade food kept arriving at the tables.

“You do realize this is technically a date?” Mandy commented lightly, flipping through the menu without looking at him.

Oscar scoffed, taking a sip of his water.

“No, it’s not. It’s a thank-you dinner.”

“So you’re thanking me with food?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that sound exactly like what someone does on a date?”

Oscar slowly turned his head to her, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you want it to be a date?”

Mandy shrugged, but the amused smile on her lips threw him off.

“That depends. Are you paying?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, it’s a date.”

Oscar huffed but couldn’t stop the smile that twitched at his lips. Mandy had this way of turning any conversation into something light, of pushing him just a little outside his comfort zone without him realizing it until he was already laughing.

When the food arrived, Oscar leaned over his plate of pasta with the hunger of someone who had spent too much energy pretending to be fine all day. Mandy, on the other hand, picked up her pizza with a calmness that could only be described as irritating.

“You know,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, “if you were as fast on track as you are when you eat, you’d be unstoppable.”

Oscar froze, fork halfway to his mouth, staring at her in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re always complaining about recovery being too slow, but at this speed, you should be running marathons.”

Oscar set his fork down with an exaggerated thud on the table and turned to her, feigning outrage.

“Are you challenging me, Mandy?”

“I’m just saying what I see, Piastri.”

“Fine.” Oscar picked up his glass and took a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “Then I say your pizza choice is terrible.”

Mandy placed a hand over her chest as if she had just been stabbed.

“What?”

“Pineapple, seriously?”

“Oh, please, we’re not starting this debate.”

“There is no debate,” Oscar said with a shrug. “Just facts. And the fact is, you’ve committed a crime against Italian cuisine.”

Mandy shook her head, laughing.

“You know what’s worse? I’m helping rehabilitate someone with a child’s palate.”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

“Says the one eating pineapple pizza.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Of course, it is.”

“No, it’s not. But that’s okay, Piastri. Not everyone can have good taste.”

Oscar shot her a look of disbelief before shaking his head, a reluctant smile breaking through.

It was strange. Unexpected. But it felt good.

Easy.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the weight of recovery on his shoulders. He didn’t feel the pressure to become the driver everyone expected him to be again. He was just there, with Mandy, eating at a small restaurant, joking about nonsense.

And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to enjoy it.

The weeks passed, and their dynamic only continued to evolve.

Mandy was no longer just his physiotherapist.

She was the person who showed up at his door with extra coffee when she saw he’d had a rough night.

She was the one who sat on the floor with him when he got frustrated in sessions, saying nothing, just staying there until he was ready to talk.

She was the one who called him an idiot with the sweetest smile when he tried to push himself harder than he should.

She was the one who made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.

And without realizing it, Oscar started looking forward to seeing her more than he wanted to admit.

He started noticing the way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she was passionate about. He started remembering little details about her without meaning to—how she liked her coffee, how she scrunched her nose when she was focused, how she had a particular way of tilting her head when she was about to give him advice.

And worst of all… he started realizing she was looking at him differently too.

There was something in the way she watched him now, a softness in her gestures, a tenderness in the way she touched his arm to support him, in the way she whispered, “You’re doing amazing” after every small progress.

One night, after a particularly exhausting session, Oscar collapsed onto his couch while Mandy packed up her things.

“I hate you,” he muttered without conviction.

Mandy smiled, not even looking at him.

“I know.”

There was a moment of silence before Oscar spoke again.

“Would you stay a little longer?”

Mandy turned to him, surprised.

"What?"

"You don't have to. But… I don’t want to be alone tonight."

She looked at him for a moment, evaluating him. Then, without a word, she set her bag on the floor and dropped onto the couch beside him.

Oscar didn’t know what that meant.

But he didn’t feel the need to ask.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else, something deeper, as if a silent understanding had settled in that brief moment.

Mandy didn’t ask why Oscar didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t need to. She didn’t tell him everything would be okay because she knew that wouldn’t help. Instead, she just stayed.

Oscar turned his head toward her, noticing how relaxed she looked on his couch, as if she somehow belonged there. It was strange how Mandy, who had once been just his physiotherapist, had now become a part of his life in more ways than he could fully grasp.

"Do you want to watch something?" she asked suddenly, pulling out her phone.

"If it’s another video of cats trying to jump and failing, I’ve already seen them all."

Mandy scoffed.

"Don’t underestimate my ability to find quality content."

Oscar let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Prove it."

Mandy wasted no time playing a video. It was a compilation of funny falls—people slipping on ice, dogs miscalculating their jumps, kids getting scared by their own reflection.

And against his will, Oscar ended up laughing.

At first, just a small smile. Then, a quiet chuckle. Until finally, he let out a real laugh—the kind that rumbled in his chest and left him breathless.

Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye, smirking.

"Well, looks like you do have a soul after all."

Oscar wiped away a tear from laughing, his eyes still shining.

"And what about you? Are you going to admit you have a heart?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Who says I don’t?"

"You hide it well."

Mandy smiled but didn’t reply. She simply leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms over her chest.

The silence returned, but this time, it felt different.

Oscar felt the urge to speak, to say something important, something he had been trying to understand for weeks. But instead, he just exhaled slowly and said,

"Thanks for staying."

Mandy didn’t look at him, but her voice was soft when she replied,

"Always."

After a while on the couch, Mandy stretched her arms and stood up.

"Alright, I think it’s time I eat something. And you too."

Oscar groaned from his spot.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don’t care. You’re eating."

Oscar shot her a look of feigned exasperation as Mandy walked toward the kitchen like she owned the place. He had seen her move around his space so many times over the past few months that it didn’t even feel strange anymore.

"You do know this is my house, right?" he said, dragging himself off the couch with the help of his crutch.

"I know," Mandy replied without turning around, rummaging through the pantry. "But someone has to make sure you don’t starve to death."

Oscar huffed but didn’t argue further. He followed with unsteady steps, still slow, but more confident than he had been weeks ago.

"What are we making?"

"Something simple. I don’t want you collapsing halfway through the recipe."

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned against the counter as Mandy pulled out ingredients. They ended up cooking together, at their own pace. Mandy did most of the work, but she let Oscar help where he could—stirring the sauce, chopping a few things with effort.

It was a ridiculously domestic scene.

After everything they had been through, after months of rehab and pain, cooking together in his house felt like a line he hadn’t expected to cross.

When they finished, they sat at the table with steaming plates of pasta in front of them. The dim kitchen light cast an unexpected intimacy over the moment. Oscar watched as Mandy took the first bite and nodded approvingly.

"Not bad, Piastri. Maybe you’ve got a future in cooking if this F1 thing doesn’t work out."

Oscar smiled, tired but genuinely warm.

"Maybe I’ll open a restaurant. ‘The Cripple’s Pasta.’"

Mandy burst out laughing, and he was surprised by how much he liked the sound.

After a while, Mandy set down her fork and looked at him.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar lowered his gaze to his plate, idly stirring the leftover pasta with his fork.

"Tired. Sore."

Mandy said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

He lifted his eyes.

"But… good."

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

"Good, huh?"

Oscar swallowed.

"Yeah. Because I’m here. With you."

There was a moment of silence. Mandy looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Something soft, something that made his throat tighten.

"You’re an idiot," she said finally, but there was more fondness than anything else in her tone.

Oscar smiled.

"I know."

Mandy sighed and stood to clear the dishes, but Oscar stopped her, his hand gently wrapping around her wrist.

She froze, surprised by the gesture.

Oscar wasn’t sure what he was doing either—only that he didn’t want this moment to end just yet.

"Mandy…"

She waited, her gaze locked on his.

He could feel her pulse beneath his fingers.

He could feel the line between them blurring more and more.

Mandy didn’t move. She didn’t pull her hand away, didn’t make any gesture to tell him to let go of her wrist. She just looked at him, expectant, as if she knew he had something to say but wouldn’t pressure him to say it.

Oscar swallowed. His mouth was dry.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mandy smiled, but there was something in her expression—something softer, more intimate.

“You won’t find out,” she said quietly.

Oscar stared at her. Something tightened in his chest.

That was when he realized how close they were.

How close they had been for months.

Only now, for the first time, he truly felt it.

The warmth of her skin, the way his breathing matched hers. The way his thumb, without thinking, traced the lightest touch against the skin of her wrist.

Mandy noticed.

And she didn’t pull away.

“Mandy…” he whispered.

He didn’t know what he was going to say next. He wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, except that he wanted to stay there. That he wanted her to stay there.

Mandy exhaled softly. Her fingers moved against his in the slightest motion—a touch so faint it barely registered, yet enough to make something inside Oscar go taut.

“Let’s watch a movie,” she said suddenly, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Oscar blinked, disoriented.

“What?”

Mandy gently pulled her hand away and started gathering the dishes, as if nothing had happened.

“A movie. You need it. And I don’t want to see you overthinking anything else tonight.”

Oscar watched her move around the kitchen, trying to process what had just happened.

But, for some reason, he didn’t feel disappointed.

Because Mandy hadn’t run.

Because he didn’t want to force anything.

Because this—whatever this was—made sense.

So he let out a soft laugh, shook his head, and got up to follow her to the couch.

The movie played on the screen, but neither of them was really watching.

Oscar tried to focus, tried to follow the plot, but his mind was elsewhere. On the way Mandy sat beside him, on how their bodies seemed to drift closer without either of them making a deliberate move.

Under the shared blanket, their legs brushed every now and then, and each fleeting touch sent a shiver down his spine. The first time, Oscar thought it had been accidental. The second, he wondered if he’d imagined it. But by the third, the fourth, the fifth—he wasn’t so sure anymore.

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore it.

And then he felt her hand.

Just a touch, the lightest brush of fingers, but it was enough to make the air between them feel heavier, charged. Mandy didn’t move away, and neither did he. Somehow, their hands remained still under the blanket, their pinkies barely touching, neither of them daring to be the first to move.

But Oscar felt every heartbeat like a drum, each passing second unbearably slow.

The tension was almost tangible.

Mandy swallowed.

“This movie is kind of boring, isn’t it?” she murmured.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been paying attention.”

Mandy turned her head to look at him, and Oscar felt the exact moment the air shifted between them.

She felt it too.

Her gaze flickered down to his lips for the briefest second, barely noticeable.

But Oscar noticed.

And that was all he needed.

His hand slid under the blanket until his fingers intertwined with hers, and Mandy didn’t pull away. On the contrary, her grip tightened slightly, her thumb tracing a small circle against his skin—a gesture so intimate and silent that Oscar instinctively leaned toward her.

Their faces were only inches apart.

He could feel her breath, her perfume, the warmth of her skin so close to his.

The moment stretched.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Oscar wouldn’t be able to say who closed the final distance. Maybe him, maybe her. Maybe it had simply been inevitable.

But when their lips finally met, when the kiss sealed with the sweetness of something held back for too long, Oscar knew there was no turning back.

The kiss started soft, hesitant, as if neither of them wanted to break the fragile bubble they had enclosed themselves in. Mandy was the first to react, tilting her head just slightly, parting her lips, giving Oscar the answer he hadn’t dared to ask for out loud.

And then, there was no more hesitation.

Oscar cradled the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her closer, losing himself in the warmth of her mouth. Mandy moved without doubt, her fingers tracing his cheek, his jaw, before tangling into his hair.

It was everything he had wanted, everything he had ignored for weeks.

The brush of their lips deepened, grew more intense. Oscar felt his chest expand with a sensation he didn’t quite recognize, something intoxicating that left him insatiable. She was fire and calm all at once—a refuge and a storm.

Mandy pulled back for a moment, breathless, her nose brushing against his.

“Oscar…”

There was no doubt in her voice, but there was something else—something that felt like a warning. As if she were giving him the chance to stop.

Oscar met her gaze, darkened by something he could feel echoing in his own body.

He didn’t want to stop.

So instead of answering with words, he kissed her again.

Mandy smiled against his lips before matching his urgency, her fingers tracing a slow, torturous path over the fabric of his shirt. Oscar shivered when she pressed her palm against his chest, feeling him beneath her fingertips, sliding her hand lower toward his abdomen with a boldness that made his pulse race.

The blanket slipped from their bodies as Mandy shifted onto his lap—carefully, with a near-imperceptible gentleness, as if she knew exactly how far she could push his limits without causing him pain.

Oscar buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent, whispering her name against her skin. Mandy let out a shuddering sigh, and he felt satisfaction ripple through him.

For the first time in months, Oscar didn’t think about his injury.

He didn’t think about his rehabilitation, the pressure, the fear.

He only thought about her. About the way her body fit against his as if it had always been meant to be there.

And how, for the first time in a long time, he wanted more.

The atmosphere had shifted. Desire still burned between them, the electricity was undeniable, but amidst the urgency, the hungry kisses, the clumsy touches, there was something else. Something much deeper, much more intimate.

Oscar barely registered how they got here, how their clothes started to disappear. He only knew that at some point, Mandy slipped off the couch, kneeling in front of him with effortless ease, helping him remove his pants with the same delicacy she always treated him with.

And then, everything stopped.

Oscar felt the cold air against his skin, against the scarred skin of his leg. He tensed, the instinct to hide, to pull away, flaring inside him like a reflex. He felt ridiculous for thinking about it—Mandy had seen his scars countless times, had touched them, had studied them.

But Mandy didn’t look away.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t make any expression of pity.

Instead, she placed her hands on his leg with a tenderness that completely disarmed him.

Her lips, warm and soft, traced over every scar, every mark that told a story of pain and struggle. She didn’t skip any, didn’t avoid a single one. She took her time, as if she wanted to memorize each line, each ridge, each imperfection.

Oscar didn’t know when his throat started to burn, when the pressure in his chest became unbearable. He only knew that before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek.

He didn’t understand why.

It was affection, it was tenderness, it was sorrow. It was everything at once.

Mandy lifted her gaze, and their eyes met. She didn’t say anything, but her look spoke volumes. Of acceptance, of devotion, of a love without cracks.

Without moving her hand from his leg, she reached up to his face, brushing the tear away with her thumb, unhurried.

Oscar leaned toward her and kissed her.

It was a slow kiss, deep, filled with everything they couldn’t put into words.

When they pulled apart, Mandy rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes for a moment.

“You’re incredible,” she whispered. And Oscar didn’t know if she meant his body, his recovery, his strength—or just him.

But it didn’t matter.

Because, for the first time since the accident, Oscar Piastri didn’t feel ashamed of what he was.

The night continued with an unexpected tenderness. There was no rush, no urgency. It was just the two of them, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and whispers, tangled in kisses and caresses that seemed endless.

Oscar had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed—and yet, so safe. Mandy touched him as if every part of him deserved to be cherished, as if his scars were testaments to his strength, not reminders of what he had lost.

When they finally rested, their bodies intertwined beneath the blanket, Oscar felt something new settle in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with passion or desire, but with peace.

Mandy traced lazy circles on his arm, her breathing slow, steady.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured, her voice still drowsy.

Oscar took a moment to answer.

“That I don’t know how we got here.”

Mandy let out a soft laugh.

“If you need me to explain it in more detail…”

He rolled his eyes, laughing against her hair.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

“When I first met you, I hated you.”

“I know,” Mandy replied with amusement.

“No.” Oscar propped himself up on one elbow to look at her better. “I mean it. I thought I’d never be able to stand you. You were too stubborn, too optimistic.”

“Guilty.”

“But then…” Oscar exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Then you became the only thing keeping me sane.”

Mandy looked at him in the dim light, her expression softening.

“Oscar…”

“No.” He cut her off, feeling that if he didn’t say it now, he never would. “I just want you to know. That without you, I…”

He stopped, swallowing hard. Mandy reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, making him hold her gaze.

“I know,” she whispered.

And Oscar knew, with a certainty that scared him a little, that she really did.

That Mandy understood him better than anyone.

That if there was a way to truly heal, it was with her by his side.

Oscar remained silent after that, his mind caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. Mandy was resting against his chest, her breathing steady, but he couldn’t fully relax.

“Mandy…” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the dark.

“Mhm?”

“Is this okay?”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar hesitated.

“Us. What just happened. The fact that you… you’re my physiotherapist. Or at least, you were. And that we’re crossing a line.”

Mandy watched him in silence for a moment before sighing with a small smile.

“Are you worried I’ll get you in trouble?”

“No, I’m worried you’ll get fired,” he answered honestly. “That this isn’t allowed in your contract or that—”

Mandy interrupted him with a soft touch to his cheek.

“Oscar, my contract ended weeks ago.”

He blinked, surprised.

“What?”

“McLaren only asked me to get you to take your first step. That was my goal as your physiotherapist,” she explained calmly. “After that, your physical trainer was supposed to take over.”

Oscar was speechless.

“So…?”

“So I stayed because I wanted to. Because I wanted to keep helping you. Because this was never just a job for me.”

Oscar felt something inside him crumble. All the doubts, all the insecurities, the nagging thought that maybe she was only there because she had to be… vanished in an instant.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mandy smiled, that infuriatingly calm smile of hers.

“Because I know you. If you had known, you would’ve pushed me away. You would’ve said you were fine just so I wouldn’t feel like I had to stay.”

Oscar couldn’t deny it. Because it was true.

“So…” he said slowly, intertwining his fingers with hers. “This whole time…”

“This whole time, I’ve been here because I wanted to be.”

Oscar swallowed.

“And now what?”

Mandy rested her head on his chest again, tracing light circles on his arm.

“Now, you sleep. And tomorrow… we’ll see.”

But Oscar knew that, no matter what happened, she was already a part of his life.

And he didn’t want that to change.

The air in the garage feels heavy. No one talks much. The team of engineers and mechanics works around him with meticulous precision, preparing him for the private test. It’s just a test—no media, no spectators. But for Oscar, it’s much more than that. It’s his ultimate test.

Mandy stands to the side, arms crossed, watching him closely. She’s not supposed to be here—officially, her job ended months ago—but that hasn’t stopped her. And Oscar hasn’t tried to stop her, either.

When he finally sits in the car, when he feels the pressure of the molded seat against his back, when the cockpit surrounds him, when the steering wheel is in his hands and the tires are ready to hit the track… it happens.

The memory strikes like thunder.

A flash of light. The impact. The raw, metallic sound. The pain.

He can’t breathe.

He’s not here, in this garage. He’s back on that day, in that moment. He’s trapped in the wreckage of the car, the smell of fuel filling his nose, his leg crushed under the destroyed chassis.

He feels the same sharp pain in his leg. Almost two months without feeling it, and suddenly, it’s as if the injury is fresh. As if it just happened.

Someone says his name, but he doesn’t hear them. His breathing quickens. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. His eyes lock onto the halo, the carbon fiber, the chassis that isn’t broken, the helmet protecting him. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

But it’s not.

Sweat beads on his forehead. A ringing starts in his ears. He wants to move, wants to get out, but his muscles won’t respond.

A hand touches his arm.

Oscar blinks, as if snapping back to reality.

Mandy is there. She’s reaching for him from.above the car, her hand firm on his forearm. Her eyes, dark and steady, find his.

“Oscar.”

Her voice is low, calm, but not condescending. She doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile, like he’s going to break.

“I’m here,” she says, and those two words cut straight through him.

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. His breathing is still uneven, his heart still racing.

Mandy watches him for another second before moving her hand to his. Her fingers slide over his, carefully loosening his grip on the wheel.

“Look at me.”

Oscar lifts his gaze.

“You’re here. Not there. You’re in 2025, in this garage, in this car. And you’re okay. That was a year ago. You are okay”

He swallows hard. His jaw is clenched, his mind still filled with ghostly images.

“I don’t have to do this.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

Mandy nods.

“No, you don’t have to. But you want to. And that’s different.”

The team is still waiting. The mechanics pretend not to look, but Oscar feels their eyes. He knows they expect him to start the engine, to go out on track, to do what he does best.

But it’s not that simple. Not when fear is eating him alive.

Mandy squeezes his hand once more.

“You can step out right now, and no one will say a thing. It’s okay. But if you want to try, just try. Don’t think about anything else.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Tries to find the ground beneath him, even though he’s in the car.

When he opens them, he sees her. She’s holding his hand, but she’s not keeping him there. She’s just there.

And that’s enough.

Oscar nods, slowly.

His fingers wrap around the steering wheel again, but this time, with control. Mandy releases his hand and steps back.

The mechanics get ready. The engineers check the data.

The garage fills with the roar of the engine as he starts it.

The fear is still there, like a weight in his chest. But now, there’s something else, too.

Oscar focuses on that.

And he drives.

The roar of the car echoes in his chest, a familiar vibration running down his spine and seeping into his blood. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and for a moment, doubt whispers in his mind.

What if he's not the same? What if he never will be?

But then he presses the throttle.

The tires bite into the asphalt, and suddenly, the world makes sense again. The wind slams against his helmet, the colors of the circuit blur around him, and adrenaline surges through his veins like an unstoppable force. The first corner comes faster than expected, but his body reacts before his mind does—steady hands, precise turn, clean acceleration on exit.

It’s like breathing. Like remembering who he is.

Every lap is an affirmation. Every brake, every change of direction, every fraction of a second shaved off the clock.

He is where he belongs. He is home.

When he finally returns to the pits, the echo of the engine still thrumming in his chest, Oscar allows himself to close his eyes for a moment.

He feels no fear. No doubt.

Only relief.

Lando is the first to reach him, landing a hard smack on his helmet before ruffling his hair once he takes it off.

"Seriously? After almost a year out, and you set a faster lap than me on your first run?"

Oscar smiles, taking a deep breath.

"I try."

Lando scoffs, but there's pride in his expression.

Zak, Stella, and the rest of the team surround him in seconds, congratulating him. Even a few drivers from the grid have come to see him, asking McLaren for permission just to be there. George pats his back, Alex and Charles can’t help but pull him into a hug. Even Colapinto is there, planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek.

But there’s one person Oscar searches for among them all.

Mandy stands at the back of the garage, not intruding, but with a small smile on her lips. Her dark eyes scan him up and down, as if making sure he’s truly okay.

And he is.

Later, as the sun begins to set, the two of them sit on the empty grandstands of the circuit. The roar of the engine is gone, but the day’s echoes still vibrate in the air. Mandy rests her elbows on her knees, gaze lost on the track.

"I saw you at Turn Five," she says suddenly. "There was a moment when you hesitated."

Oscar lowers his head, smirking.

"Yeah. But it passed quickly."

She nods. A long silence stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Until Mandy sighs and says, "McLaren offered me a contract."

Oscar blinks, turning to her.

"What?"

"As the team's physiotherapist. They were impressed with my work with you and thought I could be useful."

Oscar stays silent, waiting for her to continue. Something in her tone tells him there’s more.

"I turned it down."

He frowns.

"Why?"

Mandy wets her lips, as if searching for the right words.

"I didn’t want my work to mix with… this. With you."

Oscar feels something warm in his chest. He can’t quite name it—gratitude, relief, something else—but it’s strong.

"So… you turned down McLaren?" he repeats slowly. "The team that treated you so well, gave you access to the best facilities, let you work with the most prized gem of their lineup?"

Mandy blinks.

"You?"

"Obviously."

Mandy laughs, shaking her head.

"You’re insufferable."

"And you clearly made a terrible decision."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Because tell me, which team signed you now?"

Mandy stretches with satisfaction before answering.

"Ferrari."

Oscar frowns, his brain processing the information.

"Ferrari?"

"Ferrari."

"Maranello’s Ferrari?"

"Unless there’s another one."

Oscar blinks.

"So now you’re going to be one of those people who speak Italian all the time and say ‘Forza Ferrari’ every five minutes?"

Mandy smiles, almost wickedly.

"Forza Ferrari."

Oscar looks at her with feigned disappointment.

"Mandy, for God’s sake, you haven’t even started yet and you’re already lost."

She laughs, giving him a gentle shove on the shoulder.

"Come on, it can’t surprise you that much. After all, someone has to be in the paddock to make sure you don’t do anything stupid."

Oscar watches her with a half-smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Oh, I see how it is. You didn’t stay because you like red—you just can’t live without me."

"Definitely not for the red. It’s hard to match."

"You’re not denying you can’t live without me."

Mandy rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips.

"I’m going to request to be assigned to Charles just to spite you."

Oscar places a hand on his heart, feigning a stab wound.

"Betrayal!"

Mandy bursts out laughing, and before she can reply, Oscar turns to her with a sly grin.

"You know what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone in the paddock knows you love me more."

Mandy raises an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh, really?"

"Of course. And if they don’t know yet, they will as soon as they see us together."

Before Mandy can throw back another sarcastic remark, Oscar leans in and kisses her. It’s warm, with the night breeze around them and the thrill of the day still running through his veins.

When they pull apart, Mandy exhales softly.

"You know what? Maybe red does suit me after all."

Oscar smiles, resting his forehead against hers.

"Forza Ferrari, I guess."

And Mandy laughs, kissing him again.

Throughout the season, Oscar and Mandy’s relationship had become an open secret in the paddock. Not because they had been careless—on the contrary, they had done everything possible to keep it private—but in a world where every gesture was scrutinized, some things were hard to hide.

Photographers had never caught them together outside the circuits, and in the paddock, they always maintained a professional distance. Mandy was disciplined about it, ensuring she never gave him special treatment in front of others, making sure no one could accuse her of favoritism at Ferrari for being with a McLaren driver. But inside the garages, in the hallways, in the small interactions away from the cameras, something was building between them—something any keen observer could notice.

Those closest to them—Lando, Zak, the McLaren team, Ferrari—knew. Lando had thoroughly enjoyed teasing them in private, dropping hints whenever he could, like when he caught Oscar glancing sideways at Mandy on the grid or when she walked past the McLaren mechanics and Oscar pretended to be engrossed in telemetry.

Their dynamic was simple: Mandy didn’t treat Oscar like a driver but as himself. She didn’t care about his lap times, his points, or championship statistics. She cared about whether he was sleeping well, whether the pain in his leg returned after grueling races, whether his mind was calm before he put on his helmet.

For Oscar, that was invaluable. In a world revolving around competition, having someone who saw him beyond the driver was a breath of fresh air.

Sometimes, when race weekends became too intense, they found themselves in the quieter corners of the paddock—a back hallway, the furthest spot in the Ferrari or McLaren hospitality, anywhere they could share a few minutes without cameras surrounding them. Mandy always had a sarcastic comment ready, and Oscar would respond with his dry humor, their back-and-forth banter momentarily making them forget the pressure.

And on tough days, when things didn’t go well on track, she was there. Not with empty words, not with forced motivational speeches, but with a hand on his back when no one was looking, with a quick message after a disappointing race: “I’m waiting at the hotel with ice cream. Don’t argue.”

That’s how it had been all season—care, attention, and a love woven in the margins of F1, in moments beyond the reach of headlines.

On the other hand, Oscar’s comeback season was exceeding expectations. He had returned stronger, more consistent, racking up podiums nearly every weekend. But the long-awaited first victory since the accident still eluded him. Despite it all, he didn’t feel frustrated. He knew it was only a matter of time.

But now, they were in Spa-Francorchamps. And with that came the second anniversary of the day everything changed.

Before practice sessions, interviews, and the inevitable noise of a Grand Prix weekend began, Oscar made a decision. He wanted to go to the crash site. To the exact corner where his life took an irreversible turn.

The rain was relentless as he set off. It was nearly nightfall, and the paddock was slowly emptying. People were retreating to their hotels, seeking rest before the intense day ahead. Mandy, however, stayed.

“You can still go back to the hotel. It’s cold, it’s raining, and I don’t want you to get sick because of one of my whims,” Oscar murmured, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the wet ground.

“And miss a dramatic moment of personal development like this? Not a chance. I’m about to witness a canon event,” Mandy teased, giving him a light shoulder bump.

Oscar let out a quiet chuckle, but his steps slowed as they neared the corner. It was strange how, after two years, his body still reacted to the sight of it. The memory of the impact, the pain, the fear—it all returned with chilling clarity.

He stopped a few meters from the exact spot, a tingling sensation running through his bad leg. Almost unconsciously, he tapped his thigh as if trying to shake off the feeling. Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye before intertwining her fingers with his, squeezing firmly.

“What are you feeling?” she asked softly.

Oscar swallowed hard.

“I don’t know. It’s weird. Like I can still feel it. Like I can see everything again.”

Mandy nodded, waiting to see if he needed to say more. But he just stood there, eyes locked on the track, the sound of rain filling the silence.

Finally, Mandy spoke, her tone light yet sincere.

“You know… in a way, we should be grateful to this corner.”

Oscar turned his head, frowning.

“What?”

“Well,” she shrugged, “if you hadn’t crashed here, McLaren wouldn’t have hired me, we wouldn’t have spent so much time together, and we wouldn’t have fallen madly in love with each other. So technically, if you think about it, Eau Rouge is the real matchmaker in this story.”

Oscar let out a genuine, warm laugh that cut through the cold night air.

“That is, without a doubt, the most twisted and optimistic way to look at it.”

“Better than being stuck in a pit of trauma and existential despair? Absolutely.”

Oscar shook his head, but the smile didn’t fade. He turned to look at Mandy, watching how the rain made her skin glisten under the dim glow of distant floodlights. He had no words to describe how much he loved her in that moment.

So he didn’t use any.

He simply leaned in and kissed her, with the rain falling around them, with memories losing their sharp edges little by little. Because Mandy was right. Eau Rouge had changed his life. But not just because of the accident. Somehow, it had also led him to her.

On Sunday, Oscar rounded the final straight for the penultimate time, each lap bringing him closer to something he had dreamed of but never imagined quite like this. The rain had eased, the track still damp but stable under his tires, and the McLaren was responding with surgical precision. From the first corner, he had dominated. He knew this day was his. No one could touch him.

His engineer’s voice came over the radio, filled with barely contained excitement.

“Last lap, Oscar. Last lap.”

Oscar took a deep breath. The roar of the engine, the vibration of the steering wheel beneath his hands, the feeling of the car as an extension of himself. It was him, fully. No doubts, no fear. Just speed, precision, victory drawing closer with every meter.

In Ferrari’s garage, the atmosphere was electric. With Leclerc securing second place, mechanics had their arms raised, team members were jumping, and in the middle of it all—Mandy. Her nails dug into Alex’s jacket, Charles’s girlfriend, both of them on the verge of losing their voices from screaming so much. Her faith in Oscar was absolute. She knew how this was going to end—she had known since the first lap.

When Oscar crossed the finish line, something inside him shattered and rebuilt itself at the same time. The radio exploded with the team’s cheers, his engineer repeating his name over and over, but he could barely hear it. Laughter escaped him uncontrollably, mixed with tears and a relief so deep it made him feel breathless.

He had won. He had won in Spa.

His hands trembled on the steering wheel as he slowed down for the cool-down lap. He looked around—the grandstands on their feet, flags waving under a gray sky that threatened more rain. It was poetic, perfect, as if the circuit itself was giving something back to him.

“Yes, Oscar! Yes, yes, yes!” Zak Brown shouted over the radio, and in the background, he could hear the McLaren garage erupting like they had won a championship.

Oscar let go of the wheel for a second, running his hands over his face, still in disbelief. He had dreamed of this moment, visualized it a thousand times, but now that it was real, it was overwhelming.

When he finally parked the car in parc fermé, his body moved before his mind could catch up. He unbuckled his harness clumsily, climbed out of the car, and jumped into the sea of McLaren mechanics. He let them hug him, shake him, pat his back—but his eyes scanned the crowd, searching.

Mandy.

And there she was.

In her red Ferrari polo, still wearing the team’s headset around her neck, eyes shining and lips trembling with a smile.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through the McLaren crew, dodged the drivers climbing out of their own cars to congratulate him, and reached her where she stood with the Ferrari team. It didn’t matter who was watching, it didn’t matter if there were cameras, the press, or social media.

He grabbed her by the Ferrari polo, stretched over the barrier, and kissed her.

With the raw emotion of someone who had fought against the worst version of himself—and won.

With the certainty that, in the end, she had always been there.

As the world roared around them, Oscar leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathless, both of them smiling like idiots.

"You know," Mandy whispered, her fingers still curled around the collar of his suit, "if you wanted to kiss me that badly, you could've just asked."

Oscar huffed a laugh, his hands firm on her waist. "Figured winning was a more dramatic way to earn it."

Mandy tilted her head, pretending to think. "Mm… I don’t know. Might need a few more wins before I’m fully convinced."

His smile widened. "Challenge accepted."

She kissed him again, softer this time. "Good. Now go collect your damn trophy, Piastri."

@smoooothoperator

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hoe4hotchner · 6 months ago

Note

Can I get an imagine where the reader is married to Aaron and gets hurt by an unsub and he’s worried about her and races to find her or whatever. I just want to be rescued and held by Aaron!!

Solace | [A.H]

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘈𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘊𝘞: 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘺, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤, 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘠/𝘕 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘞𝘊: 0.9𝘬

𝘔𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮😭😩

The deafening sound of sirens filled the air as Hotch raced through the chaos, his heart pounding in his chest. His usually calm, collected demeanor was fractured, barely holding together under the crushing weight of his fear. The flashing lights of police cars and ambulances cast harsh shadows across the scene, but all he could focus on was one thing: finding you.

He didn’t care about the unsub, the case, or anything else at that moment. All that mattered was you - his wife, the love of his life - somewhere out there, hurt, possibly worse. The thought twisted like a knife in his gut, each second stretching into eternity as he pushed past the swarm of agents and EMTs.

"Where is she?" Hotch's voice came out sharp, breathless, as he grabbed the arm of the nearest paramedic, he looked panicked.

"We’re treating victims inside—"

"Where is my wife?" His tone cracked, unrecognizable even to himself. The fear coursing through him was real, raw, and it took everything in him to keep from shouting. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if you were too late.

The paramedic’s eyes softened, and she motioned toward the building in the distance - smoke still rising from its shattered windows. "They brought her out a few minutes ago. She’s over there—" The paramedic had worked with Hotch several times before and knew who he was referring to.

Hotch didn’t wait to hear the rest. His legs moved on instinct, feet pounding against the pavement as he sprinted toward where the paramedic had pointed. Everything around him became a blur as he neared the edge of the chaos, his eyes scanning desperately for you.

Then he saw you.

You were lying on a stretcher, surrounded by EMTs, your body battered and bruised. Blood stained your clothes, your face ghostly and covered in small cuts, and for a moment, Hotch felt his heart stop. His world narrowed to just you - lying there so still, so vulnerable.

"Y/N," he whispered, almost afraid to say your name, as though speaking it aloud would make the reality of your injuries too real to bear.

You blinked slowly, your head turning toward the sound of his voice. Despite the pain etched across your face, your lips trembled into a small, fragile smile. "Aaron…"

He was beside you in an instant, kneeling next to the stretcher, his hand gently cupping your cheek. "I’m here. I’m right here." His voice was soft, but the tremor in it betrayed how close he was to breaking.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and Hotch's heart skipped a beat as he panicked, his hand tightening around yours. "Hey, stay with me. Please, stay with me."

You opened your eyes again, your gaze locking with his, and you gave the smallest of nods. "I’m okay… just a little… shaken."

The sight of you, injured but still fighting, broke something inside of him. He felt his throat tighten, his chest constricting with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel since Haley. Fear, helplessness, love - all of it swirled inside him as he pressed his forehead gently against yours. "I was so scared," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I’d lost you."

You squeezed his hand weakly, your eyes searching his. "You didn’t lose me… I’m still here."

His breath hitched as he pulled back slightly, taking in every inch of your face, every bruise, every cut. The sight of you in so much pain, and yet still trying to comfort him, made his heart ache. He gently brushed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped down your skin. "You’re going to be okay. We’ll get through this."

But the guilt weighed heavily on him - he hadn’t been there when you needed him most. He had failed to protect you. The thought gnawed at him, threatening to pull him under, but you tugged weakly on his hand, grounding him back to you.

"Don’t… don’t blame yourself," you murmured, your voice thin. "I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me."

Hotch's jaw tightened as he blinked back his own tears, his heart swelling with love and relief. You trusted him, even when he doubted himself. He bent down and kissed your forehead softly, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual as if that would somehow keep you safe.

"I love you," he whispered against your skin, his voice filled with a desperate tenderness.

"I love you too," you breathed, your smile small but genuine, even through the pain.

The EMTs moved in to check your vitals again, and Hotch stepped back, his hand never leaving yours as they worked around you. He watched them carefully, not willing to let you out of his sight for even a second. He couldn’t shake the fear that something might happen, that he might lose you if he blinked.

But as the minutes passed and your condition stabilized, the panic that had been clawing at him began to ease. The doctors said you’d be okay - that your injuries, though serious, weren’t life-threatening. Relief washed over him in waves, but the fear lingered, the memory of almost losing you haunting him.

When the EMTs finally finished, Hotch sat beside you again, his hand cradling yours gently. He could see the exhaustion weighing heavily on you, your eyelids fluttering as you struggled to stay awake.

"It’s okay," he said softly, brushing your hair back from your face. "You can rest now. I’m not going anywhere."

You gave him a tired smile, your hand weakly squeezing his once more before your eyes closed, finally succumbing to sleep. Hotch watched you for a long time, his heart still heavy, but you were safe. You were alive.

And that was all that mattered.

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munsonsreputation · 1 year ago

Text

i can't talk to you when i'm like this

steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: [2.1K]

warnings: warnings: no use of y/n, established relationship, reader has a history of shitty ex's, steve accidentally makes reader cry, a lot of angst regarding past relationships (feelings wise), steve's shitty childhood & terrible dad (brief), fluff at the end (yes because i am a softie)

summary: steve never raises his voice at you, but the first time he does, you can’t find it in yourself to tell him what's really bothering you when you’re seconds away from breaking down.

You hate how the tears coming springing to your eyes the second Steve raises his voice a little too loudly beneath his already apparent annoyance.

Your brain blanks out the second it bellows against the walls and comes hurtling down to your eardrums. It feels like glass shattering in a million different ways, cutting you open and killing you with a thousand cuts.

He’s frozen in front of you, blinking with a look of oblivion on his face because he’s waiting. His arms still held wide open after he asked a question: one that was posed with a tone too sharp for your liking.

“Why are you making it such a big deal?”

His usually sweet and gentle tone was long gone, or at least that’s how you heard it. Instead, it dribbled with irritation and resentment meshed all in one. The kind that sounded like he was fed up and wanted nothing to do with you anymore.

He was just trying to do a sweet thing by picking you both up some coffee and yet here you were starting an argument — you always had to ruin a good thing.

Your teeth dig into your gums, trying to find any way to hold off on the waterworks that you know are about to pour any second now. Cloudy orbs shoot down to your bare feet, trembling against the floorboards while you excuse yourself from the kitchen.

“I’m g-going to the bathroom.”

Your voice is delicate yet not the kind that Steve knows like the back of his hand — the one where you keep it so quiet like an oath when you whisper you love him when you think he’s asleep and no one else is around to hear it.

This time the oath is broken, cracked, just like your voice, torn at the seams between fear and panic. Its edges are frayed and tattered, and its tenderness that is usually formed out of affection is long gone as it cuts through your chest and causes your back to heave as you walk away.

He knows he messed up.

It’s stupid. You shouldn’t be so worked up over the barista leaving her number on Steve’s cup. But you are. You’re worked the hell up and you want him to understand why it is such a big deal to you.

It’s upsetting because you shouldn’t be this wound up and insecure. You know Steve would never even dare to dial the numbers left on the cup, let alone remember the name she left on there. He’s head over heels in love with you the same way you are with him — yet you just don’t get it.

You don’t get the way this makes your insides turn and the thoughts to start whirlwind in your head. At first you were just upset about the number, maybe even just mildly irked — but then the second Steve’s voice came to you like that… that’s when you entirely forgot how to even tell him how you felt.

Now you just felt stupid for making it such a big deal and turning it into this.

“Breathe….” you murmur to yourself jaw trembling as you try not to tense.

The tears finally roll when your back collides with the bathroom door and your shaky fingers lock it shut. Your heart feels like it’s on fire, one that consumes your entire being and engulfs you in the bluest blue instead of the blazing red.

The only thing keeping you from collapsing is the door that’s holding up your weight and it’s not long after that the person you love yet are avoiding is on the other side making it more difficult for you to attempt to make it seem like it’s not a big deal.

“B-baby… I’m so sorry.”

The apology comes in an instant, and you could almost feel his breath hitting your neck from behind the wood. You know it’s genuine…Steve has never ever made you cry. You feel now like you’ve taken everything out of proportion — you should’ve just giggled and said ‘oh that’s cute! too bad you’re my boyfriend!’

All of the things you wished you would have said play in your mind like punishment for the way you’ve acted. How you know you’ve turned the tables on him and made him look like the bad guy when he was far from that.

He was just shocked to come home and hand you your favorite drink only to be asked about the barista he barely gave his attention to. Your accusing voice after he did something nice wasn’t something he was expecting.

Your throat tightened, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to cover it up and make it seem like you weren’t upset. You shuffled from the door, towards the sink, turning it on yet making no move to put your hands under the water.

“I’m fine! I—I just had to wash my face!” You lie, trying to cover your tracks as if Steve doesn’t already know it.

There’s been times when things have upset you, not things that Steve has done, but things that life throws at you and most of the times you hate how wound up you get. Without failure, you sneak away, just wanting a moment by yourself to cry without anyone feeling bad for you or asking questions because they’ll never get it. They don’t understand that the littlest things can trigger something inside of you to completely shut down from the rest of the world.

No one gets it… but Steve does.

“Baby,” His voice is stronger this time, yet tender, “please, can I come in? I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Your fingers finally come in contact with the frigid water, dabbing the droplets over your eyes attempting to get them to settle instead of looking like you were just crying. There’s a sniffle that comes from you as you clear your airways and a pathetic smile that you press onto your face to try to hide how you’re really feeling.

The water shuts off and you’re opening the door, cutting his apology off altogether.

“I’m fine, Steve!”

Your voice isn’t swaying even with the volume it carries and neither with the faint laugh you give him when you meet face to face. Your lashes still bear the droplets of salt and your cheeks tinted red with the path they’ve traveled down.

He can feel the pain in your voice and see the wobble of your chin as you hold back everything inside. He hates that you feel like you have to mask how you’re really feeling when, in actuality, you should be furious at him for what he did.

“Baby,”

Sadness joins his concern, and he doesn’t bother to hide it — he’s not sure he can when his eyes leak the same emotion, “Baby, you’re not fine…I know you’re not fine.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes unconvincingly. “I literally am, babe… it’s cool. Everything is fine.”

He knows that now you’re trying to reassure yourself rather than him. Trying to play it off and make it seem like everything was okay. Like he’s just supposed to accept it and let you hold everything inside like torture when that’s far from what he wants.

Your attempts to brush past him are futile when his hands come out to hold your shoulders, his fingertips kneading your tense skin. He can feel the blood rushing from under your clothes and it’s not the kind of warmth you usually carry — you are blistering and if he looks hard enough, he can see the way your chest is trying to level itself out as you hold back.

It takes everything in you to not draw your eyes away from his because you don’t want him to know that you’re still feeling it. Feeling stupid and at the same time nothing at all because you don’t know what to feel anymore. There’s a whirlwind of emotions and none of them you can put a finger on because you’re just lost.

You just don’t want him to think you’re crazy… like you reacting to him raising his voice like that was something that would daunt him away.

One of his hands stops its movement on your skin, raising up to your cheek and cradling you gently. There’s a crease between his brows and his eyes seep with regret and guilt. His lips part and the words that leave them come in whispers and fragility — croaks and cracks guiding them.

“Everything isn’t fine… I acted like an idiot and raised my voice at you. I’m sorry baby, I—I never meant to do that on purpose. It just came out, but that isn’t an excuse.” He shakes his head at himself disappointingly because he knows better.

Steve was far from perfect in his own eyes, but he knew better because all his life if there was one person he didn’t want to be like, it was his dad. The dad that used to scream at his mother, and scream at him, and scream at the world when everything went wrong, and didn’t know how to talk if it wasn’t screaming.

He’d never forgive himself if he made you feel that way or even became a smidge of what his father was. But it wasn’t him who he was blaming for this — this was all Steve himself, and he knew that. Accountability needed to be taken from himself because the only person he was hurting was you and it was going to be okay.

Not in the heat of the moment, not ever.

You hadn’t even noticed you had tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, the faint taste of iron trickling onto your tongue when you realized you were biting down on the skin too hard trying to stop yourself from crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry baby, please just—just tell me how to make it better.” His voice pleads and reasons, wanting to make it right with you anyway he could.

You close your eyes, letting the tears fall as you feel his thumbs wipe them away. He’s done this times before, wiping away your tears that had spewed from another’s doing. Never did he ever think he would be the cause.

“I-it’s nothing… it’s stupid, I’m stupid and dramatic.” You swallow thickly, sniffling and twisting your fingers in your hand to fight off the lingering feelings.

He shakes his head. The obvious look of disapproval for your words covers his face because this was far from your fault. Sure, he was bewildered about the whole incident, considering he didn’t even know the number was left there until you brought it up, but for him to not know how to convey his frustration better was the real issue at hand.

Not the accusation, not the stupid number, not the oblivious girl who left her number: it was him, Steve’s idiotic actions that got you both here.

“Stop, don’t talk to yourself like that.” He insists, staring deeply into your eyes, searching for a reason why you were blaming yourself,

Your jaw shakes roughly before a sob rips through your mouth. Tightening your eyes to try to get the tears to stop, yet they don’t cease no matter how hard you try. Frustration builds inside of you because you should be over it by now. The fact that he apologized and was here trying to comfort you should be enough.

But something inside of you won’t let it die. The silence is filled with the memory of his voice shouting at you and the face that he stared back with.

“I—I don’t want you to think there’s something wrong with me.” You croak, covering your face and turning away from him to save you the embarrassment.

But he strays to where you are, sticking beside you with a comforting hand resting on your back, “Sweetheart, nothing is—”

You sob one more, this time with a grunt that is direct to yourself. Stomping your foot against the cold tiles, your hands come down to grip the edges of the counter tightly. Your reflection in the mirror is only half of what you feel, and when Steve steps behind you, all you can see is guilt, but at the same time patience knowing he’s ready when you are.

You try your very best to at least keep your sobs at bay just enough for you to speak through them and for him to understand.

“You’re not gonna wanna be with me anymore knowing I can’t—I can’t talk to you when I’m like this! I don’t know why, but I can’t… it makes me feel stupid, like I’m crying over something so tiny and now I’ve totally forgotten why we were even arguing in the first place.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and reaching in front of you to bring your hair back and away from your face. His eyes keep yours in the mirror, watching at you with such a gentleness that even now doesn’t falter.

“We weren’t arguing. I was just dumb and raised my voice when you were asking me about it.”

You move your sights from his to the bottom of the sink, shaking your head, “No, b-but I shouldn’t have reacted like that and made you look like the bad guy when yo—”

Your voice is traveling faster than you can think, spewing out words so hastily like you have to make him understand that it’s not his fault, but yours. It takes your breath away, hiccuping and coughing between a sob that leaves your mouth and bobbles in your chest.

Steve’s instantaneously rubbing your back, shushing you and trying to get you to calm down knowing you going on and on like this wouldn’t do you any good. He understands that you feel a lot of things very deeply and sometimes it isn’t an easy task to get them all out at once: he knows it and he’ll spend forever with you until you got it all out.

“Hey, hey, baby, c’mon… breathe,” He coos, his palm never stilling on your back feeling the deep breaths in and out, watching the tears fall down your cheeks and drip onto the counter.

It’s a kind of scene he hates to see, the one he wishes he could take from you and shoulder instead because watching you in such a state breaks his heart more than he could imagine. And this time it stings a little more knowing that he not only cannot shoulder your pain, but was the one creating it this time.

“Talk to me, please. What’s going on? Why’re so you upset at yourself and not at me?” He begs, trying to get a glimpse of what you’re feeling so he knows where the root is.

“B-because… I made it such a b-big deal.” You hiccup.

When you swipe angrily at your eyes with a ferociousness, that’s enough to make Steve step in and take it from here now that he knows where you’re coming from. A warm hand comes down onto your shoulder, pulling at you just enough for you to face him completely, weakly hanging your head low not knowing if you were strong enough to see him just yet.

“You didn’t make anything a big deal. I promise, we’re okay.” He whispers quietly, cupping your face in his hands, and bringing you face to face, “You’re not stupid and I could never think that you were. You’re human honey. It’s normal for you to be upset by things.”

“B-but I…I don’t want you to think you did something wrong—“

He stops you with a shake of his head. “But I did. I did something so wrong. I yelled when I shouldn’t have, and I made you feel like shit.”

Steve desperately needs you to know it. That this was his fault and no one else’s. That him making you feel like crap was the worst thing he could have ever done, but he was willing to man up to it and try to make things better, and at the same time he would understand if you wanted nothing to do with him after this.

Still, even after his words, you’re somehow even angrier at yourself, mind blaring at you for being such a dramatic person for making him go out of this way with all of this. That this was surely your fault and yours only, and if you didn’t take it off his plate, it was just something he would use against you one day to realize that he didn’t want to be with you anymore.

It’s what they all did — held it over your head and made you feel like you were wrong for feeling how you felt, so instead it was best not to feel anything at all. To hide it away and hope that being noncombative meant that everything was going to be okay and it wouldn’t give them a reason to run.

“I-it’s my fault—” You pinch your eyes, gulping back a cry as you shake your head in his hands.

His brows pull together, eyes squinting at you, not completely understanding why you’re doing this.

“Hey, stop, it’s not your fault. Don’t do that. Don’t take the fall for me,” Steve assures you with a sternness to his soft voice, continuing to wipe the seeping tears.

Somehow you can’t let it go, “But—”

“But nothing.” He starts, his voice composed yet unyielding in his tone.

He can’t stand it, clutching your face a little firmer, hoping that you would peek your eyes open to see him because he desperately needs you to. The second you do, your face twists again with heartache, praying that he would just let you go and walk out already, because by now, he probably thinks you’re insane — there’s no way he’s not thinking it.

His lips part, trying to find the right words to say, needing the perfect ones to get through you because he hates how you won’t let him take the fall, the one he so rightfully deserves to come crashing down on. You are everything to him and in some ways the feelings that you feel hit him right in the heart, and right now is no different, but there’s a wall between you both and his only goal is to knock it down completely.

“I—I don’t know why you feel like you have to protect me, but I promise you don’t.” He whispers, watching as you try to calm yourself, little sniffles going in and out and broken cries leaving your mouth.

His thumbs rub back and forth across your cheeks, soothing your withering skin. Slowly but surely your cries die little by little, eyes fixed on his, trusting that he means everything that he says, because Steve isn’t like the others — something that you should’ve known judging from his character alone.

“If I do something that makes you upset or sad, you should be able to voice that, not keep it in. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t tell me when I’ve done something wrong. I—I want you to feel safe and okay around me, enough to know that my love for you isn’t gonna change, just because you bring something up. You have every right to be upset, and angry, and disappointed, everything.”

He says it like he means it and you know it’s because he does. He lets every word hang from the stars as if he put them up there, and points them out just for you to know that they are there and true, because that’s all he ever wanted. For you to know that every word he speaks comes from his heart, and no matter how many times he needs to repeat it, he’ll do it over and over again, just so you know it’s real and until you believe them and know he won’t ever break them.

“Don’t ever blame yourself for me, please? I-I don’t want you to do that to yourself because I’m here and…and every time I fuck up or make a mistake, I swear I’m gonna own up to it and try to fix it. But I’m not gonna let you take the blame, okay?”

Being with Steve for so long still feels so new, especially when you know he isn’t like the rest of the boys from your past. He’s patient and kind with a big heap of understanding. Like everyone else in the world, he’s guilty of his own poor moments, but he’ll be damned if he takes that out on you or makes you feel like it’s your responsibility.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” He murmurs, letting his hands fall away from your face, letting you decide what the next move is.

The tears that escape are more so in between the remains of the sadness being washed away with tears of love and gratitude. Your arms wrap around his torso, pulling yourself into him and burying your face into his chest where the tears soak through his chest. Without a second thought, his arms envelop you, rocking you both back and forth as he presses kisses on the top of your head.

It mends your heart not merely because he’s just sorry, but because you didn’t get plenty of sorries before. Left only with sweeping things under the rug and pretending like nothing ever happened — it never solved anything and never gave you much.

But Steve gives you everything and so much more.

A big chunk of you feels like you don’t deserve him because he seriously is the best person with an even better soul wrapped up into one and yet he chooses you — every day. He sees you through all the good and the bad and never makes you feel like you’re alone even when you could be a distance away when you’re right beside him.

When you talk too much, say too little, or sometimes say nothing at all — he’s there giving you a listening ear and comforting shoulder to lean on whoever you need it. And on the days when you can’t talk to him when you’re like this… he’ll wait until you’re ready and show you that he’s always going to be there every step of the way.

He’s everything you could have asked for and more.

You pull your face away from hiding, resting your chin up on his chest as you stared up at him.

“I’m sorry too. I—I shouldn’t have been so indifferent earlier and just told you what I was feeling from the get-go.” You sniffled, rubbing your hands over his back, smiling faintly when he nodded understandingly.

He knows that sometimes he might not quite get it, might not see things in the same light as you, but he would never try to dismiss your feelings. He would sit beside you through the storms and sunshines, knowing that he was learning more about himself and you with you in his life.

That because of you, the younger version of himself got to heal his deepest wounds and open himself up to a love he only through he could dream up. You were here making him a better version of himself, all while he was doing the same for you. Showing you that the scars and fears of your past didn’t have to live in the next person you met — that you could let it go and open yourself up to the love you deserved.

His love.

“I forgive you only if you forgive me,” Steve grinned, swiping away at the dampness on your cheeks.

You grinned, nodding up at him. “Of course, I forgive you.”

“I love you so much… nothings ever gonna change that.” He hummed, cupping your face, taking you all in for the person he loved so dearly.

You closed your eyes blissfully before a kiss was placed on your lips.

“I know, I love you too.”

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a/n: hi all, I hoped you like this little one-shot/imagine... i had this one sitting in my wips for awhile and it was nearly finished but I didn't have the inspiration to finish it until now. I don't usually write angst bcs i am a fluff girl, but this concept just came to me bcs like a lot of people when someone raises their voice at me...i just freeze and i don't know what to make of it and i just start crying. i think steve would be super apologetic and i wanted to write this bcs i needed some stevie!comfort so yeah... i hope you all enjoyed!!!

taglist: @translatemunson @kennedy-brooke @manda-panda-monium @tvserie-s-world @givemeth @steveharringtonswife @astolenkiss @loving-and-dreaming @awkotaco24 @engenelxver @elfiaaaa @pbs-theundeadmaggot @johnricharddeacy @gaysludge @keerysfolklore @micheledawn1975 @ihatepeanutss @bakugouswh0r3

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