#try not to cry challenge fail every time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

subskz · 7 months ago

Text

multitasking - s.cb

content: sub changbin, dom reader, pegging, lots of teasing, slight dumbification, binnie cries a little, male squirting, praise, handjob, female reader

word count: 4.5k

“One, two, three. One, two, three. Just like that, okay?”

Changbin’s breath came out in shudders, so noisy that you wondered if he could even hear you over them. Judging by his scrunched up nose and furrowed eyebrows coming together to form an adorable look of concentration, you doubted it. He was focused on one thing and one thing only.

“Binnie,” you sang. “Are you listening to me?”

Just to make sure you had his full attention, you brought the steady roll of your hips to a halt, keeping your strap buried inside him, but denying him the friction that had wiped all coherent thoughts from his brain. His body rocked for a few seconds more even after you’d stopped, operating purely off muscle memory. Then, it turned into squirming, hips twisting helplessly in the sheets to try and regain the buildup of pleasure he’d suddenly lost. You watched him wiggle around, half-amused, half-endeared as he finally blinked his hazy eyes open to process what was going on.

“Mm?” he mumbled; drowsy, like he’d been stirred from a dream. “S-sorry? I didn’t…”

His gaze fully refocused to find you smiling down at him. On your end, you could’ve sworn his pupils dilated just a little bit more, painting his irises black and glazing them over. They looked so innocent, you’d never guess what he was really pleading for.

“I said,” you began playfully, running your palms up his twitching thighs just to tease him. They felt especially thick under your touch with all the tension they were holding, you couldn’t resist digging your nails into his flesh, hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents behind. The tight clench of his muscles was almost as satisfying as the sweet little gasp he let out. “Are you listening to me?”

Changbin swallowed down the saliva that had begun pooling in his mouth, sucking in a deep breath to find his voice again. “O-oh, yeah.” He shifted on the mattress to inch himself closer to you, as if your strap didn’t already have him filled to the near brim. “Yeah, listening. Sorry.”

“What number are we on, baby?”

He paused, doll-like lips curving deep into a pout. It was almost cute enough for you to let him off easy—almost.

“I…I don’t—” he chuckled nervously, eyes flickering to the side. “F-four?” You shook your head. “Five?”

You could tell he was growing restless, even when he was doing his best to behave himself. His dick twitched against his stomach, crying out for you to just forget about the count and start thrusting into him again. All the blood in his system must’ve pooled hot in his abdomen by now, you couldn’t even blame him for not being able to think straight.

“S-sorry, I really can’t remember,” he stuttered, embarrassed. “Again?”

It was the second or third time Changbin had lost track by now, and he once again found himself cursing the second he’d ever let his pride rope him into this tortuous little game you’d proposed. He’d never been one to back down from a challenge, even if it was a challenge that you both knew full well he’d fail miserably at. That, combined with his insatiable need to impress you clouding his better judgment, had him playing right into your hands.

“I can multitask!” he’d protested. “Do you know how much work it takes to be this cute and sexy at the same time?”

“So much work,” you’d agreed solemnly, trying not to crack a smile over the defensive squeak in his voice. “Then this should be no problem for you, right?”

From the moment you’d first bottomed out inside him, Changbin had gotten the sense that he’d already lost.

“I’m trying to help you, baby,” you pouted down at him. His eyes fluttered shut as you dragged your index finger along his plump, wet lips, mesmerized with the cute popping sound they made every time you prodded at them. “If you’re too dumb to count by yourself, just repeat after me.”

“N-no, Binnie’s smart,” he insisted, muffled by your finger. His legs squeezed around your waist like they had a mind of their own, trying to rub against each other and generate some friction. “Not dumb. I can do it, lemme do it.”

“Yeah? Let’s try and make it past three this time.” You gave his cheek an affectionate pat. A shiver ran through his body as your hands glided down to his hips, gripping his soft flesh to stabilize yourself before inching out of him bit by bit.

Immediately, Changbin’s attempt at counting was cut off by his own whine, stretching out for every second the silicone dragged along his walls. Then, you heard it, shaky and breathless as you pushed back inside him.

“O-one.”

His stomach rose sharply under your palms as you pulled out a second time. Before you’d even snapped your hips forward again, he gasped out a “two”, all too eagerly. You giggled, waiting a few extra seconds just to test his patience

“Two,” he repeated with a tinge of desperation. He looked lost, like he was genuinely wondering if he’d already managed to mess up the order somehow.

You felt a tinge of pity; he really was trying his hardest for you. So, you followed through, deciding to take it slow this time so he actually stood a chance in counting your thrusts. His foggy brain was grateful for it, but his body, not so much.

“Th-three—ah. Three. Faster, please?” he barely got the words out in time before he felt that delicious stretch again, coaxing an especially high moan. “F-four.”

You could practically taste the hunger rolling off his skin in warm waves. Every needy noise that grew louder his throat, every jerk of his hips begged you for more, even if he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up with it. His teeth sank into his bottom lip when you pushed back inside of him without missing a beat—faster, just like he’d asked for, and as deep as your position would allow. You dragged your hands up and down his stomach in unison with the slide of your strap; such a simple touch, but enough to disrupt his concentration all over again.

“Fi—” he began. His voice failed him, cracking pitifully as you grabbed his bouncing chest at the very same instant you brushed against his sweet spot, digging your fingers hard into the plush skin. “F…f-fi…fuck.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, throwing his head back against the pillows as his resolve fully crumbled. The sensation of your palms pressing against his nipples was already dizzying enough, but once you took the hardened buds between your fingers and pinched, he was a complete goner. He made no effort to keep counting even when you didn’t stop rocking your hips, instead letting his mouth hang open uselessly, spilling out another long, shameless moan that made goosebumps rise on your skin. Just a few strokes in, and he was already so far gone.

You let him get away with it for a bit longer, taking the time to admire his dark, messy curls sprawled out against the white pillowcase, even fluffier than usual from all his tossing and turning. Everything about him was so soft. His pecs spilled out between your fingers as you pawed at them, his full cheeks were flushed red and his lips were swollen into a cute, puffy ring after how much he’d nibbled on them. It took all your willpower to not give in to the irresistible sight and keep pounding into him until his head really was too empty to think anymore.

“So pretty, Binnie. Wanna keep you like this forever,” you murmured. You could feel his heartbeat pick up over the praise, pulsing faster under your palms. Then, all at once, you forced your hips to stop and snapped him out of his daze yet again. “But a pretty boy like you still needs to listen.”

“M-mmph,” he mewled. His body chased after your touch, protesting the loss before he even fully realized what was going on. “N-no. Sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t stop, please?”

“I only stop when you stop.” Your hum was deceptively sympathetic as you watched him fist the sheets in frustration, biceps bulging and chest heaving. His throat bobbed as you closed his slack jaw and tilted his chin up, brushing your thumb delicately over his tiny scar to urge him to look at you. “What’s got you so distracted, hm? What’s on my baby’s mind?”

He forced his eyes open again, so dark that you could see yourself reflected in them clear as day. They gave you your answer before he even said it.

“You,” he breathed. It was a reply he’d normally be proud of, but with the way you were staring him down from above, he couldn’t stop a sheepish giggle from rising in his throat, lips twitching at their corners and cheeks bunching up.

“Me?” you echoed. “Or this?”

You slid your strap back inside him in one sharp thrust, angling it so that the tip rolled against the roof of his walls and hit his prostate perfectly. He cried out as if on command, high-pitched and sweet. “Ah! Yes, r-right there.”

Even your own rules were becoming less convincing of a reason to deny him when you knew those were the kinds of sounds you’d be missing out on. But you were on a mission, today; teaching Changbin how to multitask, or, toying with his body until he couldn’t take it anymore—whichever came first.

“There’s my answer.” You feigned disappointment, flattening your palm against his stomach and pressing down right around where you guessed the head of your strap had reached inside him. “All you care about is being filled up, huh, baby?”

“N-no, no.” His hand pawed around blindly in the sheets for a moment before he found you, grabbing on to your wrist and pushing your hand harder against the soft pudge of his tummy. You weren’t sure if he’d done it just to gain some kind of stimulation, or because he was just aching to be as close to you as physically possible, but to his credit, he forced himself not to lose his train of thought even as the sensation had his eyes rolling back.

“Binnie’s a good boy. ‘M only like this ‘cause of you. I need you, please.”

He was right; he was such a good boy. He could forget how to count, forget how to close his mouth, forget how to listen, but he’d never ever forget how to say please. That was something you didn’t have to teach him. Still, you didn’t give him what he wanted just yet, instead tracing gentle patterns on his skin, just above where his cock was leaking out tiny drops of precum. It took a few moments for him to connect the dots, but finally, he rasped out the word you were looking for.

“Four…n-no, wait, it was five,” he stammered. “Please, don’t stop, please?”

“Good boy,” you cooed. Grabbing hold of his thighs, you used all your strength to pull your bodies closer together, lifting his legs and settling them around your waist for easier access. A cute, flustered giggle escaped him as he scooted down the mattress, melting into a sigh of pleasure when you were able to nestle your strap even deeper inside him than before.

His fingers sank into the sheets, gripping them so tight that you could see the muscles in his forearms flexing. “S-six,” he gritted out. “M-mm, feels so good. More, please, more.”

The sound of skin on skin began to fill the room as you finally picked up your pace like Changbin had been begging for. You made every stroke count; deep and heavy, pulling out until just the head of your strap was left teasing his entrance, then sliding all the way back inside until your hips smacked against the back of his thighs. The new position immediately took a toll on him, you could tell by the growing lapse in his counting. Every time you left his walls fluttering around nothing, it took a few seconds before he remembered to call out the next number, just so he could feel the relief of you burying the toy inside him again.

“Nine,” he gasped. The building pressure in his core drained his concentration little by little, making for an adorable show of reactions for you the more his self-control slipped. Every pretty sound he made rang out in the thick, hot air around you, unrestrained and heavenly. Your gaze fell from his blissed out face to where his dick laid half-hard against his stomach, bouncing from the impact of your movements. It gave you an idea.

Changbin choked on his next number as you brought your hand to his head, scooping up the tiny beads of precum and curling your fingers around it. You felt him swell in your grip almost instantly, and when you began to pump his cock along with your thrusts, he fully throbbed in your hands with a fresh wave of heat.

“El-elev—ngh,” he slurred out, barely intelligible. “Three…four. No, t-ten.”

“Four? Ten?” you mimicked. “That’s not right, baby. Try again.”

You swirled your thumb around his leaking tip, effectively fizzling out the last of his thoughts. It was hopeless; the strokes of your hand were mixing up with the pump of your strap, muddling his everything together until he couldn’t distinguish between the pleasure. “Six…n-no, ah. Good, so good. I c-can’t—”

“You usually listen so well, Binnie,” you frowned. “What happened to my good boy?”

Changbin bit down on his bottom lip, so hard that you worried his cute little fang might dig deep enough to split the plush skin. You timed your thrusts seamlessly with the rhythm of your hand, sinking down on his cock as you pulled out of him, and gliding back up his length as you bottomed out again.

“Y-your hand,” he whimpered. “It’s confusing me, I can’t…feels too good.”

“Should I stop touching you, then?”

You released him from your grip, letting his dick fall against his stomach to twitch over the loss. His hips surged up in protest, a soft whine spilling out of him and growing even louder when you pulled your strap out of him in one fluid motion, leaving his walls clenching wildly for you.

“No, no,” he groaned, locking his ankles around your waist to try and bring you closer. “Please, ‘m so close. Please.”

Taking the silicone into your hand, you lined it up with his entrance, pressing the tip just hard enough against him to add an exhilarating pressure. His reaction didn’t disappoint; a full-body shudder, rippling through his muscular thighs, making his chest jump and his biceps tighten.

“You want it, baby?” you asked sweetly, circling the head of the toy around his rim.

“Yes, yes, please.” The way he rolled his body was nothing short of sinful, you almost gave in right there. His tiny grunts of frustration only grew the more your strap prodded at his hole, teasing the sensitive nerve-endings without giving him the satisfaction of slipping back inside. “Please, b-been so good. Give it to me, please.”

“I know, baby.” You inched the toy away before he could get any real stimulation out of it, brushing its slick tip against his inner thighs in a playful taunt. “Just tell me where we left off, and I’ll fuck you like a good boy.”

Changbin shot you a look of pure helplessness, eyebrows scrunching in dismay as it dawned on him what you wanted.

“I-I…I don’t remember,” he mumbled, not even trying to muster up a guess before he surrendered. “I got it all mixed up, I can’t—”

“I thought Binnie was smart?”

He squeaked in protest as you pulled your strap completely away with a click of your tongue. “I am! I a-am. Again, please? I’ll try again.”

It wouldn’t make a difference, he knew that as well as you did. But he said it anyway, as a last resort—anything to feel you stretching him out again, anything to hear you whisper honeyed praises into his ear as he fell apart for you.

“You’re hopeless, baby,” you murmured, brushing back his fluffy bangs to reveal his eyes. They were wide as moons, full of desperation and welling up with tears at their corners.

“Please.” The droplets spilled over before he could blink them away. You softened as they trickled down his flushed cheeks, darkening his eyelashes and glazing over his pupils.

“You’re crying?” Gently, you cupped his face to soothe him. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin as you wiped away his stray tears, only for new ones to take their place again. “You want it that bad, angel?”

The wet gleam in his eyes spoke for itself, but still, he managed a tiny nod.

“You look so pretty like this,” you marveled, rubbing the pad of your thumb under his eye to scoop up another bead trailing down his face.

Despite himself, Changbin perked up over your words. “Pretty?” he sniffled.

“Mm.” A mix of lube and tears smeared his skin as you tilted his chin up, looking him straight in his eyes to admire the fresh droplets gathering at their edges. They caught the light like rhinestones, a visual captivating enough for you to give him anything his heart desired in that moment. “Beautiful boy. My pretty little crybaby.”

Changbin’s nose scrunched up, a shy, downturned smile tugging at his lips. He knew there was a condescending hint to your words, but when they were spoken so sweetly, when you called him pretty in that voice—when you called him yours in that voice—he could do nothing but melt.

“Seriously. Don’t you like me too much?” He pawed your hand away in embarrassment, but you didn’t miss how his face lit up, visibly yearning for more compliments, for your approval.

You let out a fond hum. Just like that, you’d found the key to keeping him motivated. He sucked in a sharp breath of surprise as you took hold of your strap, realigning it with his entrance.

“Let’s try again.” You tapped the head of the toy against his rim, just to bask in the way it made him wriggle in the sheets. “Show me how good you are, baby.”

He nodded again, still timid, but revitalized by your encouragement. His lips puckered into a cute little rosebud for you, and with a soft giggle, you took the hint, leaning down to press them against yours. The wet trails on his cheeks cooled your skin as you kissed him, slowly, dragging your lips past the corner of his mouth to kiss away away his tears, too. His shaky sigh fanned out around you, warm and feather-light as you sank back into him, all the way to the hilt of your strap.

“One.”

You rested one hand on the mattress, bringing the other back to his dripping cock. It was still fully hard even after being neglected so long, jerking gratefully in your palm as you began to stroke it again.

“Two. Th—mm—three.”

“That’s my boy,” you praised. “I know you can do it for me.”

You matched the rock of your hips with the glide of your hand, just as you’d been doing before. It immediately took effect on Changbin, slurring his speech and making his face scrunch up. But he kept trying for you.

“Four…ah, please.”

“Good boy. Keep it up, okay?” You rolled your strap against his sweet spot, teasing it repeatedly with the curved silicone tip before pulling out again.

“Five. F-five, again, please.”

You indulged him. “Doing so well for me, Binnie,” you crooned, swiping your thumb over his swollen head and making his hips buck. “My smart boy. My good boy.”

“Mm, mm. Binnie’s smart. Your s-smart boy,” he agreed. He was so simple; spurred on by your doting, even as that familiar, hot coil in his abdomen started nipping at the edges of his mind again. “Your g’boy…ngh. So good.”

More tears trickled from the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them shut, trying to get ahold of his thoughts long enough to get out the next number. You were being so patient with him, so kind to him, he had to do his best for you.

“Six,” he whimpered. A new wave of droplets spilled over, this time, because the pleasure was growing too strong to bear. You picked up your pace as you drank in the addictive sight; his clenching stomach, tear-stained face, his bulging muscles grasping at the sheets. He deserved it when he took it all so well and looked so good doing it.

“Seven, eight—close! I c-can’t—!”

“Almost there, baby. Just a little more,” you encouraged him. “You’re so perfect like this. Don’t you wanna show me how pretty you look when you cum for me?”

His dick stiffened in your hand, both over your words and the way you wrapped your palm around its sticky tip. The squelching noise that each roll of your hand created started to mess with his head again, distracting him from his count.

“Eight…e-eight—ah, please. Please, please, please. ‘M gonna—”

“C’mon Binnie, you’re so close. Don’t give up now.”

“Ten, n-no, nine? Nine—?”

He clenched his jaw, hips surging up and walls tightening around your strap like he was afraid you might pull out at any moment. It was useless. No matter how desperately he tried to concentrate, the pressure in his stomach consumed everything else, emptying his mind a little more each time you filled him up. “S-sorry, ‘m sorry. It’s so good, t-too good.”

“I know, baby,” you purred, sensing that he’d reached his limit. “It’s okay, let it all out for me.”

Changbin’s words melted into moans again as you thrust into him with more force, giving him no chance to brace himself for each dizzying stroke, let alone keep track of them anymore. He wasn’t sure if it was because of how tortuously long the buildup to his climax had been, but the sensation creeping up on him felt more intense than usual, like a dam of water waiting to break. Everything felt amplified—the drag of the silicone along his ridges, the sensitivity of his nerve-endings at every point of contact, the dancing of your fingers around his cock—it was all dialed up to a hundred.

You thumbed at his leaking slit, unprepared for just how powerful of a reaction it’d elicit from him. He stiffened beneath you as a jolt of pleasure shot straight to his core, breaking the dam loose all at once.

Changbin’s broken sob sent a shiver down your spine. He arched his back off the mattress as his orgasm racked his body, spurting his release against the pad of your thumb. You stopped rocking your hips to admire him, completely taken by the sight unfolding before you. His cock pulsed in your hand with every wave of pleasure that passed through him, spraying out more cum than you’d ever seen before. It was noticeably different from the sticky white ropes you were used to—watery and messy. The streams splattered against his contracting stomach, glazing his skin with a translucent layer of fluid and coating your hand in the process.

He was panting by the time the last few drops of his release spilled from his aching head. Even as it dribbled down his hips and sank into the sheets underneath him, he didn’t quite understand what had happened, far too preoccupied with the tiny aftershocks rippling through his body.

Your fingers uncurled from his dick, letting it fall limply against his ruined stomach. He flinched as you ran your hand over his soft, soaked flesh, still hypersensitive after the climax that had shaken him more intensely than either of you bargained for.

“Look at that, baby,” you marveled, holding up your dripping fingers for him to see. “Your dick’s crying, too.”

Changbin’s eyes fluttered open, shiny with residual teardrops. They widened when he registered why his skin felt so wet, why the bed beneath him felt so sticky and warm, and why his muscles felt deliciously sore, like when he stretched them after a good workout. His cheeks flushed beet red, legs squeezing around your waist in a pointless attempt to cover himself.

“Oh my God. I c-can’t believe—” His face was hot with shame as he buried it into his palms, muffling a noise that sounded something between a giggle and a miserable wail. “I didn’t mean to. W-wait, don’t look, please.”

His babbling trailed off when you stroked his stomach, a gentle touch that masked how fast your heart was still racing over the effect you’d had on his body. You wanted to make it happen again.

“That was intense,” you murmured. “Are you okay, Binnie?”

He couldn’t find the courage in him to reply, too mortified to face you after making such a wreck of himself, too dazed to string a proper sentence together. All he could manage was peeking out shyly between his fingers.

You rested your hands over his to tug them away from his eyes and get a look at him. A soft objection rumbled in his throat, but he let you, anyway, mustering all his self-control to not shove his face in the pillows and hide away from your stare.

“M okay,” he reassured you quietly.

“Felt good?”

“Good,” he mumbled. “Too good. Wh-what did you do?”

“Ask yourself that, baby,” you drawled. Changbin shivered as you gave his hips a squeeze, an embarrassing mewl slipping past his lips when he clenched around your strap reflexively and realized it was still nestled deep inside him. “Look at the pretty little mess you made for me.”

Changbin let out another low whine. He gave up on maintaining eye contact, turning his head to squish his heated cheeks against the pillow. “Binnie’s shy.”

“You’re so cute.” You ran your fingers through his messy curls to ease his mind, relieved when you felt some of his tension relieve under your touch. “Do you have any idea how hot that was?”

Your words seemed to snap him back to his senses, clearing the fog in his head and reminding him of how he’d even reached this point in the first place. He made a tiny grunt of effort as he scrambled to prop himself up on his unsteady elbows, eyes widening with guilt. When he spoke, his voice was shot, edged with a delicious rasp after how much he’d strained it.

“I…” he giggled nervously. “I-I lost count again.”

You puffed out a light laugh of your own. Even you had completely forgotten about keeping track of your thrusts after watching Changbin fall apart so beautifully for you. Your little experiment may not have worked out, but you were far more interested in the outcome, anyway.

“Guess we’ll just have to keep practicing, yeah? Until we find out how many it takes for you to cum for me like that again.”

#skz smut #sub!skz #sub!changbin #changbin smut #skz x reader #changbin x reader #dom!reader #seo changbin smut

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livwritessometimes · 4 months ago

Text

Opposite - Pierre Gasly

: Pierre Gasly x Singer!reader

: Pierre’s new relationship leaves Y/n questioning their time together

: Series Masterlist

: Main Masterlist

: Author's Note - finallyyyy got time to write this part!! Also let me know if you guys want a taglist for I'm Pretty When I Cry Series (I have a few people who want to be tagged in Pt 2 for loml and Enough For You)

…

liked by pierregasly and 84,946 others

👤: pierregasly

Yourname: "Hey dan- I mean Bonjour" "Oh you mean, Au Revoir! Goodbye Humphrey, we're leaving" "where are you guys going?" "Paris"

view all 78,732 comments

pierregasly: It absolutely did not take Y/n 30 minutes to find this particular episode from gossip girls, just so she could use it as her caption

-> Yourname: Uh as if! guys let me tell you Pierre was just as invested as I was, if not more while watching the episode

-> pierregasly: shhh don't expose me 🤐

liked by Yourname and 102,721 others

👤: Yourname

pierregasly: Terrorizing the streets of New York with the biggest baddie who wears a bow!

view all 92,682 comments

Yourname: say all you want about the bow, just know when we get caught and they take our mugshots, we know who's gonna look good and who's not 💅🏻

-> alpinef1team: Please don't get arrested, we can't have our driver behind the bars before the season starts 😅

-> pierregasly: ...🥲

User39: Y/n and Pierre try to write normal caption challenge failed 🙅🏻‍♀️

-> User44: I love them constantly bullying each other 🥰

liked by pierregasly and 92,731 others

👤: pierregasly

Yourname: Rolling into the Dutch Grand Prix in style!

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pierregasly: 🩵

User77: OMGGGG P33333!!! Let's goooooo

User98: Best good luck charm Pierre could ask for 🍀

*liked by Yourname*

liked by Yourname and 106,931 others

👤: Yourname, alpinef1team

pierregasly: You get P3 and then all of a sudden you are tackled to the ground by some crazy fangirl 🙄 but jokes aside I could not have done this without your support, a huge shoutout to my amazing team and equally (if not more) amazing fans!!!

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alpinef1team: YESSSS! So Proud 💪🏻

alpinef1team: Best crazy fangirl to have around in the garage

-> Yourname: ...stop 🙈

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👤 : pierregasly

Yourname: Happy birthday to the weird guy from my flight who likes to sleep with his mouth open...He's quite the character!

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pierregasly: I can feel the love radiating from this post 🤭

-> Yourname: Guys that weird guy from my flight is back and now in my comment section

-> pierregasly: Jokes on you I'm inside your house

-> Yourname: 😨

User41: You guys are so cuteeeee! never stop bullying each other 🫶🏻

liked by Yourname and 95,731 others

👤: Yourname

pierregasly: Happy birthday to my crazy fangirl!! Here's to more years of bullying you 🥂

view all 86,821 comments

Yourname: Aa Ha there we have it folks, he just admitted he bullies me! My lawyer will get in touch with you Mr. Gasly and just so you know I'm getting the custody of @/alpinef1team 's admin

-> alpinef1team: Mom pick me up I'm scared, Dad is binge watching Gossip Girls again!!

-> pierregasly: wow! my own team i against me

-> alpinef1team: 🤭

User09: I will never get married if they break up

-> User712: Girl- same 🫱🏻‍🫲🏼

Y/n paused for a moment. The 10 minutes she had spent selecting every single photo she had with Pierre felt like eternity to her. So lost in her thought, she did not notice a drop tear roll down her face. It is funny how things can change so easily; how a lifetime worth of promises comes with an expiration date. "You will heal; I mean, look at how far you've come from where we were before," said Gracie, Y/n's best friend and probably the only person she had told about her breakup. For the rest of the world, Y/n and Pierre, 'the most playful couple', were still together, spending their vacation in some city filled with love and laughter.

It was Gracie who suggested that it's bout time she deleted their photos. I mean, it has been 2 months already; there is no point in holding on to something, someone who no longer wants to do anything with her.

She knew she would be fine. I mean, isn't that's how it's supposed to go? You hurt, you heal. It was simple, so why was it that hitting the delete button felt like the most difficult task in the world? Swallowing the lump in her throat, Y/n finally pressed the button, which in an instant erased the French man's existence from her life. Goodbyes are hard, especially when you did not see them coming. Y/n never dreamt of a future where she and Pierre wouldn't be together; sadly for her, that was the reality she now had to live in.

francisca.cgomes added to their story!

seen by Yourname and 65,821 others

Sitting in front of her dresser, Y/n was busy getting ready for the night. She saw the news about Pierre seeing someone else flood her Twitter feed. It's okay; it's not like he owed her an explanation or the fact that they broke up 4 months ago. It's perfectly fine for people to go out and explore the dating pool again. Hell, even Y/n had been on a few dates, none that got past the second date. What bothered her was the fact that Pierre was seen with his new girl in Paris. She still distinctively remembers one warm afternoon in July, where both she and Pierre were cuddled up on the couch watching some random movie to kill time. It was then that he told her, "I'm so excited for next week," he had said as he pulled Y/n closer to him. "And why is that?" she had questioned with a hint of amusement in her voice. "Paris holds a very special place in my heart, and a long time ago I decided that I would only take the people closest to my heart there," he said. "And you are very special to me, ma chérie," he added. It was always like this: cheeky comments and flirtatious replies were what made their relationship theirs.

So seeing him take Francisca Gomes to Paris felt like a direct hit. Here she was barely able to hold onto a new date, and there he was going to the city of love with his 'special person.'

Y/n had just finished applying a sheet mask and decided to watch some videos on YouTube while waiting for her timer to go off. Scrolling through the home page, her eyes landed on an interview with none other than Francisca or Kika, as everyone on the internet had called her. "Kika Gomes on Balancing Life as a Model, a Student, and the Girlfriend of Pierre Gasly" read the title. She knows she shouldn't; she knows that no positive outcome will come from this video, but ignoring all the warning signs, Y/n clicked on the video. Her room was filled with the voice of Kika and the interviewer. Sometime after the introduction and general questions, Y/n stopped paying attention to what was being said in the interview. That was until she heard the interviewer ask Kika about her and Pierre's relationship.

On that reply, Y/n let out a dry chuckle. 'When you know, you just know' how basic. Of course she would think that; why would she mind them moving in 'too fast'? She's got nothing to lose. It was Y/n that had to suffer over them 'moving in too fast.' But no one paid attention to that, because she was not the one he was in love with, not anymore, at least.

Sometime later in the interview, the host asked Kika to play a game, answer a few questions, and take part in a challenge. After about 5-6 questions, the host announced the challenge: 'Get Pierre to text you back in 2 minutes; if she fails, she has to perform a dare.' With a scoff, Y/n said, "Good luck with that." She knows there is no way Pierre would reply within 2 minutes; he never did that during the entirety of their 2 years together, and there is no way he's gonna do it now. She saw Kika type a message to Pierre before hitting send and answering yet another question. It had barely been 30 seconds; the girl on the screen barely finished her sentence when the ding from her notification filled the studio. Y/n felt her heart drop; there was no way it was him; he had never been so quick before. Ya, Y/n was sure it was not him, but then what Kika said made her doubt a lot of things about her relationship with Pierre.

That reply was quick; that's what bothered Y/n. No, scratch that; that was one of the things that bothered Y/n about this new relationship. The girl in front of her could not have been more different from Y/n. She was taller than her, younger than her, and a lot prettier than her. They could not have been more opposite of each other. It made Y/n question whether she was even Pierre's type all along. Was that the reason why he broke up with her? because she was not like the usual girls he would go for? because she did not fit his standard of beauty? Before Y/n could spiral down any further, her phone started ringing, startling her and cutting off her long chain of thought. Looking down, she saw that it was her manager who was calling her. She looked at the top of the screen to check the time: 11:24 p.m. It was odd for her manager to call her at this hour. Confused, she answered the phone, "Hello?"

liked by gracieabrams and 120,371 others

👤 : gracieabrams, taylorswift

Yourname: Word on the street that two best friends are on their way to traumatize a whole lot of people at the ERAS TOUR!!!! YES you heard it right, my boy Mario and I are officially joining the wonderful, absolutely stunning Taylor Swift at the Eras Tour.

view all 100,282 comments

gracieabrams: AHHHHHHHHH

-> gracieabrams: OH MY GODDDDDDDD

-> gracieabrams: I HAVEN'T STOPPED CRYING

-> gracieabrams: I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE THIS

User66: @/taylorswift I think you broke Gracie

gracieabrams: WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY MARIO?? Where did you get that photo from????

-> Yourname: I have my own ways 😌

liked by gracieabrams and 99,722 others

Yourname: Best believe I'm still bejeweled, when I walk in the room....Yk how that saying goes ✨

view all 90,801 comments

Yourname: Also for everyone wondering where I got that cowboy hat from? I made it with TAYLOR SWIFT 🙌🏻

-> User83: Please tell me you have matching COWBOY HATS????

-> Yourname: You bet your ass we do 👏🏻

gracieabrams: Well ofc a diamond's gotta SHINEE~

-> Yourname: see Gracie gets it!!

taylorswift: Howdy partner <3

-> Yourname: I see you everyday yet when I saw the notification that you commented, I almost called my mom out of excitement!!!!

*liked by taylorswift*

-> taylorswift: 😂

liked by Yourname and 173,982 others

👤 : Yourname, taylorswift

gracieabrams: Oh nothing just a girls night in with my 2 besties 👯‍♀️

view all 120,282 comments

Yourname: I'm just gonna go ahead and say it I'm the best bartender out there!

-> gracieabrams: I was gonna say something sarcastic but I don't think my 7th glass of Margarita would let me 🫢

User87: Alt caption: Taylor Swift getting traumatized for 15 minutes straight from witnessing Y/n and Gracie fighting with each other every second of the day

*liked by taylorswift*

After one too many drinks, Y/n, Gracie, and Taylor were all chilling at the rental Y/n and Gracie were sharing. The night was filled with drinks and laughter. With soft music playing in the background, Y/n looked around at Gracie and Taylor, both texting their boyfriends, giggling over their phones. A content look on their faces. Even though Y/n smiled at the sight, a bitter taste filled her mouth. Excusing herself, she went to the bathroom. After being together with someone for 2 years, it's easy to forget what it's like to be single again. It's been 6 months now since they broke up. Y/n knows she shouldn't miss him, because it was obvious that he clearly wasn't missing her. Looking in the mirror, she saw her blonde hair and blue eyes staring back at her. She wondered was it her eyes? Did he just want someone who had darker eyes all along? Y/n knew Kika's features so well, that one might think of her as an obsessive fan, and maybe she was. Definitely not a fan though. Maybe she was obsessed with Kika; what was it that she has that Y/n doesn't? Way beyond her senses, Y/n, in her drunken state, pulled out her phone and opened Instagram to post a story of herself.

Yourname added to their story!

seen by User40 and 65,821 others

liked by User22 and 101,282 others

👤: pierregasly, francisca.cgomes

Formula1WagsUpdates: Pierre Gasly's partner, Kika Gomes, was spotted at the Miami Grand Prix. The couple were seen entering the paddock together. Some fans spotted the two being extremely affectionate, with Pierre's hand never leaving her back. Ever since the couple started dating, fans have noticed a change in Gasly's demeanor. Some say he has become more of a gentleman ever since Gomes entered his life. All we can say is that we love every moment we can get with the adorable couple.

view all 65,029 comments

User22: They are so cuteeeeee

User09: I'm not gonna lie Pierre has STEPPED UP as a boyfriend!!!

User87: I think it's kinda sad that they refer to Kika as Pierre Gasly's girlfriend and not just by her name. Honestly feel they would have never done that had it been Y/n here.

-> User60: I mean she is his girlfriend! how else should anyone introduce her????

liked by gracieabrams and 99,722 others

Yourname: Red is the color of the season! and no it's not because of my recent obsession with strawberry jam 🍓

view all 90,801 comments

gracieabrams: A lot of nonsense coming from someone who just finished their third bottle of jam this month

-> Yourname: Shhhhh don't say that out loud my trainer might hear you

taylorswift: The treats turned out to be soo goodddd!!

-> Yourname: I did have the best baking partner after all!!

User44: ummm is no one gonna talk about the last photo???

liked by charles_leclerc and 299,722 others

pierregasly and francisca.cgomes: The best new beggenings anyone could wish for!! Meet our baby boy Simba 🦁

view all 230,873 comments

francisca.cgomes: My son 🩵

-> pierregasly: you mean our son???

-> francisca.cgomes: NO MINE

alexandrasaintmleux: Leo and Simba playdate when???

-> francisca.cgomes: Just say the time and place and we'll be there

User88: OMGGG THEY GOT A DOGGGG

-> User30: Ikrrrrrrr!!! he really is ready to settle down 🥰

What are you supposed to feel when your ex moves on with his life? How should one even react when they see him show more commitment to his current relationship than he did to yours? Y/n wondered, What was even the point of feeling like this? I mean, shouldn't she be happy? She has got everything she could have asked for: a job with her idol, performing night after night in front of people who love her and her music, and spending every second of her life with her best friend by her side. Y/n had everything, but somehow she still felt empty.

He got a dog with her. Y/n still remembers the day when she suggested they get a pet together. "Come on, Pierre, look at this puppy; he's perfect!!!," Y/n had beamed while showing Pierre a photo of the dog she had seen at the shelter. "He is cute, but you know we can't get a pet," Pierre had said. "We're not even home most of the time, and the constant travelling won't help the dog," he had reasoned. Dejected, she sat back down on the couch, opting to delete the photo. What's the point of keeping it when she knows she will never be able to adopt the puppy?

liked by gracieabrams and 102,882 others

Yourname: Been thinkin' lots of thoughts 💭

view all 93,702 comments

gracieabrams: hmmm how tho? because last I know i'm pretty sure it's empty up there, like spider webs and shit 😌

-> Yourname: I had ordered Taco Bell for us but looks like you won't be needed it anymore 🙃

-> gracieabrams: Y/N NOOO! I swear I was just kidding 😭

-> User09: Not a single day goes by without us getting Gracie and Y/n acting like kids 🤦🏻‍♀️

User33: Did she just...post lyrics?????????? and that angsty ones?????

-> User86: Shhhhhh!! It can't hurt you if you refuse to acknowledge it

It was finally done. Y/n had just finished her album. She's not gonna lie; this album was probably the most difficult one to record. Especially the last song she recorded. After pushing it back for months, she finally did it. She got in the recording room and poured her little heart out. What surprised Y/n were the tears that came while she recorded the song. It's not like she was in love with him, not anymore, at least. Y/n had finally accepted the fact that no matter how much she questioned the reason for Pierre leaving her and choosing Kika, she could not come up with an answer that would have given her some closure. She had gone through every possible scenario in her head; what could she have done differently to make him stay? But while doing all this thinking, Y/n realized that no matter what she did, he would have ended up with her. Maybe he was holding out, waiting to find someone opposite her, someone who fit his description of "perfect," a match "made in heaven."

It was time she let go of this chapter, no matter how much it hurt her, it was time to say goodbye to all the possibilities of them.

liked by gracieabrams and 172,874 others

Yourname: I'm so excited to announce my brand new album, 'Emails I Can't Send'! This album contains exactly what the title says. There will be a lot of times in life where you find yourself in a situation where you want to say things or question things, but you can't because that's just how things have to be. This album contains all the things I wish I could have said. I hope you enjoy the little piece of my heart that I'm sharing with you! Keep it safe <3

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gracieabrams: I am so proud of you!!!! words can't describe how proud I feel right now 🫂

*liked by Yourname*

taylorswift: I have been to the studio...and let's just say you guys are in for a ride!! 🎢

*liked by Yourname*

User97: DID YOU GUYS PLAY OPPOSITE BECAUSE AHHHHHH

…

523 notes · View notes

itsgodepi · 30 days ago

Text

First Winners | MV33

Summary: After a challenging first season, you return to the Formula One world with renewed determination and lots to prove. You and Max have finally left your rivalry behind and the future has never looked more promising. Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader Note: this is the second and last part of a collection called Chasing Firsts, being First Loser the part 1 of it. It can be read as a standalone but you'll understand things better if you have read part 1. Word Count: 11k Warnings: emotional distress, mentions of injury Also on AO3

“Sorry!” you shout, breathless, as you sprint across the track, heart racing with effort and pure excitement.

It is one of those nice sunny days, where the sky is clear but the air remains refreshingly cool, just right for the snug embrace of the race suit. Ahead of you, the drivers are already standing on position, their brightly colored team gear popping against the backdrop of the asphalt.

Formula 1 Gulf Air Bahrain Grad Prix 2022.

Just reading the huge sign placed in front of the group makes your skin tingle, the thrill of the season ahead and the weight of what had come before thrumming in your heart.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” Lando’s voice rings out, dripping with playful mockery, his face lighting up with exaggerated shock.

The teasing begins immediately as you half-run to your place, playful cheering and clapping for your ‘long-awaited’ arrival. Your eyes find Max across the group —his signature grin spreads wide, eyes sparkling with amusement. You wave off their jokes with a smile of your own, shaking your head and quickly unknotting the sleeves of the suit from your hips. Not even five minutes have passed.

"I had to take shots for the opening titles and all that stuff!” you explain, slightly out of breath as you slide into your spot.

Your position is on the left side, wedged between Yuki Tsunoda and the McLarens. Behind you, the Alpine drivers stand a step higher, getting settled in for the photo. Daniel is quick to throw an arm around your shoulders, shaking you from side to side with an exaggerated cheer while you try to fix yourself.

“Welcome back! We missed you”

You look up at him, your lower lip pushed out in a joking warning “Don’t say that! I’ll cry!”

Daniel just grins. “Oops. My bad,” he laughs, releasing you and falling back into position.

The photographers quickly signal they are ready.

You also draw a smile for the cameras, despite the emotions that start bubbling inside of you. The uncertainty, the fear that your racing career was over and you wouldn’t get into a Formula One car ever again. You weren’t even lined up for a reserve driver role, left scrambling after Hass had terminated your contract late in the off-season. Every seat was covered.

And yet, her you were again, this time wearing AlphaTauri’s colors.

The world seems to blur around you, your eyes stinging as you try and fail to blink back the tears welling up. You turn around, pressing your hands over your face in a desperate attempt to pull yourself together. You can hear the confused murmurs around you, drivers shifting slightly as they notice the photographers stopping their work.

“What’s wrong?” someone asks, but before you could respond, Alex Albon’s voice rings out above the chatter, announcing to everyone within earshot, “Aw, she’s crying!”

That was it —every driver and staff surrounding you turned into a mix of soft chuckles and sympathetic coos. You feel a hand gently land on your head from the spot behind yours, Fernando, offering a quiet, steady reassurance. Daniel also shifts beside you, using his body to shield you from the cameras as he begins to draw comforting circles on your back. You let out a shaky breath.

Some things never change, you think. At least, this time, they’re happy tears.

A couple days later, you find yourself standing among the drivers in a more composed manner. The pre-race buzz growing loud around you.

Max comes to stand beside you, flashing a grin and checking “How are you feeling?”

You cross your arms in front of you, glancing at the grandstands and staff rushing around. Everything had to be perfect for the first race of the season.

“Honestly? Weird,” you admit, scrunching your nose “It’s just... I don’t know”

Carlos, catching the tail end of your confession, chimes in “You’ve already been through the hard part,” he casually shrugs “Now’s just like last year”

You grimace, changing the weight from one leg to the other. The problem is that this could not be a repeat of last year, and yesterday’s qualy was clearly not helping that resolution. Sixteenth, for godness sake.

“Yeah, but with the new team...”

“Ah, don’t worry!” Lando chimes in, flashing you a cheeky smirk “No one will even notice the change, just a different shade of blue.”

He wasn’t wrong. In your almost identical white race suit, only the blue details and deep red logo of Hass had been swapped for the completely dark blue parts of the AlphaTauri emblem. They could have easily photoshopped you into the start of the season’s group photos.

You are fast to quip back “Says the guy who’s been a walking papaya for three seasons straight!”, nodding at his McLaren gear.

“Excuse me, it’s four seasons,” Lando corrects, mock-offended as he dramatically clutches his chest. “Have some respect!”

Carlos snickers, nudging you with his elbow. “Yeah, look at him, he’s a senior now”

“Whatever” you shake your head, waving a hand in the air to dismiss their corrections. “But yeah, I was hoping for a darker color or something. They had some nice blue ones back when you were in it” you add, glancing up at Max.

The Dutch, who had been quietly hearing the conversation, raises his eyebrows slightly. His eyes shifting between you and Carlos, his old teammate, trying to recall those days in Toro Rosso.

You, on the other hand, remembered it vividly. That lanky teenager with rosy cheeks and a wide grin, who shyly laughed off the harsh questioning from the media and was still learning how to handle the spotlight that never seemed to leave him. Max Verstappen, then the youngest driver in Formula 1 history, had merely been a young boy thrust into the cutthroat world of racing, where every mistake felt magnified and the pressure was unyielding.

And now, here he was, standing tall and confident next to you on his eighth season. He had transformed into a fierce competitor, coming off a runner-up finish in the previous World Championship and now fiercely hungry for his first title.

Max sure had grown a lot.

Just a few minutes later, a staff member gently interrupts your conversation, guiding your group toward the red carpet as the national anthem prepares to play. The Red Bull driver helps you weave through the crowd all the way to the front, and finds a spot right next to you as they finalize preparing the ceremony. The atmosphere around you hums with excitement, fans' cheers growing louder as everyone settles into place for the race presentation.

It doesn’t take long for someone to notice that Max has given up his prime position at the center, as the race pole winner, for a place next to you. But by then, he’s already achieved his goal: calming your nerves with a few light-hearted quips, leaving you smiling even as he’s more or less escorted back to his position.

Still, after the ceremony comes to an end, the Dutch manages to find his way back to you. Just to wish you good luck one last time. Max tries to do so seamlessly, thrusting himself into the sea of people and matching your pace as you walk back to your car —despite his own resting in the front row. The Red Bull mechanics waving their arms and making signs behind him, their expressions a mix of frustration and amusement, likely thinking he has forgotten his starting spot.

“Be careful, though, no ending up in the curb today,” he calls out, a playful grin lighting up his face when you near the crowd of white and blue AlphaTauri personnel “You’re not a rookie anymore!”

Your eyes widen when his words sink in, instantly transporting to last year events and how mad you had been at him. Those interviews and press conferences where you had been at each other neck, especially at the one Max references.

He had pushed you to the edge —both metaphorically and on the track—, so calling him a rookie was the softest thing he was going to get from you.

Max lets out a hearty laugh at your reaction, taking a couple steps back in his car’s direction. You roll your eyes, shooting him a playful middle finger which is thankfully hidden by the crowd of people still swarming the grid. No need to give the media something to buzz about before the race had even begun.

In a twist of irony, despite Max’s playful warnings, it’s him who ends up in the curb in the season opener. Well, not exactly like that, a fuel system failure forces him to retire just a few laps from the end. But naturally, when he wanders into the AlphaTauri garage afterward to congratulate you on your impressive debut, you can’t resist the jab.

Max sighs dramatically, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, I deserved that." But his smile is genuine, a glint of pride in his eyes as he pats your back. "Nice job out there."

It feels good. Really good.

Qualifying may have been rough, and your aggressive overtakes might’ve drawn some criticism, but that day, you managed to score your first points for AlphaTauri and secure your highest finish yet. Eighth place. Not bad, not bad at all.

You know you can’t promise this kind of result in every race, but it still feels like a statement. A message to all those who had questioned the team’s decision to sign you, who flooded the internet with doubts about your abilities. They chalked up your signing to desperation, to picking the only driver left on the market.

Now, with a hard-earned finish in the books, you feel a sense of vindication. You have proved you belong here.

Honestly, part of you understands their doubts. Not a single rumor had circulated about you being an option for AlphaTauri—or any other team—after a long break and the presentation of the new cars for the season. It had seemed clear: you had lost your opportunity in the F1 world, like many others. Once you stepped out, it felt like there was no coming back.

Yet, just two weeks before the start of the season, you were walking into AlphaTauri headquarters to finalize your contract.

From that moment, everything became a blur—papers to sign, photos to take, and a whirlwind of patience required to navigate your new life. Patience with your new team, with the bosses, and as always, with the media.

In the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, the car starts having issues as soon as qualifying starts. The steering is a mess, failing to respond to every single one of your manoeuvres, and the engine loses power lap after lap. The result: the withdrawal of your car just before the end of Q2.

It’s fine, you tell yourself, repeating it like a mantra. You’ll make do with what you have. You’ll forget everything when the lights go out. Even relaying a more polished version of it to the reporters.

It is March anyway, more specifically Drive to Survive new season’s release week, so they don’t care that much about your Qualy. Their focus lies elsewhere: namely, your huge rivalry with Max Verstappen, the centerpiece of Netflix’s media campaign.

A rivalry that does not exist anymore.

“I mean, I understand the interest,” you accept, taking a sip from your newly acquired Red Bull can-shaped bottle to organize your thoughts. “Max was having an amazing sea-”

Your sentence is abruptly cut off by a hand falling on your shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze. You turn back in surprise to see Max himself making his way past, his PR minder close behind.

“Sorry, sorry,” he shyly smiles, noticing he has distracted you from the question

You wave it off “It’s alright”, looking back to the camera

“We were actually talking about you,” the reporter interjects, seizing the chance to bring the two of you into the spotlight, already moving his microphone towards Max.

Max raises an eyebrow, a mix of confusion and caution on his face. You can sense the tension; it’s no secret that you have not been nice to each other in past interviews. Glad it is not like that today.

“About Netflix and all that” you finish for the reporter, noticing he wasn’t going to

“Oh, right, did you see the posters by the entrance?” Max suddenly remembers, a clever shift in the conversation. Like you, he must have been receiving this type of questions all weekend. “They look straight out of a movie! The one where you are jumping out of the car is the be...”

“Of me?” you cut in, pointing to yourself in disbelief.

“Yeah, it's you! From back in Austria, I think” Max confirms with a nod, taking a step toward his waiting interviewer. That’s when the crash went down “They’re just by the gate, next to the security. You should check them out.”

And just like that, Max has deftly diverted the spotlight and got you both off the hook from what could have been an incredibly uncomfortable interview. Sometimes, his media training does work wonders.

Later, he even sends you a photo of the poster, and you have to admit it: you look amazing in them.

Sunday morning dawns, and your sixteenth position on the grid is turned into a disappointing nineteenth due to necessary changes in your car's components. Last place. You don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse that you hardly get to feel the weight of starting at the back, since the steering wheel starts throwing every known error at you the moment you drive out of the pit lane for the formation lap. The radio crackles to life in the middle of your panic, informing you that the car is also smoking.

Just like that, your car is deemed unsafe to drive, and you are left to spend your second race seated in the AlphaTauri garage watching Yuki, your teammate, raise to P7.

This time, it’s you who walk over to the Red Bull garage after the race, hoping to congratulate Max on his amazing race and to escape the celebratory cheers in your own. The moment is far more fleeting than when he had come to see you in Bahrain. Max all smiles and adrenaline, skin glistening with champagne as he pulls you into a brief half-hug in the crowd of mechanics, before he’s whisked away to a meeting room for a post-race debrief.

He’s the winner, after all, and the season seems to look better for him with each passing race.

Meanwhile, for you, things only going downhill from there on. You’re doing terrible in qualifying, and fixing it in the race turns into an almost impossible mission as the rest of the cars swarm past, easily overtaking you even in the slowest sectors.

Those words of encouragement from Bahrain morph into doubtful glances once again. It doesn’t matter that you beat your own record with a seventh-place finish in Imola or that you manage to get within the points in Spain after a grueling race. The media decides to deem that performance “inconsistent” instead, and it stings.

Then comes the Canadian Grand Prix, a moment that seals your fate. You had climbed the grid from seventeenth place with sheer determination and some questionable overtakes, you were pushing it to the limit and the strategy was looking so promising. Lap 58 and you had managed to reach P9.

But as you exit the pits on your final set of tyres, everything comes crashing down.

“There we have it. Comes out of the pits on cold tires and goes straight on into the barrier” the sportscaster's frustration is almost palpable as they show the footage of your onboard camera “Such a shame”

The clip replays in your head and the TV on a constant loop. The way you accelerated and simply lost control, as if it were your first time in a Formula One car. Do you even know how to drive? —it’s basically what Esteban Ocon had screamed over the radio during your battle in the opening laps, and at this point, you’re starting to believe it yourself.

Your phone buzzes over the hotel bed, pulling you out of the haze. It’s Max.

Didn’t see you back at the garage. Hope you’re alright.

You leave the message sitting there, unread, unsure of what to say. It’s the first time you’ve skipped seeing him after the podium, breaking what had quietly become a tradition between the two of you since the Abu Dhabi GP. Max comes to your garage when you secure a decent finish, and more often than not, you head over to Red Bull to celebrate his wins. But yesterday, you couldn’t face it.

A few minutes later, another buzz.

Got a plane back to Monaco with a few of the guys. You’re welcome to join.

Thought it might be better than flying alone.

You hesitate, the idea of being around the other drivers feels exhausting right now.

It alright, Max. I already got the flight back.

Thanks

His response is instant.

If you change your mind, we’re leaving in a couple hours. Just let me know.

After the summer break, you return to the paddock with a new mindset. You have made a decision to not to care anymore. Not about the whispers, the criticism, or the endless pressure to prove yourself. Last year, you achieved a dream you had been chasing since you were a child—your first season in Formula One. And yet, instead of soaking in the accomplishment, you had spent every race weekend consumed by the opinions of others.

You are not going to make the same mistake this year. If there’s one thing you’ve learned from your time in Formula 1, it’s those opportunities like this, to redeem yourself, don’t come twice. So, you are decided to block out the noise. If people want to talk, let them. You have a job to do: racing.

But life has a way of throwing curveballs.

It’s Qualifying day at the Belgium Grand Prix, and the paddock is alive with the usual pre-session buzz. The weather, typical for Spa, is unpredictable —dark clouds loom over the track, threatening to turn the session into a chaotic lottery as the track slickens.

Unfortunately, you have found yourself being kicked out in Q1. You were pushing, clocking good lap times, but the worry about your wheels slipping on the wet asphalt held you back from going full throttle. As the session concludes, you can’t shake off the disappointment.

You discuss possible questions with your PR minder while waiting for your turn in the media pen. Your gaze drifts occasionally to the large screen nearby, watching the remaining drivers test the limits of their cars in the second session.

Suddenly, your stomach drops, and your heart races as you see a car spin out of control on the screen. It takes a moment for your brain to register the scene; it’s Sergio Perez. The monitor shows him losing grip during a fast lap, the car sliding wildly before crashing into the barriers. A collective gasp fills the media pen, and your breath catches in your throat.

A couple of hours later, Red Bull officially announces what everyone feared:

“Following a severe accident during Qualifying today, Sergio Perez has sustained a wrist injury that will prevent him from competing in the Belgian Grand Prix. He is currently receiving medical attention, and we wish him a swift recovery.”

The weight of the news hangs heavily in the air, and as fans and media begin speculating who will fill Checo's seat for the race, whispers circulate around the paddock. Some believe Yuki, with his existing experience in the Red Bull family, will be the front-runner for the seat. Others argue that Liam, fresh off impressive performances in F2, might be a bold choice but also an intelligent one.

It is safe to say that, when your name is announced in the following statement, nobody is expecting it.

Your new photo, clad in the Red Bull race suit, plasters itself across every headline, every social media feed. The press loses its collective mind.

From the back of the grid to Red Bull’s frontlines: A risk too far?

The mistake that could cost Red bull the constructors’ title

An erratic driver in a top-tier car. Will she crumble under pressure?

Inconsistent and unreliable. The weakest link signed for Red Bull’s title chase?

Every headline, every article paints the same picture—Red Bull taking a reckless chance with you, questioning your consistency and readiness for the top-tier spotlight. It’s as though no one remembers the flashes of brilliance you’ve shown, only the times you’ve faltered.

You can’t help but notice the lukewarm response from Christian Horner when he arrives to the paddock on race day.

"We’re giving her the opportunity, and she’ll have to show if her performance is up to our expectations." declares the Red Bull principal. It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement. More like a public trial, and you’re the one on the stand.

But Max? Max defends you, openly and unapologetically.

“Everyone’s being so quick to judge, but no one gets on this level by accident” he is asked about innumerable times that morning pre-race, and his response is always firm. Leaving no room for doubts “She’s more than capable.”

It’s a bold statement, one that earns Max a few raised eyebrows and more than enough jokes about needing to be saved from his PR team. But he doesn’t care. He stands by you, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you’ve got someone in your corner.

The pre-race ceremony feels like a fever dream. Drivers and team members pass by, offering fist bumps, handshakes, and quick words of encouragement. This time you are ushered to the front line for the race presentation, to stand next to Max Verstappen because that is your place right now. As his teammate.

"You do look better in blue, I’ll give you that" he whispers with a teasing grin, giving you a playful nudge

“Told you” you smile up at him, genuine happiness pulling at your lips "Guess I’ve got to prove I can drive just as well in it too."

"You will" Max responds, his tone suddenly serious, but there’s no pressure behind it —just belief.

When the lights go out, the roar of the engines swallows your every thought. You’re starting P13 as a result of Checo’s accident, but as the race unfolds, you move higher and higher in the grid. By lap 30, you're in 8th, and there’s no stopping you now. The Red Bull feels like a beast under your hands and you’re squeezing every bit of power out of it, pulling off daring overtakes with a confidence you didn’t know you still had.

Each overtake, each maneuver, pulls you higher up the grid. By the time the final laps roll around, you have somehow managed to slip into P3, a podium spot within your grasp. This is surreal.

Still, Carlos Sainz’s Ferrari is looming large in your mirrors. He’s fast, too fast, and he’s on fresher tires —he is not the one who had to fight half of the grid to get into this position. You know it's only a matter of time before he makes his move, but you defend like your life depends on it.

The Ferrari dives down the inside after the straight, and you can't hold him back any longer. He slips past, his car a red blur as he takes P3. The podium slips through your fingers, but you hold on to P4, pushing the car to its limits until the checkered flag waves.

In the media pen afterward, the energy is electric. You raise with confidence as the reporters wave his congratulations and questions. They press you for details, dissecting every turn, every near-miss. One reporter brings up the moment mid-race where you almost went off-track, and you grin, leaning into the microphone.

“Oh, yeah, look...” you sigh, laughter bubbling up inside you “Max told me to try his settings this weekend and, wow”

The interviewer chuckles at your reaction, but he really doesn’t know the half of it. It's unlike anything you’ve driven before, a razor-sharp font end and a rear looser than you've ever seen. The result of it is an extremely sensitive car, unpredictable, always on the edge of losing control.

“It’s hard to get used to, but you know... you don't argue with someone who's going to be the world champion."

A new announcement comes like a wave crashing over the F1 world a few days later: Sergio Perez will be sidelined for up to five races due to his wrist injuries. The rehabilitation will be long and difficult, but the doctors are optimistic about his full recovery. The news spread like a wildfire, the weight of expectation settling heavily on your shoulders. You’ve had your fair share of ups and downs this season, but stepping in for Checo? That was definitely not on your bingo card.

Arriving at Zandvoort later that week is a surreal experience. This time, you’re not just las minute filling in, you step into the paddock as a —somewhat— confirmed Red Bull driver for the start of a race weekend.

You’re dressed head-to-toe in the signature blue and red, the bold bull logo stamped on your chest for all to see. It feels like a second skin, but at the same time, heavier than you expected. Honestly, the simple attire by itself draws a lot of attention, more than you wanted —though, sorry to disappoint, you’re clearly not Max Verstappen.

At least, when you finally step into the Red Bull garage, the cameras and the blatant stares don’t follow. Your eyes shift through the garage as you try to gather your bearings, taking a deep breath, but someone quickly catches your eye.

Victoria.

The sight of her sent a wave of warmth crashing over you, and you rush forward, surprising her with a hug that she instantly reciprocates. It has been so long since you last saw her, only got meet her a few times during your seasons in F3 and F2 when you came to the Netherlands.

“Oh, look at you!” Victoria whispers, her voice thick with emotion as she buries her head into your shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, really proud. This is huge”

“I know, it’s not in the best conditions but-” you lament, voice lightly trembling

“Don’t say that” she pulls away to look you in the eyes, still firmly holding your hands in hers, and you feel like a small teary child again. “You deserve it, this opportunity. Nobody gave this to you, you’ve worked for it”

“I wish you were here,” you confess, letting go of her right hand to wipe the stray tear rolling down your cheek. Victoria squeezes your hand, probably a bit overwhelmed as well, so you decide to lighten the mood a little “Your brother’s too good”

“Are you saying I wasn’t?!” Victoria shots back in faux indignation, giving you a playful light push.

“But you’d at least let me pass.”

“Yeah, I would have,” she states, confidently, her smile brightening the moment “I’m glad you two fixed things.”

The mention of last year’s chaos weighs heavy in the air, you take a deep breath, “Sorry for not coming to see you last year. That was... a hard weekend.”

The 2021 Netherlands Grand Prix was a weekend you'd rather forget. You’d felt exposed, vulnerable, and, honestly, betrayed by Max. Even though you were never more than acquaintances during your karting days, and the fact you had clashed so badly during that season that season, you thought him, more than anyone, could understand what being crossed by the media was like.

At that point especially, when, after weeks of leading drama-filled headlines, that video of you completely broken after your crash with him had flooded every social media platform. He should have known better than to approach you in such a delicate moment.

But, anyway, all of that was now forgotten.

“I know,” Victoria’s expression softens at the memory. Her eyes reflected the same pain you felt, and the understanding between you two was palpable “Max wanted mom and I to check on you since the team was dragging him everywhere, but well, he got to you first.”

That surprises you. You had guessed Max caught wind of the release of the video before approaching you after the race, but you supposed he just wanted to save his ass in what looked like an awful-looking media scandal. Never to check how you were feeling.

Someone media team swoops in just as you and Victoria are settling down, pulling you away for promo videos and media duties. You nod, giving your friend a parting smile, and follow them toward the motorhome where the familiar sight of cameras, mics, and branded backdrops wait for you. The Netflix crew is also buzzing around like bees, documenting your every step just in case you trip.

Max is already there, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, wearing that signature smirk.

“Took your time,” he says, raising an eyebrow as you approach. You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

"Blame your sister," you say, nodding toward the garage where you last left Victoria. “She’s distracting.”

Max chuckles, pushing himself off the wall and coming closer as the crew sets up for the first video. “Told her to hang around for a bit, hope recording doesn’t take too long.”

You are guided to stand by a table with portable cooking stoves, different ingredients and cooking utensils perfectly laid out for you to use. The arrangement seems to spark a realization in the Dutch’s mind.

“Oh, I almost forgot it. My mother wanted to invite you over to the house for lunch, or dinner, or whenever you want really...” Max trails off, scratching the back of his neck “I’ll just go pick you up at the hotel”

You blink in surprise. Lunch with Max’s family? It’s been years since you and his sister were close enough to even consider something like that. The thought makes you feel warm, almost nostalgic for a time when things were simpler.

“I’d love to, but—” you gesture around, the motorsport chaos swirling around you both, “I’ve got a lot to catch up on, car stuff, strategy... I want to focus.”

“That’s okay” Max nods in understanding, and you notice there’s an ease to your interactions now that wasn’t there before. “But don’t be too hard on yourself, alright?”

From them on, the weekend unfolds with lots of promo recording, meetings with the engineers and adapting to the team.

Qualifying is... bad? Honestly, it is the first time ever in your career you have entered Q3, which, for you is huge milestone, but the high expectations put on you make it seem like an even bigger failure.

Max is second, at least, which can make for an easy race win despite the poor help his teammate can guarantee him.

Race day also brings a whole new set of challenges. The weather at Zandvoort is temperamental, shifting between light rain and slick track conditions, and making tire strategy crucial. The pit calls come fast and frantic, and in the heat of the moment, you make a mistake. You swing in for the tire change and, surprise, the mechanics don’t try to even touch your car, but instead they start standing up and getting out of your way.

It takes you half a second to understand what is happening, but when you see the white overalls, you immediately push the gas pedal. You’ve stopped in Haas’ garage.

The mechanics from both teams wave frantically, guiding you to the correct pit box, but not without some laughter.

“Sorry, too many changes in one year” you mutter into the radio, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks beneath the helmet

Your race engineer is quick to reassure you "No problem," though you can still hear the suppressed laughter in his voice.

Cameras catch the Red Bull and Haas crews chuckling after your departure, and even the commentators can't hold back their amusement.

You get driver of the day too, for some reason.

Later that night, just as you finally collapse onto your hotel bed, exhausted, Max sends you the clip of your pit stop mishap with a string of laughing emojis. You sigh, a tired smile tugging at your lips. You’ll have to get used to these post-race celebrations —Max is on the way to sweep every single trophy this season.

Another win at his home race, he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face all night. For you, a consolatory P5. You will do better next time.

Asshole

Go to sleep

Before you can even roll over, the Red Bull driver is already writing back. You pull the covers over yourself and turn off the lights, waiting for his reply to light up your screen.

Can’t

I’m drunk still

Did you get to the hotel alright?

You can almost hear the slur in his words, even through the letters. It takes a second for you to reply.

Yeah, just got here

I’m so tired, seriously, am not fit to party every week

You have to stop winning so much

There’s a long pause, the kind that makes you think he’s finally drifted off. But then your phone buzzes again.

Okay

I won’t win next week

Promise

A smile tugs at your lips at Max’s messages, warmth spreading through your chest at the silly prospect, and you tap out a quick reply.

Like you can help yourself

Good night, Max. Get some sleep.

You fall asleep before you can see his good night message, the events of the day finally taking a toll on you.

In Italy, everything feels different. Max and you fall into an unspoken rhythm thanks to the convenience of being in the same hotel. Every morning now begins with a knock at your door, the familiar sight of Max waiting to walk with you to breakfast, and then sharing a car to the track. This continues at the paddock as well, though Grand Prix’s weekends are always a chaos. You suffer through meetings, recordings and PR obligations side by side, exchanging glances when things drag on too long or when something utterly pointless is said. And sometimes, if you are lucky and the schedules align, you can even get to spend some low time relaxing back at the motorhome. Not because you are obligated, but because you want to

It is a welcome change. You have never been this close to a teammate in your time as a professional and Max Verstappen, contrary to all your previous thoughts about him, seems like the perfect person to have that experience with.

On Saturday, the meeting with the engineers stretches long into the evening. Despite the success of qualifying —better than expected, even, you’ve secured a solid P4, just a couple sports behind Max's P2—, the debrief is exhaustive. The engineers dive deep into every tiny detail: tire degradation, fuel consumption rates, weather forecasts, braking zones, and a million other things you’re digest in time for tomorrow. Your brain is buzzing by the time it finally wraps up.

The hotel’s restaurant has already closed by the time you roll into the lobby, and you both groan in unison as the realization hits —there’s no food in sight. The trainers, ever vigilant, push you both into the elevator, their meal-prep containers left earlier in your rooms supposedly your savior for the night. You know what's waiting for you though, and it's not appealing.

“I can’t eat another freaking rice bowl,” you whisper once the trainers step out on one of the lower floors, the mere thought of it making your stomach turn.

Max chuckles beside you, rubbing his stomach in agreement. “I think I’d rather starve.”

The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a moment, digesting the reality awaiting you. The floors of the elevator flash by on the display, climbing higher and higher toward your rooms.

“I mean...” Max starts, crossing his arms and leaning against the elevator wall with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I did see an open pizza place down the street when we were driving by”

“But tomorrow’s race day...” you mumble, trying to reason with yourself as much as him.

“Yeah...” Max nods, giving you space to mull it over.

The elevator dings and opens on your floor, and Max straightens, preparing to walk out and head toward the sad prepped meal waiting in his room. But just as he’s about to take a step, you reach out and grab the fabric of his shirt, halting him. You press the button to close the doors again, making a quick decision.

“Okay, but you’re not ordering!” you say, a grin starting to creep onto your face.

Max bursts into laughter, leaning back against the railing again. “Alright, alright.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at the two of you in the mirror. Both of you are still fully decked out in Red Bull merch from head to toe —Max even has his cap with his number 33 embroidered on it. This has to be the stupidest idea ever.

“The fucking Max Verstappen ordering pizza at 1 a.m. on the night before a Grand Prix,” you shake your head, already imagining the headlines. “As soon as they see you, they’re gonna freak o—”

“Like you’re any better!” Max interrupts, a teasing grin on his face.

Luckily, you manage to get through the pizza run with only a couple of selfies snapped by the restaurant owner and a few late-night customers. Once the pizza box is securely in hand, you both make a quick dash back to the safety of the hotel. It’s too late to hide your little escapade from the trainers —the notifications on your phone are already rolling in. But with the scent of freshly baked pizza wafting up to your room, you decide not to care. The film Max picked playing as a mere background as the two of you scarf down the greasy treat.

The next day, the Italian Grand Prix dawns with bright sunshine and adrenaline coursing through your veins. Each lap feels like a heartbeat quickening, anticipation pulsing through you as you steadily climb through the positions. Your focus is razor-sharp, each corner, each straight, a delicate balance of precision and control. Max is just ahead, having commanded the race since the second lap, and after battling off the Ferraris and Mercedes, you’ve finally latched onto his tail. P2.

You push hard, feeling the car respond beneath you with perfect precision, each movement sharp and purposeful. You’ve fought off them off, but they’re still close, their pace threatening to catch up any second. You need to widen the gap —need to create more space—, and you try to close in on Max to let him know exactly that.

But something feels off. Max doesn’t pull away, sometimes to the point you could easily overtake him.

What is happening? It’s not like he’s letting you pass, he is perfectly blocking the path, but why does he seems to already be at his limit?

“News on Plan X?” you ask over the radio, using Max coded name for some privacy. Better not to raise any alarms if they decide to put it up on TV.

“No changes”

You furrow your brows at the quick response of the race engineer. That can’t be. You could —easily— go faster, overtake him. Your pace keeps decreasing with every lap spent behind Max, the difference even making it difficult for you to maintain a comfortable gap between the two.

Maybe they don’t want to tell you there’s a problem? Or don’t see it? Is it his tires? Did he get any damage? —Why are you faster?

Despite the way your instincts scream for answers, you decide it’s better to keep quiet. A double podium is on the line, you can’t be fighting Max. Of course you want to win, to show your worth, but you also have to be a team player and these points are extremely important for Red Bull and, of course, for his championship.

The familiar silver and blue machine looms closer in your rearview mirror in the middle of your internal battle. Lewis Hamilton is relentless, shortening the gap between you with pure experience and determination.

You push down on the throttle, focusing on the track ahead, trying to distance yourself from him as best as you can while protecting Max. You change your line, block him at every turn, do everything to keep him at bay.

But with just three laps to go, despite your best efforts, Lewis finds his moment. He slips past with surgical precision, and the sting is immediate. Frustration surging straight from your heart. Could you have passed Max? Could you have won this race? Yes, says a voice in your head, you could have.

But it’s too late to act on it, you have betrayed your instincts and now you can only watch Hamilton as he pulls away.

P3.

As you cross the checkered flag, though, all the frustration takes a backseat in your mind. Finally, you have made it. You’ve secured a podium, your first one ever.

The moment you park the car in front of the sign with a number 3 and pull yourself out, a tidal wave of emotion crashes into you. The cheers of the crowd, the roar from the team. You can’t even keep yourself upright. Your legs feel weak, your heart thudding wildly in your chest.

You lean into the car, burying your head in your hands, your helmet still on as tears flow freely, the overwhelming joy and relief of this moment too much to hold in.

Before you can fully grasp the moment, you feel strong arms wrap around you, pulling you upright. Max is there, his face alight with pride and joy. He helps you remove your helmet, the tears still rolling down your cheeks, and pulls you into a tight hug. His laughter bubbling through the noise.

"You didn’t want to win, huh?" Max yells over the cheers, a wide grin on his face. "No more parties, you said? You were tired!"

His joy is contagious, and for a moment, you forget the exhaustion, laughing through your tears.

When he finally breaks away from the hug, it’s only to lift you onto the front of your car. You try to protest —it’s his victory, after all, not yours— but Max doesn’t give you the chance. He lets go of your hand and steps back toward the barriers, your helmet still in his hold as he cheers for you alongside the team. Leaving you to bask in your moment.

Your dream come true.

The celebration is everything you had imagined and more. The deafening roar of the crowd, the weight of the trophy in your hands, and the surge of pride coursing through your veins feel surreal. It’s all too much and yet exactly what you’ve dreamed of. The champagne flies in all directions, and Max and Lewis make sure to drench you in it until you're soaked to the bone.

By the time you make it to the post-race conference, cleaned up as best as you could, your skin still feels sticky, and your hair —well, that's a lost cause.

“An incredible race today!” the presenter congratulates you at the start of your round of questions, “It’s been a long journey to get here, hasn’t it? We’ve been waiting for you”

“I know!” you laugh, nerves still fluttering, but adrenaline keeping you afloat. “Finally got a race with nice weather. I’ve always hated the slicks, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“But you’ve always been good on rainy days,” Max interjects from his relaxed spot on the sofa, picking the mic unprompted for the first time

“What are you talking about? I almost ended up on the gravel in Spa last year,” you throw him a sideways glance, incredulous “Two times!”

“No, I meant, like, back in karting,”

“Ah, seriously?” you sigh, exasperated but amused, finally catching onto where he’s going with this. Max lets out a low chuckle, and you turn to Lewis and the interviewer “You know why he’s saying that? It’s because when that inchident thing with him and Charles happened, I was third all through it.”

You can almost see the journalists in the room perking up, pens poised with renewed energy. You’ve never really talked about this before —there was no need, especially since the main character on it hadn’t mentioned you either—, so this was probably news to everyone.

Honestly, you weren’t sure Max even remembered you being there.

“And you know,” you continue, getting into the swing of things, “those two were driving like we were playing Mario Kart or something. Max pushed Charles out to seventh. Charles came back up and almost crashed into me. That was a disaster!”

The interviewer grins, playing along with the banter. “Did you also end up in a puddle?”

“I actually won, since they were both disqualified,” you reveal, shaking your head as you look back at Max. His fond smile swiftly drawing one on your lips.

The Singapore Grand Prix looms large, buzzing through the paddock with one question on everyone’s mind: will Max bring home the championship today? Five races before the end of the season? It’s a delicate balance. For Max to seal the deal, he not only needs to win but also relies on Charles to have a disaster of a race —preferably a low grid finish or, better yet, a DNF. And with Singapore’s notorious twists and unforgiving barriers, it's not out of the question.

The fact that both of you are starting at the front of the grid, while the Ferraris languish in fifth and sixth, only heightens the expectations. It feels like everything’s falling into place. Maybe, just maybe, tonight will be the night Max brings home the title he’s fought so hard for.

“How am I going to sleep tonight?” you murmur as you pull the room key from your bag. You’re restless, still wound up from the qualifying session. “I’m all like, I don’t know. I feel like I could run a marathon right now”

“Not going to follow you on that one,” Max chuckles, low and tired, stretching out his arms as he follows you out the elevator “Sorry”

The hotel corridor is quiet, your footsteps muffled by the plush carpet as you make your way to your room. You look around. It’s a nice hotel this one, with a good gym and a big room. Such a shame the weekend has been so chaotic.

“Must be nice being so relaxed”

“Wasted all my nerves in Qualy,” he replies, shaking his head with a grin. The soaked track, the stifling humidity—it had all made qualifying feel like a war zone. Max had been knocked off pole a few times, twice by you. “I’ll have to keep an eye on you, can’t have you stealing the championship”

You pause, halfway through opening your door, and turn to look at him, incredulous. “You asshole, I’m like 200 points behind you!”

“Yeah, sure, sure” the Dutchman concedes sarcastically. “Just know I’ll be watching you”

Rolling your eyes, you lean against your door, pushing it open with your back. The door swings inward, but instead of stepping inside, you instinctively reach out, arms open. Of course, the goodnight hug —a routine that feels oddly familiar now. You can't quite remember when it started, when Max began waiting for you at the paddock or leaving you at your door every night. But as his arms wrap around you and you're pulled into his warmth, you realize you don’t really care.

“You’ll do great tomorrow”

“You too,” you whisper back into his shoulder, and a tiny smile draws in your lips just thinking about your next words “Mister World Champion”

“Don’t say that yet, you’re going to jinx it” Max susses you, jokingly, pulling back slightly but still holding onto you. Your arms rest comfortably over his shoulders.

You chuckle, looking at him straight in the eyes. “I told you, Max, there’s no way to jinx it. If it’s not tomorrow, it’ll be the day after. I just know you’re going to win so much that you’ll—”

“That I’ll get tired of it” Max finishes, in a whisper. The memory of the night you told him that, after his loss in last years’ championship, fresh in his head. “And you know, the same’ll happen to you. Just look how great you’ve done this year, with only—”

“You are just saying that” you interrupt him, grateful for his encouragement but also realistic. Just a few races are left for you to enjoy being in a title winning team, or simply on a team. Your one-year contract, once again, ticking by in front of your eyes.

“I don’t have to say it, you’ll see it” he assures you, his confidence radiating in every word. “But you won’t get tired, you’ll want win after win, after win”

You both laugh at that, maybe because it's the truth or because you are both basking in the promise of such futures. Of such fantasies.

Silence falls between you, the air grows thick with unspoken words. You gaze into each other's eyes, those familiar galaxies pulling you closer. Why does he have to have such pretty eyes?

And before you know it, you both lean in, the world around you fading away as your lips meet for the first time. Soft, tentative, but with so much want.

Max pulls back just a fraction, looking a little breathless, but then he gently nudges you toward your room, his body still hovering close to yours as he keeps the door open.

“The security cameras...” he chuckles when you glance up at him, clearing the confusion swirling in your eyes.

You can’t help but smile, the giddiness of the moment washing over you. Unable to resist, you bring him close again, your hand finding its way to his cheek as you lean in, capturing his lips with yours once more.

Sometimes, Max’s media training really does work wonders.

When you and Max arrive at the paddock the next afternoon, you feel like you are floating in a bubble of excitement. The usual chaos of race day is buzzing around you—engines roaring, engineers shouting, and the media snapping photos—but all of that seems distant. You exchange glances filled with unspoken affection, a spark of joy igniting between you at every second you get to spend together. It doesn’t matter if it’s during the endless drivers’ meeting or the PR duties, it’s nice being nice to him.

The media, ever-watchful and ever-mistaken, reads the chemistry as confidence, speculating about the brilliant strategy from Red Bull that has practically secured Max’s first championship. And yes, there’s truth to that, but the reality is that Max is simply too happy about finally kissing you.

The Dutchman makes a small detour to your driver’s room a couple minutes before you have to head to the track, a mischievous grin spreading across his face when he finds you alone. Without a word, he pulls you in for a quick, sweet kiss, the kind that leaves your heart racing and your cheeks flushed.

“What was that?” you laugh, your hands playfully resting on his chest as you look up at him, curiosity dancing in your eyes. “Do you do that with Checo too, huh? For good luck?”

“No, just you,” he replies, his tone light and teasing. Then, he leans down again, his hand caressing your face as he pecks your lips.

Yet, just as the kiss deepens, a knock on the door and a voice calls out. The race start.

The race is a delicate balancing act from the moment the lights go out. Max launches into the lead, commanding the front of the grid with the ease of a seasoned champion, while you follow close behind. Every lap is executed with seamless coordination between the two of you, the Red Bulls in perfect sync, widening the gap from the rest of the field. The strategy is clear—avoid the battles, manage the tires, and let the Ferraris and everyone else fight among themselves. Both of you know what’s at stake: the championship.

Your engineer's voice crackles through the radio at intervals, feeding you updates on tire wear, fuel management, and gaps. You can see Max upfront doing the same, his moves calculated and fast. There is no room for errors.

The laps tick down, the race dragging into what feels like an endless cycle of corners and straights. But everything changes when you hear the voice of your race engineer again, this time with a note of concern.

“Carlos closing in behind. In DRS range.”

Your heart skips a beat, though you keep your hands steady on the wheel. It’s clear he’s not going to let you both just cruise to victory.

Max is still ahead, but you know he's starting to struggle. He’s been pushing, maybe too hard, and the tire degradation is catching up to him. You can see it in the way his car shifts through the corners, just a little slower, a little more unstable. He’s giving it everything, but the gap with the Ferrari is closing, and fast.

You know the moment is coming. The moment you’ll have to make a decision, if they don’t make it for you. In the pitwall they seem to have reach the same conclusion, relaying both Max and Carlos gap to you every few seconds.

Carlos makes a try to overtake you, once, twice, without success. You are blocking him, but can’t do so for much longer while you have Max at an arm's length.

Your race engineer comes through the radio, again, the tension in his voice this time unmistakable “You can push”.

Permission.

Your heart sinks. The conversation from yesterday replaying in your mind.

As the next lap approaches, you take a deep breath and swing out of the slipstream, pulling alongside Max. There’s a brief, silent moment of understanding between you. It’s not a fight, just necessity. And with a heavy heart, you make the overtake cleanly, taking the lead.

You glance in your mirrors again, catching sight of Max falling back. The tires are gone, and the Ferraris are right there to capitalize. Within a lap, Carlos gets by, then Charles. Max is slipping, and you can feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Later in the day, the headlines say you have feed the Lion to the vultures. You knew Max was a hard time and, despite it, you just let him go. Like deadweight.

There’s a brief second of silence on the radio before your engineer confirms, “Good job. Keep pushing.”

Now it’s just you, leading the race, with Carlos right on your tail.

The roar of the Ferrari engine fills the space behind you, the threat of him overtaking growing with every lap. You push harder, your tires squealing as you take the corners, doing everything you can to hold onto the lead. But the Ferrari is relentless, inching closer, until finally, in a desperate late-braking move, Carlos gets past you. Almost crashing into your car.

The disappointment hits you instantly, but you can’t dwell on it. You’re still in second, still in the running, but the possibility of Max winning the championship slipping away gnaws at you.

Lap after lap, you fight to stay close to Carlos, but the gap widens. Max is slipping further back, and by the time the checkered flag waves, he’s dropped to sixth. You cross the line in P2.

Your highest finish yet, but it feels hollow.

Parc fermé is a blur. You climb out of the car, handing over your helmet and gloves without even thinking, your body running on autopilot. The podium awaits, but you feel none of the excitement you imagined you’d feel standing on the second step. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, yet your mind is elsewhere.

After the podium ceremony, you’re guided back to the garage, drenched in champagne but weighed down by disappointment. The team welcomes you back with smiles, their congratulations sincere, but you can see it in their faces —the unspoken acknowledgment of what just unfolded on track. The championship remains in a limbo.

You change into a clean race suit, steeling yourself for the media. The cooldown room had already been hard enough with all those cameras in your face, capturing your every twitch, and you’re not sure how much more you can hold together.

You don’t really think about it as you make your way to the opposite part of the garage and knock on his door, a hand pressed to your chest.

There's no response. Maybe Max hasn’t made it back to the garage.

Still, you decide open, just in case.

Your eyes widen when you see him, not sure if you are ready to face him. But your heart wills you to take a step inside. Max is sitting in the corner, slumped on the sofa with his head in his hands. The sight hits you hard. Memories from last season, of you sitting in his same exact position, flooding your mind.

Without a word, you reach into your suit and pull out the handful of candies you grabbed earlier. It’s not much, feels silly to do even, but right now it's the only thing you can offer. You place it gently on the table in front of him, just as he had once done for you.

Max looks up, his eyes tired but warm. A tight-lipped smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You try to reciprocate it, yet only a grimace comes out.

The engineers and mechanics start calling for you to head to the debrief from outside, and you look at the door and back to Max. You want to give him the same space he gave you, to be as understanding as he had been last year, but you feel rooted to the spot.

Max finally speaks, his voice is soft “Congrats on P2.”

“The first loser” you correct, with a shrug of your shoulders, a tight smile on your lips. The old joke weighting in your heart.

And Max smiles, for real this time.

That’s when it all hits you. The weight of the race, the decisions, the pressure —it all crashes down at once. Tears start welling up in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice breaking. “I’m really sorry Max, I don’t want to go back to fighting again”

Max is on his feet in an instant, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into a warm, firm embrace. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, his voice soft in your ear. “It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do. Don’t cry, I’m not mad.”

“But, I shouldn’t—, I—”

Max just holds you tighter, sussing your cries, one hand gently stroking your hair as you cry into his chest. Your hands clutch at his fireproof shirt, desperate, like he might slip away if you let go.

“And I didn’t even have nice candies for you! I-” you sob, pulling away from his chest long enough to gesture to the table, your voice catching in your throat. “Just the ones for the throat. This is so bad, I’m so sorry”

Max eyes widen with surprise as he takes in your teary outburst, a chuckle slipping out of his lips, but there’s no teasing in it —just something tender and understanding.

“Don’t laugh!” you protest, fresh tears brimming in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry” the driver helplessly smiles, pulling you back against his chest and letting you cry. After a moment, he adds quietly, “If it means anything, I bought the candies like way before I gave them to you. In a nice store I found"

You pull away, confused, your brows furrowing.

“What?” Max questions with a sheepish smile “You thought I had a nice bag with your favorite candies just laying around in my room?”

You lower your eyes as you mutter “Thought it was from a fan or something”, a pout forming in your lips

“No, no” he shakes his head, rubbing slow circles into your back. “I bought them back in France, after the fight in the parade. I felt really bad about everything that happened”

Your eyes widen. France? That was weeks before you patched things up last year. Had he been carrying those candies from race to race, just waiting for a chance to fix things between you two?

More tears well up, the flood of emotions overwhelming you. “Max, no! That’s even worse!”

After a season filled with battles and close calls, Max finally clinches the championship at the Suzuka Grand Prix. Despite your best efforts to keep calm, your excitement betrays you the moment set your eyes on him. Surrounded by the team, the photographers and the fans, basking in the glory of his first title.

Without much thinking, you run straight to Max, throwing your arms around him in an embrace that’s far too enthusiastic to go unnoticed. Max pulls you in without hesitation when he sees you, laughing as you both collapse into each other, overcome with relief, pride, and sheer happiness.

The sportscasters on live TV are quick to catch it, chuckling at the scene.

“Oh, are those..?” one of them wonders, amused.

“Yeah, they are!” another commentator jumps in, clearly enjoying the moment “Do these two have something to tell us?”

That night’s celebration is truly unforgettable, a whirlwind of champagne, cheers, and heartfelt toasts. The team is overflowing with joy, reveling in the culmination of their hard work, eight years of relentless effort finally paying off in the most spectacular fashion. Laughter rings out as stories are shared, memories of the long nights and tireless preparations flooding back to everyone in the room.

Max at the center of it all, his dream come true. His first World Championship. One of many.

And although the saying states that misfortunes never come single, it is fortunes that do it this time. A couple weeks later, as you savor every moment left in the Red Bull garage —nestled in your incredible world championship-winning car and with a schedule that perfectly aligns with Max’s before Checo returns—, you find yourself at the top of the grid.

Your first win.

It’s exhilarating, the trophy gleaming in your hands as you stand on the top step of the podium, the crowd erupting in cheers below. You can hardly believe it, especially after the uncertainty of whether you would even participate in this season. But here you are, excelling everyone expectations and proving that you deserve to be here. You belong here.

However, as sweet as the victory is, there’s an inevitable bittersweetness when you slip back into the Alpha Tauri race suit. Hanging low on the grid again despite the high expectations everyone has thrown onto you. This is your true seat after all, but the contrast still feels shattering, like waking up from a dream you didn’t want to end.

Guess you will have to remind yourself of your Wolrd Champion boyfriend’s words: “It will come”. Because one day your name will be etched on that trophy right alongside his. Max is sure of it.

The end of the season arrives just a month later, and both Red Bull and AlphaTauri teams gather for their final celebration. A constructors and driver’s championship in their pocket.

It’s a glamorous night, everyone dressed to the nines. Max looks dashing in his tailored black suit, and you in a long dress that makes you nervous just to walk in. The evening is full of happiness and memories, a fitting end to a thrilling year.

After a long round of applause for Max and his championship win, Christian Horner takes the microphone, a grin spreading across his face as he addresses the crowd.

“Actually, can our newly confirmed driver for Alfa Tauri come up to the stage for a second, please?” he announces, and the room erupts into applause. Your heart skips a beat.

No one really knew about your contract extension —two more years in the AlphaTauri seat, with the possibility of a return to Red Bull on the horizon—, so the announcement makes your future with the team feel all the more tangible.

You leave your seat to walk towards the stage, confusion written all over your face. You clearly weren’t expecting a live announcement, less so bringing you up on the stage for it.

Max leaves the spotlight for a second to come to meet you at the top of the stairs, lending a helping hand.

“Can you explain to me what am I doing going up on stage with the world champion?” you whisper. You grip his arm, grateful for the support as you follow him to the center.

“Well, bringing the rising star, what else?” Max states like it’s obvious, a smirk tugging at his lips. And then he can’t help but whisper “You look beautiful”

Standing on stage, you feel the nerves tighten in your chest, the weight of all eyes on you suddenly overwhelming as Christian thanks you for your efforts this season. But the team principal’s voice breaks through the buzzing in your ears.

“I’ll be honest, kid,” he starts, turning toward you with a playful glint in his eye. “If I knew you were this good, I would’ve saved myself a lot of calls from Max.”

Laughter erupts from the crowd, and you can’t help but smile, shaking your head at Max, who just smirks and shrugs innocently. You didn’t know the Dutchman had had such a hand in bringing you into the team.

Christian raises his glass, his expression shifting into something more serious. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want a round of applause for both of them —our two first-time winners. For many more victories and better ones, if that is even possible”

Max steps forward, taking your hand and lifting it alongside his, both of you standing together, as winner, first winners. The room erupts in cheers and clapping, the weight of the season finally settling in. You exchange a glance with Max, and in that moment, you both know that this is just the beginning of an incredible adventure together.

Author's note: First of all, thank you all so much for reading! I can't thank you enough for the comments and support you gave to First Loser.

I hope you enjoy this ending a lot too. I hadn't even thought of writing a second part but now that I see it, I'll have to give agree with you: it needed a part 2. So thanks for the encouragement! hahaha

(Also thank you to the person who say they wanted to see a reunion with Victoria, I loved writing it)

Taglist: @youre-on-your-ownkid, @bieberismysoulmate, @nebarious, @drezzerk33, @yuiiimd

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x reader #formula one x you #f1 imagine

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callsigns-haze · 2 months ago

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Could you write a Tyler Owens x reader where he's helping the reader calm down from an intense school moment. Like in college for a tough major (architecture would be cool lol, not biased at all; maybe focusing on better built homes for tornados) and it's like the first day of classes and it's chaos already.

Study Stress

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Warnings: Study stress, crying, emotional turmoil

A/N: I study architecture so trust me I have 11 projects going on currently and I sit in tears

The first day of classes at the College of Architecture was supposed to be exciting—a fresh start, a new challenge. But as the hours ticked by, Y/N felt the weight of the day pressing down on her, each class piling on more expectations and responsibilities. The chaotic buzz of students around her, the endless syllabi full of demanding projects, and the looming deadlines were enough to make her head spin.

By the time her last class ended, Y/N was completely overwhelmed. The idea of spending the next several years in this intense environment, working on complex designs and innovative solutions, seemed daunting. And to top it all off, her focus on tornado-resistant homes—a passion project born from personal experience—only added to the pressure. The stakes felt incredibly high, and it seemed like everyone else was already miles ahead.

Dragging herself back to her apartment, Y/N tried to hold it together. But as soon as she closed the door behind her, the floodgates opened. She slid down to the floor, her back against the door, tears spilling down her cheeks. The stress, the anxiety, the fear of failure—it all came crashing down at once.

She didn’t hear the door open or Tyler’s footsteps approaching. She was too lost in her thoughts, in the panic that was rising inside her. But when she felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her into a warm, comforting embrace, she finally exhaled.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay,” Tyler’s voice was soft, soothing, as he gently rocked her. “I’ve got you.”

Y/N buried her face in his chest, her sobs muffled against his shirt. “It’s too much, Ty. It’s only the first day, and I’m already falling apart. How am I supposed to do this?”

Tyler didn’t respond right away. Instead, he just held her, letting her cry, letting her get it all out. He knew better than to try and fix things with words right now. Sometimes, you just needed to let the storm pass on its own.

After a few minutes, when her breathing started to even out, Tyler pulled back just enough to look at her, his hand gently brushing a few stray tears from her face. “You don’t have to do it all at once, you know,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “You’re going to take it one step at a time, one class at a time, one project at a time. And I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way.”

Y/N sniffled, wiping at her eyes. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I’m not good enough?”

“You’re more than good enough,” Tyler replied firmly, his eyes meeting hers with unwavering confidence. “You’re smart, passionate, and driven. You care about what you’re doing, and that’s half the battle right there. The rest… well, it’s just practice. You’ll get better, you’ll get stronger, and you’ll learn how to handle the pressure.”

Y/N wanted to believe him, but the doubt still lingered. “I’m so scared of failing.”

Tyler’s expression softened, and he took her hands in his, squeezing them gently. “Failure isn’t the end of the world, Y/N. It’s just part of the process. And you’re not in this alone. You’ve got your classmates, your professors, and you’ve got me. I’m not going to let you go through this by yourself.”

She looked into his eyes, finding comfort in the steady, reassuring gaze that had always been her anchor. Tyler was her calm in the storm, the person who could steady her when everything else felt like it was spiraling out of control.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N nodded, feeling a little more centered. “Okay… one step at a time.”

Tyler smiled, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “That’s my girl. Now, how about we take the rest of the day off? We can order some takeout, watch a movie, and just relax. The work will still be there tomorrow.”

The idea of taking a break sounded like exactly what she needed. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

“Good,” Tyler said, helping her up from the floor. He kept his arm around her as they moved to the couch, where he pulled a blanket over them both. As they settled in, Y/N felt the tension slowly leaving her body, replaced by a sense of warmth and security.

With Tyler by her side, she knew she could face whatever challenges came her way. And for now, that was enough.

Requests for Tyler are open be free to send in as much as you wish!

tagging some:

@senawashere

@saviorcomplexrry

@cevansbaby-dove

@saynotononsense

@missdottie

@willowisp7

@taorislover94

@eloquenceinpurple

@86laura11

@rosiahills22

@jessicab1991

@kmc1989

@shanimallina87

@eternalsams

@teen-antisocial

@katiemcrae

#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #tyler owens fanfic #tyler owens #twisters fanfiction #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens x y/n #tyler owens smut #dad!tyler owens

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shybluebirdninja · 2 months ago

Text

Broken Claws and Tender Hearts

Summary: In the dark corners of a crumbling city, aging mutant Wolverine, James Logan Howlett, finds himself gravely wounded and abandoned. Rescued by Y/N, a compassionate woman trapped in an abusive marriage, Logan’s gratitude evolves into deep, forbidden love as he witnesses the brutal toll of her husband's violence.

The city was a mess, like it had given up on itself a long time ago. Streets were littered with trash, and broken glass crunched underfoot like a constant reminder of the decay that had set in. In the darkest corners of this dismal place, where even the streetlights seemed to flicker with disinterest, James Logan Howlett—known to the world as Wolverine—was barely hanging on. Once a fierce mutant warrior with an unbreakable spirit, he was now just an old man with unhealable wounds and a broken heart.

Logan, as he was known, was a far cry from the invincible fighter he used to be. His claws, once sharp enough to cut through steel, were now dull and rusty. His body, scarred and bruised from countless battles, was failing him. Pain was his constant companion, a relentless reminder of his mortality. As he lay slumped in a filthy alley, the cold seeped through his tattered clothes, mingling with the sweat of his suffering. He was beyond exhausted, teetering on the edge of consciousness, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“Fuck, this is one hell of a way to go,” he muttered weakly, his voice barely a croak. His usually fierce eyes were now clouded with exhaustion, and the alley seemed to close in around him, a concrete tomb waiting to claim him.

Just when it seemed like things couldn’t get any worse, a pair of footsteps echoed through the alley. Logan's dimming senses barely registered the sound at first. But the crunch of boots on the grimy pavement drew closer, and his survival instincts kicked in, if only just. He tried to lift his head, but it felt like it weighed a ton. He managed to catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure approaching.

“Jesus Christ!” a female voice called out, a mix of shock and concern lacing her words. The figure moved closer, and Logan could make out the silhouette of a woman. Her face was partly hidden by the dim light, but the earnest worry in her eyes was unmistakable.

“Hey, buddy, you look like shit,” she said, crouching down beside him. “What happened to you?”

Logan tried to muster a response, but the effort was futile. Instead, he gave a weak shrug and a bitter laugh. “Just another day in paradise,” he rasped, struggling to keep his eyes open.

The woman, whose name Logan would soon learn was Y/N, didn’t seem deterred by his sarcastic tone. She looked him over with a practiced eye, noting the severity of his injuries. “You’re in no shape to be lying here. We need to get you out of this mess.”

“Yeah, like I’m gonna be any trouble,” Logan mumbled, his voice tinged with irony. “I’m practically dead weight.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Y/N said, her voice firm but gentle. “Everyone deserves a chance, even you. Let’s get you out of here.”

With a strength that belied her delicate appearance, Y/N helped Logan to his feet. It was no easy task; he was barely able to support himself, his legs unsteady beneath him. She wrapped an arm around his waist, trying to steady him as they made their way out of the alley. Each step was a challenge, and Logan could feel his energy draining away with every movement.

“You’re really doing this?” Logan asked, glancing at her with a mixture of gratitude and skepticism. “You know I’m not exactly in the best shape.”

“Trust me, I’ve seen worse,” Y/N replied with a faint smile. “You’re not the first person I’ve helped, and you won’t be the last. Just hang in there.”

The journey to Y/N’s home was slow and arduous. The streets seemed endless, stretching out like a labyrinth of shadows. Logan’s breathing grew more labored with each step, and he could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness. Y/N kept a steady pace, her determination unwavering.

When they finally arrived at her modest apartment, Logan was barely aware of his surroundings. The building was far from luxurious, but it had a certain homeliness that contrasted sharply with the desolation he had just left behind. Y/N managed to get him inside and guided him to a makeshift bed in the living room. The space was cluttered but warm, with a few personal touches that made it clear someone lived here.

“Alright, let’s get you settled,” Y/N said, her voice gentle as she helped him lie down. “I’m going to get some supplies and see what I can do for you.”

Logan watched as she moved about the small apartment, gathering medical supplies and setting them out with careful precision. Her movements were efficient but calm, as if she had done this many times before. Despite the pain, Logan found himself oddly comforted by her presence.

“Why are you going through all this trouble?” Logan asked, his voice weak but curious. “You don’t even know me.”

Y/N paused her work and looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “It’s not about knowing you. It’s about doing what’s right. No one should be left to suffer like this, not even someone who looks like they’ve been through hell.”

Logan chuckled dryly, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m kind of a mess. I don’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“Everyone has their own battles,” Y/N said softly. “Yours might be different from mine, but that doesn’t make them any less real. I’ve had my share of struggles, too.”

As Y/N cleaned his wounds with a gentle hand, Logan winced at the sting of antiseptic. Despite the pain, he appreciated her care. It was a stark contrast to the harshness of his usual existence. For once, he wasn’t fighting, wasn’t on the run. He was just lying here, vulnerable and at the mercy of someone who seemed to genuinely care.

“You know, I’m not exactly the type to get all mushy,” Logan said with a faint grin. “But this...”

Y/N cut him of and glanced up at him, her eyes warm. “You don’t have to be mushy. Just be grateful that someone’s here to help. That’s all I’m asking.”

Logan nodded, his heart heavy with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’re giving me a chance when I don’t even deserve one.”

“Everyone deserves a chance,” Y/N replied firmly. “Even if they don’t think so themselves.”

As the night wore on, Y/N continued to tend to his wounds with meticulous care. Logan watched her, taking in the details of her face, the determination in her eyes. It was a rare sight—a glimmer of kindness in a world that had long since turned its back on him.

Despite the pain and fatigue, Logan felt a strange sense of calm. For the first time in a long while, he was allowing himself to be cared for, to be vulnerable. It was an unfamiliar but oddly comforting feeling. He had spent so many years fighting, surviving, and pushing everyone away. But here was someone who was willing to stand by him, even in his darkest hour.

“Hey, Y/N,” Logan said softly as she finished her work. “You ever wonder why we end up in places like this? I mean, I’ve fought a lot of battles, but this... this is a different kind of fight.”

Y/N looked at him, her expression thoughtful. “Sometimes, I think we end up where we need to be. Even in the darkest places, there’s a chance for something good to happen. Maybe this is just one of those moments.”

Logan nodded, his thoughts a tangled mess of past regrets and hopeful possibilities. As he drifted off to sleep, the warmth of Y/N’s care was a small, flickering light in the midst of his darkness. It wasn’t a cure for his wounds or his broken spirit, but it was a reminder that there was still some good left in the world

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

Y/N’s apartment, though modest and cluttered, was a sanctuary of sorts for Logan. As days passed, he began to recover from his severe injuries, thanks in no small part to Y/N’s dedicated care. The old Wolverine, now fragile and more vulnerable than ever, found himself in an unexpected role—patient rather than warrior. It was a role that didn’t sit easily with him, but Y/N’s unwavering kindness made it bearable.

Y/N’s daily routine revolved around caring for Logan. Mornings began with gentle cleaning of his wounds, followed by a carefully prepared meal, usually something simple yet nourishing. Despite her own exhaustion, she never missed a beat, always wearing a brave face even when her eyes betrayed her fatigue. Logan noticed these details—the way her hands shook slightly when she applied ointment, the forced cheerfulness in her voice, and the way she always tried to keep things normal.

One afternoon, while Y/N was in the kitchen preparing lunch, Logan sat on the bed, feeling the stiffness of his muscles. He was starting to regain some strength, but moving was still a struggle. He could hear Y/N’s soft humming and the occasional clatter of pots and pans. Just as he was about to call out to her, the sound of the front door slamming shut cut through the quiet.

Logan tensed, recognizing the unmistakable sound of anger. Y/N’s face, when she returned to the room, was pale and strained. Her eyes darted nervously towards the door. Logan could sense the tension in the air, a sharp contrast to the calm that usually filled the room.

“Everything alright?” Logan asked, his voice hoarse but concerned. His eyes, though tired, were keenly observant.

Y/N forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, just... Marcus had a rough day at work. Nothing to worry about.”

Logan didn’t press further, though he could tell there was more to it. He knew from experience that some things were best left unspoken, but the bruises on Y/N’s arms, which she tried to hide with long sleeves, spoke volumes. Each mark was a silent testament to her struggles.

The days turned into weeks, and the tension between Y/N and Marcus became increasingly palpable. Logan overheard snippets of arguments through the thin walls of the apartment. Marcus’s voice was harsh and threatening, full of disdain for mutants and a general aggression that made Logan’s skin crawl.

One evening, as Y/N was bandaging a fresh wound on Logan’s side, the door burst open with a violent crash. Marcus stormed in, his face twisted with rage. “What the hell is this? You’re still wasting your time on this mutant freak? I thought I told you to get rid of him!”

Logan’s eyes flared with anger, but he held back, his body tensing. Y/N’s face flushed with a mix of fear and frustration. “Marcus, please, just calm down. He needs our help.”

“Why should I give a damn about this piece of shit?” Marcus spat, his eyes cold and unfeeling. “He’s nothing but trouble. You’re bringing this mess into our home.”

Logan could see the strain on Y/N’s face, the way she struggled to keep her voice steady. “Marcus, I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. This man is hurt and needs help. I can’t just turn him away.”

Marcus’s gaze flicked to Logan, his eyes filled with contempt. “And what about what I need? You’re always putting others before me. I’m done with this crap.”

Logan remained silent, his claws itching to come out, but he knew better than to escalate the situation. Y/N’s shoulders slumped as Marcus’s angry words continued to fill the room, each one a fresh wound to her already battered soul.

Finally, Marcus stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Y/N stood there, shaking slightly, her eyes welling up with unshed tears. Logan’s heart ached for her, and he struggled to keep his voice calm as he spoke.

“Y/N... are you okay?” he asked, his tone gentle despite the anger bubbling inside him.

She wiped her tears and nodded, though it was clear she was far from okay. “I’m fine. It’s just... the same old stuff. Marcus doesn’t understand, and he never will.”

Logan reached out, his hand brushing against her arm gently. “You don’t deserve that, you know. No one does.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. “Thank you, Logan. I know it’s not your place to say that, but it means a lot coming from you.”

The days that followed were a delicate balance of tension and care. Y/N continued to nurse Logan back to health while trying to manage the chaos that Marcus brought into their lives. Logan’s own recovery was slow but steady, and he found himself growing more dependent on Y/N, not just for physical healing but for the emotional support he hadn’t realized he needed.

One night, as Logan lay awake in the dim light of the living room, he heard Y/N sobbing quietly in the next room. Unable to ignore her distress, he carefully rose from the bed and moved to the door of her room. He knocked softly, hoping not to startle her.

“Y/N, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There was a brief pause, and then Y/N’s voice, strained but soft, replied, “Yeah, come in.”

Logan entered to find Y/N sitting on the edge of the bed, her face buried in her hands. The sight of her, so vulnerable and broken, stirred something deep inside him. He approached her cautiously, sitting down beside her.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice a rough whisper in the quiet room. “You want to talk about it?”

Y/N looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “It’s just... everything feels so overwhelming. Marcus is getting worse, and I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Logan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle despite the rawness of his own wounds. “You’re stronger than you think. You’ve been handling all this shit with a lot more grace than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N gave a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Logan. It means a lot to hear that, especially now.”

As they sat together in the dim light, Logan found himself opening up in a way he hadn’t in years. He shared fragments of his past, stories of battles fought and lost, of the loneliness that came with being a mutant. Y/N listened intently, her presence a comforting balm to his wounded soul.

“I never thought I’d be in a place like this,” Logan said quietly. “Hell, I thought I’d be dead by now. But... there’s something about this place, about you, that makes me feel like maybe I’ve got a reason to stick around.”

Y/N’s eyes met his, and for a moment, the weight of their respective burdens seemed to lift. “Maybe we both needed this. A place where we could find some kind of solace, even if just for a little while.”

Logan nodded, feeling a strange sense of peace despite the chaos around them. He realized that his feelings for Y/N were growing stronger, and he admired her more with each passing day. Her strength in the face of adversity, her kindness despite her own suffering—it all spoke to him in ways he hadn’t expected.

One evening, after another particularly brutal argument with Marcus, Y/N sat down beside Logan, her face etched with exhaustion. She had a new bruise on her cheek, a stark reminder of the violence she faced at home. Logan’s heart ached at the sight of it, and he reached out, gently brushing his fingers against the bruise.

“Does it ever get easier?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with concern.

Y/N shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “No, it doesn’t. But I have to keep going. For me, for you... for everyone who needs me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone. It’s not right.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and hope. “Maybe someday things will change. Maybe there will be a way out of this mess. Until then, I have to hold on to whatever hope I can find.”

As the days continued, Logan’s feelings for Y/N deepened. Her resilience in the face of Marcus’s abuse, her unwavering dedication to helping him despite her own suffering—it all made him see her in a new light. He found himself drawn to her not just as a caretaker, but as a person who had become an unexpected beacon of hope in his life.

One evening, as they sat together after Marcus had stormed out, Logan took Y/N’s hand in his, his touch gentle but firm. “Y/N, I want you to know something. I’m here because you gave me a chance when no one else would. And... I care about you. More than I probably should.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, her breath catching in her throat. “Logan, I—”

Before she could finish, Logan leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that I want to be here for you. I want to fight this together.”

Y/N’s eyes were filled with tears, but a small smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Logan. That means more to me than you can imagine.”

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Logan's recovery was a slow grind. The days were punctuated by a relentless rhythm of pain and progress, his wounds mending bit by bit. Y/N's care was both a balm and a burden; she was always there, her hands gentle and her demeanor kind. But as Logan's strength began to return, another kind of strength was being tested—Y/N’s.

Every day, Logan saw the bruises she tried to hide. He noticed the way she flinched when Marcus’s name was mentioned, the dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could mask. It wasn’t just the physical pain that she wore like a second skin; it was the emotional toll that was etched into every line of her face. Logan could sense it, even when Y/N put on a brave face and forced a smile.

One evening, while Y/N was preparing dinner, Logan was lounging on the bed, his head resting against the headboard. He heard the all-too-familiar sound of the front door slamming, followed by Marcus’s booming voice, filled with venom. Logan’s jaw clenched, his claws itching to come out. But he knew better. The last thing Y/N needed was another problem on top of the one she already had.

Y/N’s footsteps were quick and hesitant as she moved around the kitchen. Logan could hear her trying to keep her voice steady as she spoke with Marcus, though it was clear from the sharpness in her tone that things were far from calm. Logan’s concern deepened with every shouted insult and the occasional crash that echoed through the apartment.

He struggled to stay put, his anger boiling beneath the surface. It was maddening to be so powerless, to hear Y/N suffering while he lay here, barely able to move. He wanted to confront Marcus, to show him just how outmatched he was, but his weakened state kept him tethered to the bed. It was a cruel irony that the very strength that had once made him a force to be reckoned with now left him helpless.

The door finally swung open, and Y/N walked in, her face pale and her eyes red-rimmed. She carried a tray with a modest meal, her hands trembling slightly. Logan’s heart ached at the sight of her, and he tried to offer a reassuring smile, though he knew it probably looked more like a grimace.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Everything okay out there?”

Y/N set the tray down on the small table beside the bed, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and resignation. “Yeah, just another argument. Marcus had a rough day and... well, you know how it goes.”

Logan’s gaze was intense, filled with concern. “Y/N, you don’t have to go through this alone. You don’t deserve this.”

She sat down next to him, her shoulders slumping as she took a deep breath. “I know. I just... I don’t have a choice. If I leave, things will only get worse. I’m trying to hold on for now.”

Logan could see the pain in her eyes, the way her hands shook slightly as she picked up a small bowl of soup. He wanted to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort, but he felt powerless, his own strength a mere shadow of what it used to be.

“Y/N, listen,” he said, his voice rough but earnest. “I know I’m in no position to make demands or offer solutions, but you’ve got to know that you don’t deserve this. Marcus is a piece of shit, and you’re better than this.”

Y/N’s eyes met his, and she looked so tired, so weary. “It’s not that simple. Marcus is... he’s unpredictable. If I push too hard, it’ll only make things worse. I have to tread carefully.”

Logan’s anger flared, his hands curling into fists. “You shouldn’t have to live in fear. No one should.”

Y/N gave a small, bitter smile. “I appreciate that, Logan. I really do. But sometimes, just getting through the day is enough. It’s all I can manage right now.”

As the days went on, Logan’s concern grew. He noticed more bruises on Y/N’s skin, more shadows in her eyes. The arguments with Marcus became more frequent and more vicious. Logan found himself wrestling with a deep, gnawing frustration. He wanted to protect her, but he felt like a caged animal, unable to do anything but watch.

One night, after an especially brutal argument, Y/N came into the room, her face bruised and her lip split. She tried to hide it, but Logan saw the truth. His heart pounded with a mix of rage and helplessness.

“Y/N, what happened?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She sat down beside him, her movements slow and pained. “It’s nothing. Just... another fight. I’m okay.”

Logan’s eyes were fierce, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re not okay. This isn’t right, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to put up with this crap.”

Y/N sighed, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resignation. “I know, Logan. I know. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just leave. I need to keep this place together, even if it’s falling apart.”

Logan’s anger simmered, his frustration boiling over. “I wish I could do something. I feel like I’m just... useless.”

Y/N shook her head, her hand reaching out to touch his. “You’re not useless, Logan. You’ve given me more hope than I’ve had in a long time. Just having you here, knowing you care—it means more than you know.”

As they sat together in the dim light of the room, Logan felt a deep connection to Y/N. Her strength, her resilience, even in the face of so much pain—it was a stark contrast to the brutality she endured. He realized how much she had come to mean to him, and how deeply he wished he could change her circumstances.

Despite the growing attachment and the undeniable pull he felt towards her, Logan remained bound by his own limitations. He could only watch as Y/N continued to endure Marcus’s cruelty, his own feelings of helplessness mixing with a fierce, burning desire to protect her. Every bruise, every tear she shed was a reminder of the pain she was enduring and the brutal reality of her situation.

Logan’s internal struggle was a constant battle. He wanted to be the hero, the one who swooped in and saved the day, but he was stuck in a role that felt more like a spectator than a savior.

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

The night air was heavy, thick with an oppressive silence that seemed to press against Logan’s chest. He lay in bed, the shadows dancing across the walls as the soft hum of the city outside filled the room. Y/N had been unusually quiet tonight, and Logan's senses were on high alert, a growing unease gnawing at him.

He could hear Marcus’s booming voice from the other side of the apartment, each shout like a hammer pounding against Logan’s already frayed nerves. It had been a rough night, and Y/N’s attempts to calm her husband had only seemed to make things worse. Logan could feel the tension in the air, a sense of impending violence that made his heart pound and his skin crawl.

“Damn it,” Logan muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. He struggled to push himself up, but his weakened state made it a Herculean effort. He needed to do something, anything, but he was still bound by the limitations of his own frailty.

Suddenly, a crash echoed through the apartment, followed by Y/N’s scream. Logan’s blood ran cold. Without a second thought, he threw off the covers and stumbled toward the door, his heart racing. The anger and fear coursing through him felt like a storm, threatening to tear him apart.

“Y/N!” he shouted, his voice hoarse and desperate. He reached the door and yanked it open, the scene that greeted him was something out of a nightmare.

Marcus was towering over Y/N, who was curled up on the floor, her face streaked with tears and blood. The rage in Marcus’s eyes was palpable, a fury that seemed to consume everything in its path. Logan’s instincts screamed at him to act, but he was frozen for a split second, caught between his own fear and the raw, primal need to protect.

“Get the hell away from her!” Logan roared, his voice a guttural snarl. He forced himself to step forward, his hands trembling as he tried to summon the strength to intervene.

Marcus’s head snapped around, his eyes locking onto Logan with a mixture of shock and fury. “What the hell are you doing here, mutant? Stay out of this!”

Logan’s claws extended with a sharp, metallic hiss, his rage boiling over. “You’ve done enough, you piece of shit. Leave her alone.”

Marcus sneered, his face twisted into a cruel smile. “Or what? You’ll claw me to death? You’re pathetic.”

In a burst of adrenaline, Logan lunged forward, his claws slashing through the air. He was fueled by a mixture of desperation and anger, the need to protect Y/N overriding every other consideration. The chaos that ensued was a blur—Marcus lunged at Logan, and in the ensuing struggle, Logan’s claws struck out, his aim wild and frantic.

Time seemed to stretch and warp as Logan’s claws found their mark. Marcus fell, a look of disbelief and shock etched on his face. The room fell silent, the only sound the ragged breaths of the two remaining people in the room.

Y/N was still on the floor, her body trembling as she stared at the lifeless form of her husband. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Logan stood there, his own breathing heavy, his claws retracting as he tried to process what had just happened.

“Oh God,” Y/N whispered, her voice breaking. “What have you done?”

Logan took a tentative step toward her, his heart aching at the sight of her pain. “Y/N, I—”

“No!” she cut him off, her voice sharp and filled with anguish. “You didn’t have to kill him. I—I didn’t want this.”

Logan’s heart twisted at the sight of her tears. “I didn’t mean to... I was just trying to protect you. I couldn’t stand seeing him hurt you like that.”

Y/N’s sobs were ragged, her hands covering her face. “It’s too late for that now. I don’t know what to do...”

Logan knelt beside her, his voice soft and full of regret. “Y/N, please. I know this is a mess. I never wanted things to end like this, but I care about you. I care about you a hell of a lot.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes red and swollen. “What are we supposed to do now? What happens next?”

Logan reached out, his hand gently touching her arm. “We get out of here. We leave this place behind and start fresh somewhere else. I’ve got a stash of cash, and we can find somewhere safe. I just—”

Y/N cut him off, her voice trembling. “And what? We just run away? We leave everything behind and hope for the best?”

Logan’s gaze was intense, his voice pleading. “It’s not just about running away. It’s about finding a place where you can be safe, where you can be happy. I know it won’t be easy, but it’s got to be better than staying here, right?”

Y/N’s eyes searched his, and for a moment, Logan saw the flicker of hope amidst the pain. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “Okay. Okay, let’s do it. But we have to be careful. We can’t just jump into this blindly.”

Logan nodded, a mixture of relief and determination in his eyes. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll figure things out together. I promise.”

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

The first light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the dilapidated building where Y/N and Logan had spent the night. They had barely slept, huddled together in a small room with only a threadbare blanket for comfort. Y/N's eyes were red from crying and lack of sleep, and Logan's face was etched with exhaustion, but beneath it all, there was a flicker of determination.

“Jesus, what a fucking mess,” Logan muttered as he rolled out of bed, wincing at the stiffness in his body. His voice was rough, a mix of weariness and frustration. He glanced around the room, taking in the dusty furniture and peeling wallpaper. “This place isn’t exactly a five-star joint, but it’ll do for now.”

Y/N sat up, her expression a mix of sadness and resolve. “We can’t stay here long. We need to move, find a place where we can lay low and figure things out.”

Logan nodded, his gaze fixed on her. “You’re right. The longer we stay, the more chance we have of getting caught. I’m sure Marcus had connections and surely he talked about me. He wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who kept his mouth shut.”

Y/N rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of her nightmare-filled sleep. “I just can’t believe it’s really over. That we’re actually doing this.”

Logan moved closer, his voice softening as he spoke. “It’s real, alright. And it’s probably gonna be rough as hell. But we’ve got a shot at something better, Y/N. We just gotta keep moving, keep our heads down.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes full of a fragile hope. “And what about you, Logan? How are you holding up? I know you’re hurting, too.”

Logan grinned wryly, a hint of his old self peeking through his exhaustion. “I’ve been through worse. I’m still kicking, aren’t I? It’s not about me right now. It’s about making sure you’re safe.”

She smiled, a small, grateful curve of her lips. “Thank you. For everything. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

“Hell, it wasn’t easy for either of us,” Logan replied, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “But that’s the way it goes. You deal with the crap life throws at you and hope for a bit of luck.”

They packed what little they had, their belongings hastily stuffed into a couple of old duffel bags. As they prepared to leave, Logan took a moment to glance back at the room they were leaving behind, a reminder of the chaos and danger they were escaping.

“Let’s get the hell out of here before someone shows up,” Logan said, his tone low and urgent. “The city’s not exactly safe, and we’ve got no time to waste.”

They made their way through the empty streets, their movements cautious and deliberate. The city was waking up, and with it came the hustle and bustle of a new day—one that neither of them had any intention of being a part of.

Y/N walked beside Logan, her hand occasionally brushing against his, a silent reminder of their shared journey. The streets were eerily quiet, the weight of their escape hanging heavily in the air. The city’s familiar sights were quickly becoming distant memories, replaced by the uncertainty of the open road ahead.

“So, what’s the plan?” Y/N asked, her voice breaking the silence. “Where do we go from here?”

Logan glanced at her, his eyes focused and serious. “We head north. There’s a cabin in the woods a few hundred miles away. It’s not much, but it’s off the grid. We can lay low there for a while, figure out our next move.”

Y/N nodded, absorbing the plan. “Okay. I trust you.”

“Good,” Logan replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. “We’ll make it. We just need to stick together and stay smart.”

As they continued their journey, the reality of their situation began to sink in. They were fugitives now, their past lives left behind in the wreckage of Marcus’s wrath. But amidst the uncertainty and danger, there was a growing bond between them—one forged in the fires of their shared struggles and the hope for a new beginning.

They traveled through small towns and rural areas, staying off the beaten path and avoiding any unnecessary attention. Each night, they would find a place to rest, whether it was an abandoned house or a makeshift campsite. They made do with what they had, finding solace in their shared strength and resilience.

One evening, as they sat around a small campfire, Y/N turned to Logan, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “You know, I never thought I’d be here. On the run, hiding from everything. But having you here... it makes things a bit more bearable.”

Logan looked at her, his gaze softening. “You’re not alone, Y/N. We’ve got each other, and that’s something.”

She smiled, a small but genuine expression of warmth. “Yeah, it is. And it means more than you know.”

They sat in comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire their only companion. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with challenges and obstacles, but for the first time in a long time, there was a sense of hope—a belief that, despite everything, they might find a way to make it through together.

#hugh jackman #james howlett #james logan howlett #logan howlett #james logan howlett x reader #wolverine #hugh jackman wolverine #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x female reader #logan wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool 3 #deadpool movie

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kujousgf · 9 months ago

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WHO IS SHE? mdni. 18+.

a jock/gymrat!natasha romanoff + emo!reader au

collection of hcs + a drabble

You were... an unlikely couple, being polar opposites visually and having ignored each other for almost the whole duration of high school until you were forced to work on a senior project together. Both of you were annoyed over the idea until you found out how much you actually enjoyed each other's company.

Natasha hadn't intended on developing feelings for you, she even scoffed at the idea when Maria had brought it up to tease her, you had a boyfriend at that time for gods’ sake. A shitty one, but a boyfriend no less. And although she hated him and knew you deserved better, she was not going to interfere.

And so she endured three grueling years of listening to you whine and complain about ‘what's his face’ one day and then be head over heels for him the next. You were easy enough to please, she knew that, so how he failed to do so on a daily basis was a mystery to her.

Until one day when you showed up at her apartment with mascara running down your cheeks, looking absolutely miserable and sobbing about how it's been a week since you last spoke to him and he just posted on instagram with some girl.

You looked a little pathetic, but Natasha didn't mind. She just took you inside and told you that you were too pretty to cry over someone like him, cleaned you up and helped you fix your makeup. And when he inevitably called to try and apologize for ‘being such a terrible boyfriend’ she accidentally knocked you over while trying to take your phone from you so you wouldn't answer.

And when she found herself towering over you on the ground she just couldn't help herself, the way you were staring up at her with wide eyes and the way your chest was rising and falling…

She practically begged you not to answer, you didn't need him. You had her, why would you need him? She could be so much better than he was, she knew you so much better than he did.

When Natasha brought you back to your apartment, your soon to be ex boyfriend was already waiting for you, presumably to apologize in person because you never picked up the phone. He got about five words in before Natasha had him pinned to the ground with her fists flying.

Your interests didn't exactly intersect at first, but eventually Natasha started to enjoy what she used to call ‘freaky’ and ‘weird’ and you were happy enough to accompany her to the gym, watching her work out and fantasizing about being manhandled.

She loves to help you with your makeup, tells you it's because she can't wait to ruin it later with a cocky smirk on her lips. But she also just loves how happy it makes you when she offers to help with your eyeliner.

And in turn you help her with working out. It’s how you found that she can quite easily lift you up (and toss you around). You had joked once about her doing a pushup with you on her back, but she took that as a challenge and showed you just how easily she could.

Natasha finds herself trying to listen to the music you like even when you're not around, it's not her favorite, but she's proud to say that she no longer hates it.

Because of your different way of dressing, you find yourself the subject of a lot of staring while in public, some good and some bad. And if it's bad, Natasha has no problem shooting a quick glare at whoever's looking at you.

You absolutely love how ripped your girlfriend is. You never thought you'd find yourself dating someone so different to yourself. You’ve never found the appeal in going to the gym every day, but you're glad you are. You used to roll your eyes and cringe whenever Natasha would flex to try and show off, but now you find yourself swooning and hanging off of her rather big bicep.

And Natasha absolutely loves how unapologetically yourself you are, despite teasing you all the time by calling you ‘creepy’, ‘freaky’, and a ‘weirdo’. She loves your cute little skirts and your makeup and the way you do your hair. She loves that she can mess up your lipstick and have it go unnoticed depending on the look you're going for that day.

Whenever you get frustrated or fondly annoyed with her you call her Natalia and it always makes her groan, especially if you're around friends.

She has so many pet names for you in both English and Russian that sometimes you lose count, but usually you just call her 'Natty' or 'Tasha'

Natasha was rather… well, you would say boring in the bedroom before she met you, but she was just vanilla and that's fine. She thought hair pulling was the most extreme thing people liked during sex…. and you were definitely the polar opposite of that.

She quickly found out that wasn't the case, though, when you had sat her down and told her that she was allowed to be rough with you if she wanted, that she was allowed to manhandle you. That conversation seemed to light a fire inside her, because that same night after you'd gone to bed she started to do a little research about the rougher sides of sex.

The next time the topic was brought up it was by Natasha herself. She seemed nervous to ask about it, but her hands were itching at her sides like she just wanted to grab you. It seemed her research had only stoked the fire, because all she'd been able to think about for the past however many days was how pretty you would look struggling under her.

Your safeword is ‘mango’ because Natasha is allergic and you just thought it was funny. You didn't even think you'd need a safeword, not expecting Natasha to go much further than choking you a little bit, but she insisted, said she'd never want to accidentally cross a line.

She found out just how much she loved bondage and restraints when she saw the marks they left in your skin. She absolutely loves to tape over your mouth because in her words; “you've always talked too much, sweetness.”

Natasha absolutely cannot get enough of you, the way you sound, the way you look, the way you smell, the way you taste. She loves it.

And she loves how small you are in comparison to her, she stands at around 5’10 and she's broad and built, she can toss you around so easily it's like a dream to you both.

“You’re a little freak, aren't ya?” Natasha grins, biceps flexing as she keeps you in a tight headlock. It was payback for a jumpscare video that you showed her and promised was nothing scary, until she realized that your labored breathing was from being turned on, not from attempting to escape her hold. Now she was just teasing you, really.

“Enjoying this?” She tightens her grip just the slightest bit and has your eyes widening and hands shooting up to claw at her forearm with long, sharp nails. “T– Tasha, choking me..!” you manage to squeak out, thighs squeezing together just the slightest.

Natasha was positioned behind you on one knee with one foot planted on the ground to keep the both of you stable. Otherwise she'd be able to see the way your eyes are glossed over, but she can feel the heat radiating off of you from the way your face has heated up, flustered. “That a problem, princess?” Her tone is cocky, but she loosens her hold on you.

She goes from keeping you in a chokehold to wrapping a strong hand around the column of your throat and pulling you back into her. You can't see it, but you can practically hear the grin on her lips when she speaks, “You’re so easy, baby.”

#alice's fics !#🦇🥊 au #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff x fem reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanov imagine #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov smut #natasha romanoff smut

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anglbby444 · 7 months ago

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Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader smut.

Warnings; none, vanilla sex <3

After bidding your maid farewell for the night with a kiss on the cheek, you nestle yourself into the soft comforters of the bed, which is surrounded by a room that is beautifully decorated thanks to your family’s maids, you feel a familiar crater form next to you. With a grin, you turn over and look into the eyes of your husband, Anthony Bridgerton. “Hello dearest.” He says after placing a gentle kiss on your bare shoulder, you humming contently in response. “Did you have dinner yet, my love?” He questions between more kisses to your shoulder as he leans over your figure. You murmured out an “mhm” as you take in and attempt to memorize the feel of his lips on your skin. “Mm, good good, so did I…although I must admit, you look rather delectable tonight, for a lack of a better choice of words.” He mumbles against your skin, drawing a playful scoff from you. “Anthony! How scandalous..” A smile finds its way onto your face as you sit up and turn around to face your husband, connecting your lips with his.

His hands begin to wander, fingers tracing every inch of skin he can find. Starting from your shoulder, his nimble fingers leave a trail of goosebumps down your arms, chest, breasts, and tummy as his teeth gently latch on to your earlobe. Although most of the skin he’s touching is covered by a soft pink silk nightdress, that doesn’t stop the goosebumps his touch creates on the soft flesh. A moan threatens to escape from your throat as his fingers begin to move lower and lower, eventually hovering above your mound as you feel him chuckle against your skin. You can feel his smirk grow as his fingers find their way into your panties. “A-Anthony!” You cry out.

It is no secret that Anthony Bridgerton likes to make you beg for him to fuck you. No matter if he knows exactly how you want him to fuck you, take you how he pleases. However, as you'll soon find out, that dosen't stop him from wanting to hear it from your pretty litle mouth. "Is your pretty little pussy wet for me? Hm?" Anthonys voice is a devilish one at that, his hot breath tickling the outer shell of your ear. He continues to kiss down towards your neck, lips suctioning a soft portion of skin as he chuckles when he feels you try to buck your hips up. In true mean Anthony fashion, he firmly grips your hips and pushes them down with a growl. "I take that as a yes.."

You let out a sharp breath as his fingers curl into your skin, ever so slightly gliding against your cunt. As Anthony felt the pool of dampness on your heat, he groaned and let out a laugh. "I guess I was right, wasn't I?" He drawls, softly twirling his middle finger around your sensitive bud. You attempted to come up with some sort of sassy remark, but find yourself failing to collect your words. Instead, you let out an almost pathetic sounding whimper. "Anthonyyy...." You call out his name, running your fingers through his hair as you try to buck your hips up once more. This time, he dosen't dissapoint. His forehead presses against you as he shakes his head in playful disbelief. "Say my name like that again and I might just break.." And you took that as a challenge.

"Oh Anthonyyy..." You mewl out his name again, giggling softly as you see him tilt his head and give you a deviant smile. To your surprise, he rips the blanket off of you, exposing your body to him. Although you still have your nightdress on, you can't help but get a bit flustered whenever he sees you so vulnerable. "Well...I think its time to get this pesky dress off of you..." You nod in response and begin to climb out of bed and slowly lift up the dress covering your legs. You know he wanted you to put on a little show. And that you did. Your hair falls down over your shoulders as you let the sleeves of the silk dress slip down your arms. The cold chill that washed over you was a familiar feeling to your already hard nipples. Anthony licked his lips as you fully step out of the nightgown and sashay over to him with a cheeky grin on your face. You crawl onto the bed and look at him with pleading eyes, waiting for him to make the next move. "How do you want me, darling?" His voice became soft, the voice he knows make you feel the safest. Even when hes going to fuck your brains out, as he usually does at least five times a week. "I want you inside me, Anthony.."

Fuck, he CANNOT say no to that. "Guess its a good thing you aren't wearing any panties tonight...Seems like you already knew you wanted my cock tonight." You nod at him with a crooked smile. To your pleasant surprise, he firmly gripped your legs and pulled you closer to him. He let out a chuckle as he placed one of your legs onto his shoulders, spitting on his hand and stroking his already hard cock. Your chest heaves, biting your lip as you look up at him with an already cockdrunk gaze. He leans down and places a passionate kiss to your lips. The two of you exchanged a knowing look, giving him the ok to slip his hard cock into you.

He grabbed onto one of your legs as he gave you a few gentle thrusts, letting you get used to the preassure his cock created inside her. God, you felt like you were in heaven every time he fucked you. He rolled his hips, his tip hitting you in just the right spot. The sensation made your eyes roll back. That sight and your high pitched moans told him all he needed to know. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoded through the room as he started to speed up his movements, his hands finding their way up to your breasts. His large, gruff hands squeezed the pink and plump flesh.

{You’re pretty sure you came four times that night,,,}

#anglbby444 #anthony bridgerton smut #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton #bridgerton fic #bridgerton smut #jonathan bailey

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captainjamster · 6 months ago

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Hey if you're comfortable with it, do you think you write about how 141 would react to finding out you're ticklish? Preferably nsfw. Maybe they just tease you with it or maybe they have a session with you after a while and enjoy how it drives you crazy. It could be poly141 or just a drabble with each members reaction.

I love your writing sm

I'm sorry this took a while anon, thank you so much for your request!! This is the first time I've written about tickling, so I hope it came out alright. I loved researching this lmfao it's so cute

Pairing(s): 141 x reader (separately, not poly or sharing this time sorry! :p) Warnings: Bondage and restraint, tickling, tickling during sex Wordcount: 1.2k Summary: How each of the boys enjoy tickling you :p AO3 Link: Right here! <3

Full drabbles under cut <3

Price loves your laugh; just the sound can get him hard. Maybe you should’ve seen it coming from the first date. It was the first thing he complimented you on in the small bakery – heart eyes over the brim of his coffee cup that had your cheeks red, already breathless at the story between a cheeky sounding sergeant and someone’s poor dog. He stores every terrible joke exchanged amongst his boys, bringing them home just to fill your ears with them, to get anything from that exasperated little giggle to a shocked cackle at some of Ghost’s darker ones – the first time he hears you belly laugh, he writes the beginning of his wedding vowels.

For him, there’s a privilege in being allowed to bring you to such a vulnerable state, dazed and breathless, whether it’s scrabbling against the material of his shirt as you’re bent over in hysterics, hiding behind your hands, gasping for air at the comedy he’s been nagging you to watch, or between his thighs against the mattress, straining with hiccupped shrieks and pleads at his weight as he tortures your overstimulated skin. The only thing he uses is his fingers, and he’s stubborn about it, possessive of the tactile connection between his fingertips against your skin. The furthest he goes is a plug in your pussy, with a command to try and keep it there at the threat of a good spanking (though you both know you’re going to fail).

He challenges himself to make you come with just tickling – he neglects your needy pussy, wet and fluttering with arousal, until the delicate dragging of his nails down the plush insides of your thigh has you spasming around nothing.

Gaz, poor Gaz. Gaz, with blood under his nails he just can’t scrub, who sees someone’s face with every punch he throws at the bag. He’s heard the way his peers talk all throughout his service – spank their ass, slap their face, tight grip to the throat, till they ache.

There was only one part that ever stuck with him – till they ache.

The only time he raises a hand against you is to watch you squeal in anticipation before it flies down to your stomach, skittering up and down the soft skin as you twist and writhe against the sheets. It’s everything he needs – he can make you cry, beg, scream, with the whisp of a few touches, the softest of caresses. Tracing the marks that scatter your skin, only love bites and the imprints of restraint. On some nights, Gaz loves tying you up and tickling you, watching you squirm and contort against his ropes in an attempt to escape. The knots dip into your flesh, keeping your arms straight and pointed to the metal hook that meets the rope stemming from your wrists, legs spread wide with the thick bar anchoring your feet flat to the ground. His fingers dance over every inch of skin bare to him, honing to the areas you try to pull away from, watching you sway this and that way in peals of laughter as he switches between sides on your ribs.

Unlike Price, he doesn’t care for games – he’ll give you what you want. A toy, his fingers, his cock. Slow and steady, letting the rope drop a little to bend you at the waist, rocking back and forward into him, clenching down those slick and warm walls in sync with each ragged laugh. He doesn’t mind wielding a tickle wand, dragging the feathers up and down your thighs, your armpits, behind your knees. It’s not over until your eyes are puffy, cheeks tear stained as you sag under your own weight, kept suspended by the rope as your knees shake.

Soap becomes aware of your ticklish nature very quickly, being such a tactile partner. He’s always touching you – whether it’s an arm around your waist, foot rubbing against your calf, pinkies linked together – and it isn’t long before he unintentionally makes you squeal, accidentally brushing up against one of your most sensitive areas. The noise makes him jump, worried he’s hurt you, but when he sees the red of your cheeks and the shy smile on your face? Oh, it’s over for you.

“Y’ticklish, bonnie?”

He’s all a-grin every time, hands raising menacingly with wiggling fingers.

For a while it stays non-sexual, but poor Johnny can’t help himself. The tickle fights start to linger way past what’s appropriate, making home in his mind – how you get so panicked and squirmy, trying to get away from his fingers, your breathless laugh and gasps as his name whines so desperately from your lips. Your squeals rings through his ears during overdue paperwork in his late nights, so clear that he swears your lips brush across the tips of his ears, and Price avoids looking at him too closely as he turns in the files before leaving.

Sly, smart Johnny starts off slow. When the mood is playful during sex, he purposely rubs his hair and beard up against your neck, your back, feeling you pulse erratically around him with each giggle. He introduces it in increments, a foot in the door as you warm to the idea. Things really get going when he confesses, head buried in the crook of your neck as he groans how the way you flutter around his cock with each giggle brings him so close, and you can't help but laugh at that too. Poor Johnny comes harder than he ever has, and you can't help but want to indulge the glassy, lovestruck expression on his handsome face.

Unlike Gaz, he’d never restrain you - Johnny loves fighting you to stay still, caging you in or dragging you back by the ankle into his reach.

For Ghost, he loves the chase and anticipation beforehand, and his favourite way of being a pest – catch him brushing against just the right spot to make you jump and squeal as his arms slip around you, or his chin nuzzles into your neck.

But it starts with a morning of productivity, taken with your own domestic chores in a quiet co-existence. He’s finished a spot-tidy, bringing some discarded rubbish and checking on you in the kitchen. You’re unsuspecting, caught up in your respective daily activities, fixated on the job in front of you – and something hits him. The way you bob along happily to the music in your head, scrubbing at the dishes with a sway in your hips, caught up in your own world. Your happiness is magnetic, beckoning him and basking him in the same warm rush of dopamine. A light bubbles up through his body, something that forces its way from the depths of his chest more often when you’re around, and his feet are moving towards the kitchen before he thinks twice.

“Hey love?”

You hum questioningly, putting elbow grease into a particularly stuck blemish from the morning’s dishes.

“Got somethin’ for you.”

You finally turn around, soapy hands in the air as droplets cascade from them. Simon gives you a second to stare quizzically, watching your expression morph into a pleading grin as his hands creep up from his sides, fingers curling over into a leering grab.

“No! I’m washing dishes, please!”

His grin widens, fingers wiggling threateningly. “Then dry your hands.”

Your hands fall to your shirt, squeezing the material as you ready yourself to bolt. He squares up, arms outstretched, but he doesn’t close them as you swoop by close enough, out the kitchen in a mad dash. Though the chase is superficial, it doesn’t stop the thrill that jolts him with each impending step, following you through to the loungeroom. The sofa keeps him at bay, circling each other in a practiced synchronisation around the furniture as you feint left and right, keeping him guessing which way you’ll take off.

You bluff right to distract him from your plan to run the other way, but Simon lunges left anyway. He’s faster than you can think, reading the tensing of your muscles, and unable to rectify your charade as you scramble, his arms clamp around you in a swooping grab.

And as you gasp and giggle underneath him, something stirs to life.

dividers by cafekitsune

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glassrowboat · 6 months ago

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Selfess. Kim Dokja.

Summary: The irony, to be a reader's reader. To view his story in between breaks at work, between sick days and vacations, as words flickered before you the same way they did for him on the subway. Digital words trying to break down every little aspect of a man you know hurts inside with a raw passion. Like scraped skin meeting air for the first time. It made you want to hold him, to listen to him, to comfort him, but Dokja always held you at arms length in some way, even if it was so subtle no one but you could sense it.

Author's Note: This has no spoilers for the manhwa readers but was written for those who have gone through the entire novel

Word Count: 3500+

Written for 'Help Me, Hold Me' a collab by @tomuras

Selfishness. A human trait. One bled into society to the point it has been ingrained in every sidewalk; every ruined shop with shelves toppled over from those searching desperately for food, only to find nothing; every hand held out waiting to be held; and every moment that passes by while you're selfish enough to dare to take another breath. Possibly robbing another of their own air to fill their lungs.

Should you stop and risk apologizing?

No, there was never the time to spare.

Too selfish to stop and give those few precious seconds to another person as they cry for aid or in pure, unbridled wrath as you kill the person next to them. Throat squeezed between your bare hands even after their pulse faded away. Only letting go because you were pushed off. Having, at the time, been shoved to the ground as a murderer just like you rose a pipe so high you couldn't imagine it doing anything other than crashing into your skull as it fell.

Whenever that memory comes up, it somehow always leaves a dull ache in your head, like you're remembering the times that metal became one with your bones and brain. Shattering on impact with a sickening thud that left you feeling sick before it all went black.

That would make sense, after all, wouldn’t it? That man having been the one to end it all for you time and time again, so you never end up making it past that first scenario. (Much like a certain someone.)

The first challenge that faced everyone in this dome.

The one that made everyone in it a murderer.

Self-serving.

Self-centered.

Self-regarding.

That's what you all were.

Even him, having dared to make a request of you.

Even as Dokja rested in your lap, black hair tickling your thighs that had you wondering if shorts really were a good idea for sleepwear even if it was the dead of summer and it's annoyingly high temps that left you sweating even when a sword wasn't grasped in hand. Calluses you never thought you'd have carding through the sleeping man's tresses. Absent-minded as you kept your blurred gaze on him.

It was decided the lot of you would hole up here for the night even with the cracks in the foundation that had you second-guessing the structural integrity, but you had been assured it's fine. Like an office worker had any right to assure you of that, but you still shut your mouth at that and nodded along.

“Sure, Ugly,” on your lips. A teasing smile meeting his grimace at the moniker Dokja never failed to show his hatred for.

Good for him. He can be pissy all he wants. If anything, it just makes you tempted to take your phone out and snatch a picture. That is, if it wasn't shattered to a thousand pieces by now and tossed into the waters below. Fish food now, much like Dokja was after Yoo Joonghyuk dropped him off the bridge.

He doesn't appreciate that joke either.

You had insisted on being the one to stay up, to keep watch even as he fought you the entire way as you and the kids wrangled him into laying down. Gilyoung had kicked your shin for pointing out Dokja's eye bags as he finally laid down. White coat folded up in a bundle, far from neatly at that, and tucked under his head in place of a pillow.

This time, you chose to hold your tongue from joking about his mother never teaching him how to do laundry.

So you sat and waited, brushing off the dirt from the assault the evil little creature (or as you liked to call the kid as you pinched his cheeks) left on you. Footprint easily blending in with all the other layers of dirt you have accrued over the past few days without a proper bath. Wet wipes only proved to be a decent substitution for so long. The sun slowly dipped behind concrete towers until being swallowed away by the waters to come back tomorrow, the moon rising in its stead.

Glowing brighter than you could ever recall it doing before this world turned to shit. The lack of street lamps probably helped. Even if the stars were out, almost so close you could reach out and touch them. Card your fingers through the Milky Way like it was a pot of glitter from an arts and crafts project.

“I know you're still awake.” You finally said after you were one hundred percent certain the kids were passed out. Blankets no longer stirred from trying to get comfortable on the hard floor, and Yoosung's mutterings flowed into her habit of talking into her sleep.

Oftentimes, she would cry for someone to come hold her; even in the dead of night.

“I'm sore from that fight earlier today. And it's taking longer to get used to the concrete than I thought it would.”

“Liar. You just need to make sure for yourself that we'll all be okay.”

You waved off the messages appearing beside you at his reply. Notifications came so often that you had learned to tune them out.

“I'll take over from here. You should get some rest yourself.”

It was surprising he didn't punctuate the sentence with your sponsor's title, or worse, your name. He had a habit of doing that at the worst of times, making himself all cozy by disregarding your last name entirely and simply calling you by ... .Well, by the word that makes you turn your head on instinct the second it's called out.

By now, it was far too fuzzy in your brain to remember that first time you truly met him to recall if you gave it to him or he simply knew it.

Were you, too, a character in his eyes?

The thought had struck you many times, what Dokja saw when he looked at you. Especially now as he turned over in his spot, head propped up on his hand to look at you. Scrutinizing. Like he was reading a blue box perched right under your profile that read out:

Your name.

Your age.

Supporting constellation: Arrow-shooting cherub.

And all that other drabble that came with it.

Or were you a selfish person that he chooses to see as an ally despite having no place in his heart before the world fell?

Honestly, you had no clue which was better. At least with the latter he wouldn't know the times you cried late at night in your room, of the times you blearily made it through the day only to let the worlds between pages be your comfort as soon as the front door locked behind you, of how you would see a character so broken, so damaged and-

“No.” You huffed.

Both to his words and your own mind's ramblings. If you could bury that away the same way the Ugly King was atop that hill as wails filled your ears, you would.

“You're human like the rest of us, whether you like it or not. Got that, bubba?”

Such a different way of calling him ahjussi. Definitely a lot less respectful, but something tells you he doesn't mind as much as some other stubborn men in this world would.

“Here I thought I was a Supernatural character. That's what you like to call me with the others, right?”

At least not enough to roll his eyes at, anyway.

“I think the name suits you well. You're just missing some plaid. We can get you a shirt…or a kilt?”

“Not happening.”

A huff of a laugh escaped him, somewhere between breath of air pushing out of his lungs and the chuckles you can get from him after telling a particularly bad pun.

You two stayed like that for a minute, Dokja laying down with his eyes on you. Somehow, even with the intrusive feeling of him staring through you rather than at you, it was comforting.

Dark eyes shone in the light of the fire keeping the four of you warm. Crackling firewood as it tumbled into a new shape, a new little tent of sticks a better background noise to listen to than the mutterings as they finally slowed down for the time being.

“They care about you.”

To the point Yoosung and Gilyoung were nearly attached to him at the hip. If someone had told you those two were stuck to him on those backpacks with leashes parents used before the fall, you wouldn't have even batted an eye. Maybe even believed it for a moment there.

“Which is why you need to get some rest. The first step in letting someone care about you is letting them force you to sleep, to eat, to sit back and let them…”

Hug you.

“Help you.”

‘Don't think about yourself here’ is a great reminder as to why you pressed your lips together in a thin, impossibly straight line. Refusing to say the words lurking in your mind.

“You mean to tell me I'm not supposed to do everything myself?”

The sarcasm in his voice made you want to snatch that makeshift pillow out from under him. So, of course, that's what you do. A call of your name filling the air as he tried to wrangle it back. Something about how it's too cool to end up ruined and how he went through a lot of effort to get that.

“Last I checked, you wanted it in black!”

He was still tugging it from your hands when you heard a murmured call of Dokja's name over the ruckus you were both causing when you froze. He did, too, looking back at the kids for a moment before sighing in relief.

Just Yoosung. As normal.

“I can't rest if I don't have something to sleep on,” he whispered to you. Tone harsh, but never filled with as much contempt as when speaking to a certain regressor. That, and every other emotion he held for the man.

“But I'm cold.” You dared to say, like it wasn't sweltering hot only hours before.

Well, some did say that the summer nights are the ones that make you truly feel like you're freezing.

“Are you?”

Before you could even nod he had pulled the jacket from your hands, with enough force you couldn't help but wonder if his petty ass stacked a few coins up and pushed them into the starstreams vaults, or however that worked, to up his strength stat. Not even your grippy little fingers helped at all. Your attempts to hold onto it a forgotten cause.

Or not.

Not as he wrapped it around your shoulders with a boyish grin. Something so nice to see, his ability to smile, even if it is only to comfort you.

It would be so easy to let your head fall to the clouds and pretend he's not forcing it. But after what happened recently, another scenario passed you by like a bullet train that whooshed up your scarf and had it flying up and away to follow it even as you desperately reached out to grasp onto it with all you had, you knew that simply wasn't the case.

“It smells like male B.O.”

“Well, I do happen to be a man.” Before you could even protest, Dokja said: “despite what you may say.”

“You got laundry soap in that fancy Dokkaebi Shop of yours?”

“Actually, I might.”

You could see his hand twitching to pull up the menu to check, something you're not even sure of if Dokja is allowed to do in front of you despite the many times he has. Little to no shame about it now that he had become a constellation.

“Later. Or I'll make fun of the fact that your eyebags are so big you can carry all my trauma in there.”

“You literally just did.”

Your hand was on his face before you could even think about it, thumb brushing along the bluish skin as it became more and more tinted the longer this world stayed like this. He would stay up most nights insisting to keep watch even if he was the one to suggest everyone stopped to rest, biting at his thumb as endless possibilities swirled in that stubborn mind of his.

Does he not know it's rude to make others see him wearing himself down like that every day?

“Don't know what you're talking about, bubba.”

And this position is extremely awkward now that you think about it. Hand snapping back to your side to grab at that stupid coat to pull it tighter around you despite not truly needing its warmth. However, it did smell nice. Like him. Despite, well, the gross layer to it.

“Right…”

“You could use some eye cream. Too bad your ugly self never heard of makeup before the dome came up. Otherwise, you might have actually had a social life.”

Beyond just pretending the one he admired with all his heart was real in those moments of weakness when the feeling of being alone truly etched itself into his heart. Was a solid human being who could pat him on the shoulder as they did that awkward man hug.

“Why are you like this?” Dokja asked in the flattest tone he could manage.

“You see, it all started when my parents had sex-”

Dokja shook his head at that. His stupid bowl cut waving back and forth in just the right way that had it slightly tousled up when he stopped.

And we all had problems in this world that made us what we are now.

That's what you didn't say.

“Rest. Please.” Not a request, not a demand, but a plea. One that had your voice cracking in protest at opening up that tiniest bit without the doors to your heart being pried open with a crowbar. Of course, they'd have to get through the chains and boards nailed to the frame first.

Selfishly, you wanted him to be the one to pull those nails from the rotting wood.

In a way, he already has. (The same you know he will never fully free you of them).

And you wanted to be the one to hold the lock over his own, to cradle it, and open it not with a pick or some other cheap tool meant to get to the treasure within so easily, but with a key he willingly gives you.

To know what it's like for him, for once, to be honest with you. Even if that means to stop lying to himself in the process.

“Or I'll get a marker and really draw attention to those bags of yours. Maybe I'll even start calling you an old man and insisting they're a sign of aging. Those stories catching up with you, oldy?

“I never thought I would have missed being called ‘Ugly King.’” He groaned.

But for now, all you can do is watch it dangle before you as it shines in the light of another's hands. Dangling from a black cord. Yoo Joonghyuk. How Dokja looks at the regressor the same way you did him.

“Then I'll be nice for once and keep that nickname to myself if you lay down, shut your eyes, and fall the fuck to sleep.” Before he could ask with what pillow, because, yes, you were already expecting that question, you pat your lap. Far too used to his sarcasm to not see it coming a mile away. “Sleep.”

There was no fight, no bite back as Dokja just sighed and let himself fall down even as he was clearly embarrassed over this. Refusing to look at you like that would do anything to stop the tiniest flush you could see in his skin if you simply stopped to look. Just like you always have. But still, no fight was a good thing. Hopefully, that meant he was too exhausted to even bother because then he would have no choice but to slip away into dream land as your fingers slid through his hair. Easing him into the wakeless world.

“I'll keep watch. I promise.”

You soaked in his time, in him, as you watched those eyes drift shut.

“Last time I heard you singing Gilyoung a song.” The words were particularly muffled by your thigh, the skin growing goosebumps as you felt his breath fanning over you. Somehow, you're too hot and too cold all at the same time as you replied back with a confirmation.

“Are you asking me to sing for you, too? Does little Dokja need a lullaby?”

“Nevermind.”

“Hey, hey, no.” Your hand stopped in his hair for a moment, the dirt under your nails from earlier today so easily spotted as your eyes flicked between him and the calloused hand that has dared to take lives, but still treat him so softly. “I just don't really remember all the words. I can't look them up without wifi and all that so…”

“What do you remember?” He dared to ask.

So, for him, you answered: “enough.”

Enough for you to hum to the parts you're missing and sing the rest as that moon that had risen up into the sky slowly started to drop again. It's much like a video game where you're messing with the time settings just to continue on your quest. Your next adventure. Your next task.

But selfishly, you wanted this moment to last forever as you sang about a little baby moon shining in the sky with his funny little toes in the air.

“And he's all alone in that big blue sky.”

The lyrics had you aching to stop and to bite at your lip as Dokja drifted off to sleep, but still you continued on, because for him, It didn't matter if your throat burned or you legs went numb. Not even when you'd surely have trouble walking the next day as they struggled to pump blood back through them properly, not if it meant he got a moment of reprieve from what you knew was going to happen next.

Is this what it felt like for him watching Yoo Joonghyuk during their encounters? Each passing day went by like a sweet song that you wished to play in your head again and again until you remembered every lyric, every pitch, every note, until the ability to play it through memory alone graced you.

The same way you did the pages of his book. Quote after quote of his assurances to others that he never dared give himself still so fresh even after reading through them for the nth time.

How you wanted to be the one to tell Dokja he'd be able to get through it all.

If he only allowed it.

Only allowed you in to give him more than a moment of reprieve to sleep. To hold him, to listen to him, to comfort him. To cradle Dokja the same way you did your phone after reading translations of the novel in the dead of the night.

It's complicated to hold someone this dear, to look at them and only wish for them to have the best yet know they have been robbed of that. Know they will be robbed of even more.

But this is the choice he wanted.

And who are you to disrespect that?

Even as it has tears falling from your cheeks as you sang that stupid song again, words coming out broken between sobs you hoped wouldn't wake the children and the man you loved in a way that went beyond mere friendship, beyond mere passion for another, beyond mere familial ties.

No, it went beyond that.

That's why you couldn't be selfish, not with him, not even after all those fix it fics you relished in because at least then you'd see him happy. See that boyish grin full of pure joy and nothing else.

So you would stand on the side lines, let him view you as another character to save if he must, and hold your sword tight as it's raised to protect him.

Because, and the words came out like a croak as you whispered them to yourself, a confession between only you and the constellations above. “I love you.”

‘In lieu of loving myself.’

The fate of a reader's reader. Your precious main character.

For your selfishness, for your own broken and guarded heart, for him, this can only be said knowing he can't hear your deepest secret. No, Dokja had other things he needed to do, better, more important things than to worry about you. So you would give it all to him, no matter if it meant shattering yourself too.

#kim dokja #dokja kim #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv #orv x reader #kim dokja x reader #kdj #orv kdj #kdj x reader #fanfiction event #fanfiction collab #banner by cafekitsune #gn reader

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callsign-rogueone · 6 months ago

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deja vu - b.d.

Bodhi Durran x reader part of Bodhi and Darling's story 💗 words: 2.9k 🏷: set in the year before Fourth Wing (Bodhi’s first year). one tiny book spoiler but it’s not stated explicitly, hurt/comfort, anxiety, imagined character death (in a nightmare). mild dissociation, anxiety, nausea, fighting (challenge match), one very small injury, canon-typical peril and danger.

“I love you,” Bodhi rasps, closing his eyes. “I’m so… sorry…”

“No, no, hey, look at me,” you beg, hot tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re gonna be okay, we’re getting you help, but you have to keep looking at me, okay?”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move or make any indication that he can hear you. He’s silent, perfectly still — he isn’t breathing.

“Bodhi,” you cry, “Bodhi, please don’t leave me. Wake up, please.”

His heart has stopped beating. The love of your life, the man who had sworn to protect you, who you had sworn to love in sickness and in health and through the test of time, until the end of your days, is dead.

You feel like the air has been squeezed from your lungs, your breaths coming in choked sobs.

“Wake, child,” someone interrupts — Sìoda. “It’s just a dream. It’s not real.”

You shake yourself awake, panting like you’d been running for miles. You look down at your palms, illuminated by the gentle moonlight filtering into the room -- they’re clean; not streaked with Bodhi’s blood. It was just a dream. Just a terrible dream, likely a product of the overactive imagination you’ve had your whole life, and your anxiety about the dragonkind exam you have tomorrow that you’re convinced you’re going to fail, despite spending all evening studying.

“Your mate, and all of your brothers and sisters are safe in their beds,” she soothes, “as are mine.”

Oh. You still aren’t any good at shielding, so she’s been getting all of your emotions through the bond — you’d likely woken her up with your distress.

“I’m sorry,” you say in a guilt-ridden whisper. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Don’t apologize, my child. Just breathe.”

You mop up your tears with the sleeve of your pajama shirt, and focus on deepening your breaths, trying to relax your racing heart.

“There are still a few hours until formation,” she says gently. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

You lay back down, gazing at the wall of gray stone beside you, counting the bricks and trying to find patterns in the texture until the exhaustion overtakes you, and you fall back asleep.

Thankfully, your subconscious doesn’t torment you with any more cruel sights. You wake up to gentle November sunlight warming your skin and birds chirping — last month, a pair of doves had made a nest in the tiny alcove by your window.

You get dressed quickly, sorting out your hair and straightening your uniform. You’re in the middle of lacing your boots when there’s a knock at your door, the familiar rhythm that you know can only be Bodhi; like clockwork, he comes down the hall to get you every morning so you can walk to breakfast together.

You unlock the door with your mind, something you’ve been able to do for the last week, breathing a sigh of relief when he walks into the room unharmed and smiling. You hug him extra tightly, tucking your head into his neck and holding him a moment longer than usual, comforted by the steadiness of his breathing.

“You okay, Darling?” he asks, sounding concerned.

You hum in contentment. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You don’t mention the dream, because nobody wants to hear about their own death, and it would be silly to bother him with something you’ve already gotten over — though you know the image of Bodhi bleeding out in your arms on the floor of that empty classroom will likely be burned into your brain forever.

He gives you an easy smile, shouldering your bookbag and gesturing for you to head out the door.

You’re comforted by the normalcy of the day. It’s almost too easy, too smooth.

Everyone is present and accounted for at breakfast, in good spirits — as good as they can be, in your current situation. Battle brief passes quickly, with no reports of catastrophe, though you know that they likely aren’t giving you all the information they have. The dragonkind test you’d been so worried about is much easier than you’d expected, and you have the rest of the afternoon off until dinner.

You don’t object as your squadmates suggest you use one of the empty common rooms to study in — the same one you’d seen in your dream.

What would you even say? Sorry, guys, but can we pick somewhere else to be, because I had a nightmare last night that Bodhi died in this room?

You shake it off, repeating Sìodha’s words in your mind as you crack open your textbook: It’s just a dream. It’s not real.

But then every word of the conversation going on around you starts to sound very familiar, like you’ve heard it before — like they’re reciting lines for a stage play.

It’s just a dream. It’s not real.

But this can’t be a coincidence. There’s too many similarities for comfort; the location, the timing — the sun is just starting to set — the exact page that each boy’s book is open to… you remember that, remember Sawyer’s book being open to a page with that same illustration.

“Have you done number four yet? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Let me see.”

You predict their replies with nearly perfect accuracy — because you’ve heard this exact conversation before.

What if it is real? What if you’re trapped in an endless loop like in one of the novels you’d read, where the leading lady has to live the worst day of her life over and over until she figures out how to change it?

You could hardly bear to watch the light leave Bodhi’s eyes in that dream, and so help you gods, you are not going to see it ever again; you’re going to do something about it.

You’d read some theory in a philosophy book once that the flap of a butterfly’s wings can set off a chain of events that cause a hurricane. Would it be safer to stop this exact moment as it happens, or to interrupt now? Or was that dream really just a dream, and today will just be a normal day, or Basgiath’s version of normal, and you’re worrying over nothing?

“I don’t think that’s it. I think that’s the answer to number five, though.”

Those are the words. You’d almost missed them, too concerned about what’s going to happen in the next five seconds, but you should have just enough time if you act now. Sìodha seems to think so too, sending you a flood of urgency and panic.

You tackle Bodhi to the ground, wrapping an arm around his waist and putting a hand behind his head to cushion his fall as you both hit the floor. Your knuckles split on the impact, pain ripping through your hand, but all you can focus on is Bodhi underneath you — his eyes wide with shock, but still blinking up at you, his lips parted in a gasp, but not slick with blood, his heart racing, but not stopping.

There’s a shout from beside you, the clatter of metal against stone, and the sounds of a brief struggle. Dain has the would-be assassin pinned in a matter of seconds, Sawyer helping him restrain her and haul her away, leaving you and Bodhi alone, still tangled up in one another on the floor, his eyes locked with yours.

He finally manages to form words, but not a complete sentence, still stunned. “What… How did you… What?”

“I saw this in a dream last night,” you answer, your voice wavering. “I saw you sitting right here with me, talking to Sawyer. You said that same sentence, and then there was a knife in your chest.”

You look to your right, where it lays on the floor a few feet away — the exact shape and length as the one you’d dreamed of. “That knife.”

Bodhi’s eyes widen even further as he puts it together. “I think that was your signet,” he breathes. “You’re a visionary.”

You finally let go of him, moving to sit by his side on the cold stone of the floor and staring blankly at the dagger. It had missed either of you by at least three feet, but had you acted a second later, or not at all… That doesn’t matter, you suppose. What matters is that Bodhi is alive; that you’d been able to save him, because you’d known what was going to happen and you altered course at the last second.

You should be proud of yourself, but all you can think about is his words to you, and the implications thereof. If this is truly your signet, then you’ll have to watch this kind of thing happen over and over, and likely not just to Bodhi, but to the rest of your friends, too. But what if you can’t stop it next time? What if you see something happen to the twins? They’re a two-hour flight away, and you can’t abandon your post just because you had a dream that something bad happened to them.

Will any of your dreams be just dreams anymore, or are you going to see all manner of terrible things every night for the rest of your life? How are you supposed to distinguish between dreams and reality, between the sleepy inventions of your subconscious, or the magic of your signet?

“I’m sorry, child. It is a powerful gift to have, but it can be quite cruel.”

You can hear Bodhi speaking, likely a thank you and some soft reassurances, but you don’t process the words. You don’t respond to either of them, still not fully convinced that this isn’t another dream.

The warmth of his hand on your arm starts to pull you out of that numbness. “Talk to me, darling.”

“I watched you die,” you whisper. “There was nothing I could do. I just had to hold you, until… I thought it was just a nightmare, but then it started happening in reality, and...”

You shake your head, eyes welling with tears that you try to blink away. You tell yourself that there’s no reason to be crying, no use when he’s standing in front of you, alive, breathing and talking and holding your hand, but you can’t stop the flood of emotion; confusion and relief and horror and several other things you can’t put a name to right now.

“Hey,” he coaxes, “look at me.”

You focus your gaze on him, on those soft brown eyes that still blink at you, the rise and fall of his chest.

“I’m okay,” he says softly, wrapping your hand around his wrist, mindful of your scraped knuckles. He positions your fingertips over his pulse, pressing them into the skin so you can feel the gentle beat of his heart. “I’m alive, because you saved me.”

You nod silently, warm tears slipping down your cheeks.

He gathers you into a warm embrace, rubbing your back in soft, soothing motions. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, my darling girl. But the next time something like that happens, you tell me, okay? I don’t care if you wake me up at three in the morning, I want to be there for you.”

“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Good.”

You stay like this for a moment, just sitting with him and finding comfort in the warmth of his touch and the steadiness of his breathing.

“Do you want to go to the healers for your hand, or do you want me to wrap it up for you?”

“Want you to do it,” you answer softly, still feeling a little fragile. You don’t want to be away from him, even for a moment; you might work up the courage to ask if you can sleep in his bed tonight.

“Okay.” He presses a kiss to your temple, getting up to pack your bags.

Dain and Sawyer haven’t returned, likely still in Varrish’s office with the unbonded girl. You scribble a quick note to thank them, and to say that you’re done studying for the afternoon, leaving it on top of Dain’s book.

Bodhi picks up your bag, shouldering it along with his own.

He stops to pick up the dagger, sheathing it at his side, and you blink at him, confused. “You’re keeping it?”

“Of course I’m keeping it. It’s a memento of my first assassination attempt.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Only you could be so proud about someone wanting to kill you.”

He pulls you in closer, tucking you under his arm. “Not nearly as proud as I am of you. You should have seen it. I’ve never seen you move that fast in my life.”

Your cheeks warm in embarrassment, suddenly shy. “I was worried I’d lose you,” you say softly.

“You won’t ever lose me,” he soothes. “We made each other a promise, and I intend to keep it.”

“So do I,” you say quietly. “So do I.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t have any more terrible dreams -- visions -- for the rest of the week, just a generalized sense of anxiety and insomnia, waiting for the next one and wondering what it’ll be, what terrible fate may befall one of your friends.

Each day that passes simultaneously soothes your anxiety and stokes it. If you aren’t dreaming of any terrible things, then they won’t happen, but what if you don’t dream them? What if you can’t see harm coming to them in advance, and thus can’t prevent it?

As soon as you enter the gym for Emeterrio’s class, it hits you again; that incredibly strong sense that something very bad is going to happen, very soon.

Bodhi sees your posture change, your normal relaxed and graceful presence tightening uncomfortably, and puts it together immediately, looking at you with concern.

“I have that feeling again,” you manage, forcing down the acid rising in your throat. “But this time, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“It’ll be okay,” he soothes.

“You don’t know that,” you reply, still looking around, surveying the gym for anyone that could pose a threat to you or any of your friends, which happens to be every single person in the room.

He takes your hand, and the feeling stops; vanishes completely, as if it was never there. Bodhi’s presence and his gentle touch have always been a comfort to you, often the only comfort you have, but nothing like that has ever happened before, a relief so intense and sudden.

Your gaze snaps to him, eyes widening. “How did you…”

He lets go, and the anxiety and nausea comes back in a tidal wave that nearly knocks you over. He lays a hand on your back to steady you, worried you’ll collapse, and the feeling dissipates again in the blink of an eye. Definitely not a coincidence.

“I think you turned it off,” you whisper. “When you let go, it came back.”

He blinks at you for a few seconds, processing. “Do you think that’s…”

“Laurent and Daneel,” Emeterrio calls.

Oh. That’s what you’re supposed to be worried about.

“Deep breath,” Bodhi prompts.

You inhale as deeply as you can before he moves his hand off of your back, and you aren’t hit with another tidal wave, just a normal, manageable level of anxiety appropriate for someone about to start a challenge match.

But as you step onto the mat, the anxiety fades into… something new. Confidence, like nothing you’ve ever felt before -- like you know you’re going to win this fight, without question, like it’s already been written down in the professor’s gradebook, and carved into history.

Interesting.

You lower your head to your opponent in respectful acknowledgement, getting a snarl in response. Well, then. Maybe this will be harder than you’d thought -- but you still have that unshakeable feeling that you’re going to come out on top.

She makes the first move, a punch that you’re able to dodge easily. She tries again -- and you step to the side without thinking, avoiding the blow by a few inches.

You continue dodging and blocking, reacting naturally, almost subconsciously, not even thinking about your movements.

You feel the same strange feeling you’d felt during the conversation leading up to Bodhi’s would-be assassination; you’d known all the words, knew what was going to happen because you’d seen it in a dream -- only you don’t remember dreaming any of this at all. It had been a total surprise that your name would be called with hers, the intense anxiety you’d felt being the only indicator, and even then, you’d been worried that it would be one of your friends in danger, not yourself.

Very interesting.

A slow smile spreads across your face as you realize exactly what is happening -- this is your signet at work, that familiar hum of power through your veins as you move, keeping you a few seconds ahead of everyone else in the room.

“You’ve had your fun,” Sìoda nudges, sounding amused. “Now end this, and end it well.”

The girl agrees. “Come on, you filthy fucking traitor! Fight me already!”

There’s a collective intake of breath from the quadrant as they wait for you to respond -- every eye in the gym is watching you, even the other cadets that are supposed to be fighting across the room, but you don’t move, don’t react to the comment, preparing for what’s going to happen next.

She hurls a dagger at you, enraged by your lack of engagement in this fight -- and your hand flies up to catch it, your fingers wrapping around the hilt and stopping it in midair.

Silence. Absolute dead silence.

You examine it for a second before you tuck it into your belt, looking back up at her. “Let’s fight, then.”

#bodhi and darling #bodhi durran #bodhi durran x reader #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #mine #fourth wing fanfic

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