#where i wanna weave her in

[divineslcyer]

waking up at 5 am again gdi.. anyway, I think I've got a basis now for Honkai!Mish, been torn on her being with the Stellaron hunters OR the express. But she looks like she could legit be related to Himiko so, gonna write up how Himiko could be cousins.. or that she was the first Himiko took in on the Express. ( pending ideas but i like my gurl on the train and also pom-pom is precious).

Her element would be fire, her path.. possibly destruction. Possibly.

[celestialecho]

🌦️&💤

on childhood best friends.

via ill give you the sun by jandy nelson // via the art of ponyo by hayao miyazaki // jack johnson, we're going to be friends // a message from my childhood best friend // mitski, i guess // via a little life by hanya yanagihara // adventure time, island song (come along with me) // via unknown // abba, chiquitita

[dreaminghelaena]

— helaena targaryen

[flowercrowngods]

and today in sometimes i write shit that fucks me up for weeks: time travel au steve & trees

Steve gets up. Goes into his room — not his room at all, it’s not his home, it’s not his — knowing Hopper won’t follow him, locks the door knowing El will unlock it if she needs him, and crawls under the blanket. He doesn’t cry, just curls up and lies there in numb misery of feeling too much, thinking too much, knowing too much, and not having the right words to express anything.

The air under the blanket gets too warm to really be comfortable, but he doesn’t want to move. He’s turned into a tree again, as El would put it. Another pang of guilt and misery runs through him, because he doesn’t want to be fucked up like that, fucked up enough for a child to call him a tree because he loses his reality a lot; but then the thought of being a tree almost feels so relieving it makes him want to cry.

Because trees don’t think about their friends dying. Killed. Murdered. By forces greater than this world’s imagination. Trees don’t watch the blood seeping from them over and over again until they lose their minds and go into shock that this world doesn’t support, instead tugging him back and forth until all there is is nothingness, because there is no time to think or feel or process, and once there is time, there is too much to even start. And no one to talk to about it. No one to listen.

If he could turn into a tree and never have a single thought again, he would without hesitation.

But he can’t, so he thinks, and the thinks until he falls asleep and the thoughts turn into memories morphed with fears until it’s Steve who kills them. Steve who fails. And Steve who does it over and over again. In the Upside Down, in Eddie’s trailer, at school, in Mike’s basement.

It’s Steve. Like it was Billy.

[…]

Walking on legs that haven’t quite accommodated to being upright yet, stiff and heavy in the dark of night, Steve makes his way through the forest, tumbling and stumbling, but never enough to make him stop. He’s heaving breaths now, willing the cold air into his lungs to stop everything from feeling so wrong, to break through the haze and the fog and the cotton, to pierce his insides with little pinpricks of ice as December is fast approaching. It only serves to make him more dizzy, his head spinning, glowing spots of black and white appearing in his field of vision until he leans against a tree, catching his breath and holding it.

Holding onto it with whimpers and wheezes and pathetic little groans that make him want to scream. He punches the tree, his hand numb with pain upon impact, his knuckles stiff and scraped up; bloody, even in the pitch black darkness.

Bloody. His hands are always bloody. It stains them, has seeped into his skin, like a reverse tattoo that only he can see. This, though… This is real. It’s his blood.

And so he punches again. And again, until his breath has evened out, and the pain has moved from his arm and his side over to his hand. Over to something real.

He flexes his fingers and watches them, can barely make out their shape, and focuses on the pull of his skin, the scrapes making it feel too tight — but in a real way. In a way that… he’s not going crazy. It’s real. It’s all real. And it’s burning, sizzling along with all of that anger, the grief, the confusion, the complete and utter fucking lostness. The loneliness.

Steve punches the tree one more time, then turns around to put more distance between him and familiar walls and stale air and worried glances so heavy they slowly scrape away the scar tissue growing over all those rawest of feelings.

He walks and walks without direction or destination, simply placing one foot in front of the other as his racing heart calms down and he is overcome with an absolute, all-consuming kind of exhaustion that makes him sway the very second he stops. His eyes are getting heavy, like his body is slowly coming to the realisation that his beside clock said 3:38 a.m. and that he hasn’t slept through the night for some days now, or maybe weeks, always awoken by nightmares — on days that he even dared to fall asleep.

No one should have to feel this kind of exhaustion, Steve thinks. Even after the Russians, after torture and fighting and more torture, followed by running and more running and almost dying in a car crash and then in a fire… Even after all that, he wasn’t as exhausted as he feels right now.

Probably because back then, he had Robin. Robin who would hold his hand, Robin who would share a glance with him and resuscitate everything that died inside of him with just one brave little smile.

God, she was so brave.

Steve leans against a tree, closing his eyes for just one second as he pictures Robin — alive and smiling and determined. Robin, in the passenger seat of his car at ass o’clock in the morning, grumpy and tired, leaning in to give him a hug hello and a hug goodbye. Robin, who would roll her eyes at his antics, his insecurities and his worries — Robin, who would explain hours later, her hand in his, that he had no reason to doubt or worry. That he was fine. That he was perfect. That everything else would slot into place soon and be perfect for him, too. Payback, she’d called it.

Payback, he thinks now as he heaves another breath, willing it through his constricted throat, and just barely keeping himself from screaming. Payback, because he failed. Payback, because he watched her die and nothing, nothing good will ever come out of that.

As much as he will try to save her, she will always have died. As much as he can try to keep her safe this time around, he will always have failed her.

That’s nothing he can take back. Ever. Nothing he can fix. Nothing he can make un-happen.

It’s the cruellest constant.

One that won’t leave him alone. One that won’t let him sleep at night, one that won’t leave his head even for a minute, flooding his consciousness with memories of blood and failure, weighing down his conscience until he can’t fucking breathe, and—

A sob escapes his throat even as he stumbles forward, continuing on his nonexistent path that feels a lot like running, fleeing from this new life, as though he could magically make his way back to the old one. Because they have died. They’re dead. He watched them. This new world won’t fix that. Won’t fix him. And he doesn’t deserve fixing anyway.

So he runs.

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[archangeldyke-all]

Isha walking into reader and sevikas room to sleep because jinx kept on pushing her off the bed :,(

(also I love the stuff you write and I hope your having a good day/noon/night!)

aweeeeeee (also tysm!! i'm slugging thru my period but i'm feeling better this evening hehe!)

men and minors dni

around midnight, you wander into the living room to find jinx taking apart your coffee maker. you rub your eyes, pull the blankets over sleeping isha's shoulders, before pouring a glass of juice and placing it beside jinx's workspace.

"can't sleep?" you ask, sitting beside her and ruffling her bangs. jinx shrugs.

"your coffee maker kept drippin', couldn't sleep with it." she mumbles, taking a slurp off her juice, her eyes studying the parts scattered on your dining table.

"y'know if you're bored... sevika's got a big ol' stash of comic books in the storage closet. classic oldies from when we were kids-- 'sharkshooter', 'janna's ravens',--"

"does she have any 'sparkgirls'? she asks, an excited glimmer in her eye. you grin.

"that was her favorite. go ahead, just don't rip any of the pages. these're her babies." you chuckle, pulling open the closet and letting jinx clamor over to you. you give her a quick kiss then wander back to the bedroom, ruffling isha's hair as you pass her on the couch.

"y'okay?" sevika mumbles as you crawl back into bed beside her. you giggle and kiss her cheek.

"just checkin' on jinx 'n the kid."

"mmm." sevika mumbles, flipping over to bury her face against your tits. "love you."

her snores quickly lull you back to bed.

you wake up a few hours later to sevika jumping awake beside you.

"'s wrong?" you mumble.

"i don't-- there's something-- isha?!" sevika asks, throwing the blankets back and flicking a lamp on.

a big pair of gold eyes blink up at the pair of you.

"s-sorry ms. vika. i go' cold without ms. jinx on the couch wi' me."

you burst into giggles, cooing down at the baby in your bed and laying back down against the mattress. isha curls up against your side. "come back to bed, sev." you say, rolling your eyes at your gawking girlfriend.

"she's in my spot!" sevika sputters, pointing at where isha's curled up on your chest. you chuckle and make grabby hands for her.

"c'mon, w'ere cold! right isha?" you ask. the kid giggles and nods, mimicking your own grabby hands.

sevika snorts an exhausted laugh, crawling back into bed beside you two, pulling the covers up and flicking the light out.

when isha's little snores start up sevika reaches over the bed to poke you. "you realize this means we gotta put a lock on the door for when we wanna fuck, now, right?" she asks.

you fall asleep laughing, reaching across the mattress to weave your fingers between sevika's.

when you finally wake up in the morning, jinx has joined your cuddle pile, curled up at the foot of the bed like a dog, one of sevika's comics clutched to her chest as she snores.

isha's laying directly on top of sevika, and sevika's got one arm curled around the girl, the other reaching out to hold your own hand.

she blinks awake when you press a kiss to her forehead, groaning when she realizes how many guests have joined your bed. you chuckle.

"you're the one who dragged 'em both home." you remind her.

"we need to find a bigger fuckin' house." she mumbles.

"or at least a bigger bed." you giggle.

sevika glances over at you, and all the annoyance and frustration melt away the second her eyes meet yours. "they're lucky i got you, y'know. no fuckin' way i'd let two kids crash the bachlorette pad i had before i met you."

"y'mean you weren't softened up enough yet?" you tease.

sevika grins and shrugs. "somethin' like that."

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @lavandasz

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

[rafecameronssl4t]

Can I please get smth with rafe x thorton!reader where shes confronted by topper’s ex girlfriend or something bc she got cheated on

Ruined Heels || Rafe Cameron x Thorton!reader

A/n: kinda sorta dislike this but thank you for the request!!

Warnings: vomiting? swearing idk what else lmk

Word count: 952

MASTERLIST (rafe x thornton!reader au masterlist)

Divider by @yoonitos

mood board “You ain't never had the feds investigate you. You ain't never had the bad hoes wanna date you.”

Your heeled foot taps rhythmically on the polished wooden floor, perfectly in sync with the pounding beat of the music that fills the house, the bass reverberating through every room.

“And then she started a hissy fit like she always does,” Sarah says, rolling her eyes dramatically as she recounts Kiara’s latest outburst. Her voice carries a mix of exasperation and amusement, a combination that makes you snort with laughter. You tilt your head back, letting the cool liquid slide down your throat before setting the empty glass on the table beside you.

“Hey,” Rafe’s voice cuts through the chatter and music, drawing your attention. He strides over with a confident smirk, “Wanna go upstairs?” He asks, his fingers drumming lightly on your crossed knee, sending a shiver up your spine as you look up at him.

“Gross,” Sarah mutters under her breath, clearly unimpressed with Rafe’s suggestion. You glance at her, “Will you be okay?” you ask, concern lacing your voice as you prepare to stand. Rafe reaches out to help you, his hands gentle yet firm as they grasp your waist, pulling you to your feet. His fingers brush against your dress, tugging it back into place as it rides up slightly.

“Yeah, I think I saw Kaycee in the kitchen,” Sarah replies with a sigh, her expression softening as she gets up from the sofa. She gives you a reassuring nod, her eyes briefly meeting yours before she turns towards the kitchen.

You nod back as Rafe leads you away. His hand remains on the small of your back, as you both weave through the crowd to get to the stairs. Just as you’re about to step onto the first stair, a blonde girl suddenly grabs your arm, pulling you back with unexpected force.

“Excuse me?” you say, furrowing your brow at the girl, your confusion evident. Rafe pulls you protectively against him, his grip tightening as his anger flares. “What the hell is your problem?” he demands, his voice sharp and furious.

The girl stands before you, her appearance a stark contrast to her fury. Tears stream down her face, her hair a tangled mess, and her lipstick smeared across her chin. Her hands tremble as she points a finger accusingly at you. “Your brother is the biggest fucking douche I’ve ever met!” she shouts, her voice cracking with emotion.

You and Rafe exchange incredulous glances, both stunned by her outburst. The disbelief in your eyes mirrors Rafe’s as you struggle to process the situation. “I’m sorry, who exactly are you?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. She scoffs, “Caroline, your brother’s girlfriend! Or ex-girlfriend now, since he just dumped me for someone else!” she yells furiously.

You never supported your brother’s behavior of sleeping around and breaking up with girls left and right, but practically everyone on the island knew what kind of person he was. Topper was notorious for his inability to maintain a relationship for any length of time.

“What’s that got to do with me?” you ask, shrugging nonchalantly as her eye twitches in frustration. Rafe stands behind you, his hand resting on your hip, watching the scene unfold with amusement. “He’s—” Caroline begins, her voice rising in anger, but you cut her off sharply, “You knew what kind of guy my brother was, so why did you even bother?”

Caroline stands there in silence, her eyes darting around as the partygoers watch. She takes a hesitant step forward, and you raise an eyebrow, curious about her next move. Suddenly, her face contorts with a pained expression. She brings the back of her hand to her mouth, but it’s too late. She bends over, vomiting on the floor, causing a collective gasp from the crowd.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, stepping back quickly to avoid the spreading mess. Rafe, standing behind you, looks like he’s about to gag, his hand covering his mouth. You instinctively reach out and pat Caroline’s back, offering what little comfort you can as she remains hunched over.

“What’s going on here?” Topper’s voice booms as he pushes through the crowd. He reaches you, his eyes scanning the scene before landing on Caroline. He sighs loudly, fingers pressing into his temples as if to ward off a headache. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Caroline slowly lifts her head, her eyes meeting Topper’s with a mix of anger and embarrassment. Without warning, she swats your hand away, straightens up, and runs off, disappearing into the crowd of partygoers. The crowd parts for her, whispering amongst themselves, while you and Rafe exchange a bewildered glance.

Topper stands there, rubbing his forehead, clearly frustrated. “Great, just great,” he mumbles. “Did you really have to break it off tonight?” You mutter, giving your brother an annoyed look as he rolls his eyes “Oh, I’m sorry, Princess. Did she ruin your shoes or something?” Topper lifts his hands up in mock surrender, his tone sarcastic. “Get fucked, Topper,” You scoff, “let’s go,” You pull Rafe with you.

"Good to see you, Top," Rafe pats his shoulder, a smile gracing his lips before he lets you walk him upstairs (walk him like a dog sis).

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 3; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

“What is this anyway—‘bring your girlfriend to work’ day?”

She’s snarky as ever, but with an agitated edge. Nerves prickling when Johnny holds her jacket out for her to slip her arms into. Even that makes her snap—something about not being a toddler that Johnny needs to help dress, but by then his head is in the clouds. In another place altogether. 

The prospect of getting to parade his new girl around leaves him giddy, fox-like grin hard to squash. He doesn’t suppress anything, finds it hard to push things down. When he does, it’s often unconscious. 

She doesn’t like the way he savours her anxiety like a fine wine, sniffs it from the top of her head and groans out his breath, cackling when she tries to stomp on his foot to make him go away. He dances away with her coat, light and nimble on his feet because he’s used to ducking and weaving for her affection. 

“The guys wanna meet ye,” he repeats for the umpteenth time. It’s surprising how many times he’s had to say it. 

“Why? Haven’t they ever met a girl before?” she gripes, swallowing now, her stomach probably cramping and poor bonnie lass, Johnny thinks. His poor, pretty girl is trying to put on a brave face when he knows she prefers being in the backroom of her little flower shop, snipping off stalks and tying pretty bows around pretty bouquets. He wishes he could keep her back there forever—put a lock on the door and come only to smother her in kisses and gorge himself on every inch of her—but there’s a whole wide world demanding his attention. 

“Aye, hen, never a lass as cute and sweet as ye,” he crows, ducking a hand that punches through the sleeve of her jacket in his direction. 

In the car, he drops the facade. Loses his teasing edge. It’s a violent removal, like jolting awake to the sound of someone sawing away at a catalytic converter. If his smile is saccharine, it’s really only a smokescreen concealing the apprehension bubbling away in his belly. 

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel on the drive back to base. Heart in his throat, choking his words and rendering him quiet for once in his life. He hears Ghost’s voice in his head, a low rumbling laugh, tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet. These days, his voice acts as a lodestar, the thing steering Johnny home. 

Months ago, it was the only thing between him and annihilation, the ice cold maelstrom dragging him deeper into its maw. Guiding him through the valley of death. The wound in his arm still aches in the first light of day. His sleep is still wracked by dreams of running down alleys and ducking into houses, the rain pattering against the window panes ominous, a ticking clock, each step having to be precise, calculated, each movement quieter than quiet, fading into the shadows, a cool heart and mind bested by agony from the bulletwound in his shoulder.

And then—Ghost’s voice, low and soothing in his ear, shattering the pain. Ghost’s voice in his ear telling him where to go, how to survive. 

It’s hard to explain. Johnny’s tried. It’s like talking in circles when he opens his mouth and tries to get it out. I trust him with everything in me. He could do anything to me, anything. 

He is no less capable, no less competent. His rank demands respect, and he takes what’s due to him. Since Las Almas, he’s worked across a medley of other teams, even solo a time or two. It changes nothing. He still wakes in a sweat, chasing that voice. It takes him back into the real world. The days burn into the fringes of a memory that he is always living.

“Should I know anyone’s name before we get there?”

Her voice breaks through the noise in his head this time. It’s every bit as precious. 

“What d’ye mean, hen?” he asks, clucking his tongue. Sweats a bit when he realizes how far down the motorway they are now, how long it’s been since he checked out, lost in his thoughts. One hand rests loose on her leg, fingers spread wide and thumb gliding up and down her outer thigh, the other still holding the wheel. 

The pinched look has mostly fallen off from her face, but there’s still a tremble in her lower lip when she says, “Well, I don’t know any of your friends. I wouldn’t introduce you to my friends without telling you their names first.”

“No’ my friends, hen—we’re coworkers.”

She looks over at him from the corner of her eye. “I’m friends with my coworkers.”

Johnny shrugs. “It’s no’ the same with guys. Couldnae tell you fuck all about any of them except their names, to be honest.”

“Oh, don’t give me that—you’re not friends with a single one of them? No one?”

No hunger without resistance. His mouth goes bone dry. He’d be wise to learn that. 

He swallows. “Maybe a few.”

No transaction without accountability. Ghost saves his life and now Johnny has to pay that debt back tenfold. Sinking into the crease of Simon’s voice late at night, clutching it to his chest. Breathing it out. Maybe they are friends. 

He’s a bit show-offy at the base gates, dangling his ID card out the window pinched between two fingers. The civilian guard on duty just waves him on, scanning it only for the sake of the logs. His tires spin in the dirt when he guns it down the stretch of road leading into the base, windows still all the way down. Her hair whips around in the wind until she gathers it all up in her fist and shrieks at him to roll the windows up. 

Johnny enjoys showing off. That’s a core aspect of who he is, his charm. Braggadocious, confident in the way he looks, his physical prowess, his lot in life—so why would that change with his girl? He holds her close with an arm around her waist when he drags her through the rec centre, the building closest to where they parked. 

He gets lost in conversation for longer than expected. Pure gloating about the girl he’s managed to bag. Cooing in her ear when he feels her get a bit uneasy, still timid around the other guys despite having him at her side. He supposes that’s fair. She’s more comfortable around the women on base, a bit freer with her greeting and questions, but there’s still a pinch in her brow that never smooths all the way over.

It takes a while to find anyone that he knows. There are plenty of sergeants and corporals that he’s worked with before, familiar faces and names, but Johnny still glances around the room while they make light conversation with his girl, searching. Looking for something familiar, something that’ll reel him in, make him perk up like a dog catching a scent. 

They cross Gaz in a random hallway on the way to the comm centre, hardly recognizable at first with the darker stubble of his beard grown out. He must’ve just come back from wherever he’d been shipped off to the month previous, no time to shave or clean up. He even smells of old sweat when Johnny leans in for a hug. 

“Is this—?” Gaz glances over at her just once while the question dangles in the air. He looks back over at Johnny. 

They lock eyes. A silent exchange of meaning. 

“Aye,” Johnny nods, steering her in front of him with both hands on her shoulders, showing his girl off like a kid with a new toy. Eyes glinting like, don’t say a word. “Brought her in to meet everyone.”

A molasses slow smile spreads across Gaz’s face. It’s clear why men like him always get the girl. Johnny’s hands tighten on her shoulders. “Nice to meet you—thought John would hide you away forever.”

She glances up at him through her lashes. “You talked about me?”

Gaz shakes his head. “Not as much as you’d think. Took Ghost ages to get it out of him.”

Johnny flushes. “Did no’. Jus’ ‘cause I don’ blab about everything under the fuckin’ sun doesnae mean—”

“John says you’re a florist,” Gaz interrupts, turning the conversation back to her. Her lips split up into a mischievous little grin, delighted at the turnabout, probably delighted at seeing Johnny stumble over his words.

Something about her teasing grin gets his dick hard. More points to the rapidly disintegrating belief that he doesn’t have a humiliation kink. He leans forward, pressing it into her ass, delighted himself when she shoots him a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn’t pull away. 

“So, where’s everybody?” Johnny asks casually, trying not to make it too obvious who he’s referring to. The look Gaz gives him is unimpressed. He keeps running into that brick wall, his thoughts written out on his forehead, obvious to everyone around him. 

“Everyone?” Gaz repeats sceptically. 

“Aye.” His voice is tight, warning. “Everyone.”

“Ghost’s actually on his way here now, I think. We got called over to HQ—s’where I was headed, actually.”

“I dinnae say anything about Ghost, now did I—,” Johnny grumbles, but the words dissolve in his mouth when the man in question comes into the room. 

Sometimes, Johnny has the pleasure of seeing Ghost round a corner. The split second pleasure of being the observer, of dragging his eyes up and over, his chest bursting with a light like dawn cresting behind mountains and splitting the sky. In the field, he’s often deprived of that; becomes used to experiencing the phenomenon of Ghost melting out of the shadows, sometimes scaring the daylights out of him. 

It’s what happens now though. Glancing up on a whim only to see a man round the corner of the hallway leading out of the rec centre, shirt stretched out maddeningly over his arms and chest, muscles bulging like he just came from the gym, still pumped. The shirt’s a little threadbare, something old and worn, and Johnny’s seen it a million and a half times he figures; it leaves so little to the imagination that he’s joked about Ghost busting it at the seams from time to time, only to be met with a steady, aloof stare. 

There’s something to be said about how he’s drawn to people who refuse to scratch him behind the ears until he’s more than proven himself. He works tirelessly for Ghost’s approval, for his girl’s approval. Dogs with their bones, tigers with their stripes. 

He has a balaclava pulled over his face, just a simple black one this time, the underside of his eyes darkened by eyeblack hastily scrubbed off the night before, probably. His eyes scan the crowd, locking on Johnny and Gaz almost instantly. It’s the mark of a good soldier—he doesn’t flounder in the dark. Always finds his target, like a sixth sense for knowing when he’s being watched. 

Ghost course-corrects upon noticing them, crossing the room in a handful of seconds. The curt, “Johnny,” he gets is a bounty, a treasure. He grins back when Ghost glances down at the girl at his side. “That your bird?” 

“Told ye I’d bring her in—s’long as everyone’s on their best behaviour, of course.”

Gaz snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Ghost must cock an eyebrow because he can see the fabric of his mask shift. “Pretty.”

He can’t help the way he preens at that. Tucked away by his side again, Johnny can feel his girl squirm, but he pays it no mind. She’s shy—he’s known that from day one, from the first time she stumbled out from the back of the flower shop and scrunched her nose up at his attempts at flirting. 

Admiration is a smooth, buttery feeling. It keeps him aloft while another couple of servicemen take interest in their conversation and come over, Johnny’s girl at the centre of everyone’s attention. He’d be pricklier about it if he didn’t have a firm hand on her waist, keeping her pressed to his side. 

He soaks up the attention. Drinks it up when someone asks his girl a question and Johnny answers for her or pinches her cheek when she manages to pipe up before him. He knows he’ll get read the riot act when he takes her back home later, but he might be able to convince her to ride him while berating him for talking over her. Might beg her to slap him and spit in his mouth—say it’s the only way he’ll learn his lesson.

Dirty dog.

It strikes him that maybe he’s picked up some bad habits in recent months. He’s never been one to overthink, to worry and fret. Yet, he toils in it now, shovels coals into the furnace of it and gives it life. 

His shoulders go slack, the tension finally ebbing out of him. No longer dogged by the incessant fear that his girl is going to run away, bolt at the first loud noise, or that someone’s going to pluck her up out of his arms. She seems comfortable if anything. 

He’s been overthinking all of this, wrapped up in his head. He can breathe out, unclench. 

When Ghost shifts to stand closer to them, he glances over because that’s where his gaze always goes these days. Seeking Ghost out, finding him in a crowd; looking for his North Star wherever he is, wherever he goes. 

Only to watch in mute horror as, in plain sight, not trying to be discreet or hide it from anyone, Ghost gropes his girlfriend’s ass in front of everyone on base. Just reaches out a big hand and fondles her ass, digging his fingers into the cheek. She freezes, back ramrod straight as she stares ahead, eyes going a bit blank. 

He fails whatever test this is, mouth too dry for any words to come out. Humiliation burns him from the inside out. Another sergeant that he’s worked with before frowns, glancing over at Johnny. Neither of them say a word. 

Ghost tilts his head, staring down at his hand on her ass like he’s contemplating its plushness. Admiring it. With how Johnny stands on one side and Ghost the other, the two of them bracket her, like the soft centre of their trio; nowhere for her to go, a handler on either side. That’s wrong though. Ghost is not her handler—Johnny hardly is, more of a self-appointed one. 

Still he—

He lets it happen.

Contention dies a bloody death in his mouth, massacred. Mangled. He lets Ghost sink his fingers into his girlfriend’s backside and hum a little under his breath before finally pulling his hand away. The others look at him, waiting for Johnny’s reaction with bated breath. A reaction that never comes because it gets strangled in Johnny’s throat. 

“Nice meeting the bird,” Ghost finally says, voice a decibel lower, rough enough to scrape. “Gaz and I’ve got shit to do now. Be ready on the tarmac by oh-seven-hundred tomorrow, Johnny.” 

He grips Johnny by the shoulder before heading off, like he didn’t just grope Johnny’s girlfriend. Like he didn’t just reach down and grab a handful of her ass like it was his to feel up. And Johnny just nods. A placid, docile thing under Ghost’s hand, bobbing his head like a doll. 

Then Ghost leaves, Gaz trailing after him, looking back about a half dozen times to see if Johnny will suddenly follow them until he’s forced to job to catch up to Ghost, the man already yards away, longer legs carrying him fast out of the building. 

They don’t talk on the drive back to her apartment, the inside of the car tense and uncertain. Johnny walks her to the door when he lets her off, but it’s a formality, a chaste kiss at the door instead of the rough fuck that he’d envisioned to send her off. Despite the hard set of her jaw, she doesn’t lambast him like Johnny expected. The silence is worse though, haunting when she shuts the door in his face. 

The drive back to base after the drop off is agonizing in a whole new way. Still pent up, cock heavy in his pants, and fingers drumming over the steering wheel twice as fast now. What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? What he wants to do is turn around at the closest gap between both sides of the motorway and speed all the way back, knock on her door until his knuckles blister and bleed, until she opens the door and lets him in, lets Johnny push her to the floor in the entryway and spread her legs, welcoming him in. 

Until she lets him fit his fingers into the marks left behind by Ghost’s hand. 

Cold fire rising up off his bones, and then something hot. And wet. 

The next day at breakfast in the mess, one of the guys says something like, “If Ghost was into my girl, that’s the last you’d see of me and her,” and his mind goes blank and he goes over the table.

[achilles-rage]

Protect You, Always

summary: you meet your boyfriend and the rest of the 118 at a bar after work. everything is going well until buck has to pry some creep off of you.

word count: 2.9k

request: anon- i wanna see sum protective buck kind of stuff, maybe the same as the twelfth chapter where’s buck is defending her, maybe with different plots

a/n: i am SO sorry this took so long anon!! i love protective buck, he makes me feral, so thank you for requesting!! enjoy!!<33

warnings: creepy man gets grabby, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

You walk into the bar with a smile, eyes darting around the dimly lit building to try to spot your boyfriend in the crowd. He and his coworkers agreed to meet here after their shift, and he invited you along, knowing that his friends would love to see you, and vice versa. You begin to pull your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans, eyes still scanning the crowd as you get ready to text Buck. You finally spot him, though, and his face lights up when he makes eye contact with you. 

You weave your way through the crowd, slipping your phone back into your pocket as you go. You mumble quick apologies as you squeeze your way past people, silently wondering why the hell there’s so many people here tonight. Usually, this place is pretty lowkey, but tonight, you can feel something in the air that is making the people of LA even crazier than usual. Must be the full moon, which Buck has told you everything about. 

“Hi, baby.” Buck whispers in your ear as he wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into him. You wrap your arms around his torso as you nuzzle into his chest. No matter how many times he’s gone to work since you’ve started dating, you still feel an overwhelming sense of calm when you finally see him again; knowing that he’s made it home in one piece.

“Hi, my love.” you reply, angling your head up just slightly so he can hear you over the chatter and music of the bar.

“You want a drink?” Buck asks once he pulls away, moving his hand from your shoulder down to your hand. You nod, smiling as he gives your hand one firm squeeze. “The usual?” You nod again, and he gives you a wink, leaning down to give you a gentle kiss on the forehead before he journeys across the bar to get you your drink of choice. 

You say hello to Hen, Bobby, and Eddie as Buck gets your drink, easily falling into conversation with them as they watch and laugh at Chim and Maddie playing pool very competitively. You laugh when you see Maddie sink yet another ball, and Chimney begins to complain very loudly that Maddie’s cheating as she does a little celebratory dance along to the music blaring from the speakers above.

Buck slows his pace as he walks back with your drink and a refill for himself, a smile growing on his face as he takes in the scene. You fit in so well with his family, and his heart swells at the sight of you, head tilted back as you laugh along with everyone else. 

He hands you your drink, and you mumble a quick thank you as you keep your eyes on what Chimney calls his “comeback shot.” He’s completely focused as he bends forward slightly, eyes trained on the planned path of the cue ball, and you all go quiet, you and Hen grabbing each other’s hands and holding them up near your chest as you watch. When he finally hits the ball, it goes a little crooked, making him miss the shot, and he groans loudly, throwing his hands up in the air as he turns away. You and Hen let out disappointed sounds as your hands fall back down to your sides, and you lean back into Buck, looking up at him with a lovestruck expression.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Buck whispers into your ear. His arm instinctively moves to wrap around your plush middle as he pulls you further back into him, and you hum softly in agreement, leaning your head back against his chest.

“How was your shift?” you ask, turning your head and tilting your chin up to face him. He shrugs, a smile forming on his face. “It was better than how the next shift is probably gonna go. Chim’s a sore loser, and he’s never gonna let me hear the end of ‘my sister cheating.’” he teases, his smile widening as he feels the vibrations of your laugh against his broad chest.

“Like you haven’t held anything against him like that.” you reply in the same tone, raising a brow. He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he looks away.

“That’s not the point.” he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear before taking a sip of his beer. The smile he was fighting erupts on his face when he hears you laugh again, looking at you over the bottle and giving you a wink.

“So, what is the point?” you ask as you turn in his grip, wrapping your arms around his neck. He shrugs, his hands moving to your hips, one squeezing your soft flesh while the other rests the side of his bottle on the fabric of your jeans.

“That you look gorgeous tonight.” he says in a suggestive tone, although it comes out as more of a question. You smile, averting your gaze as your cheeks heat up from the compliment. No matter how many times he compliments you, you can’t help but feel giddy.

“Nice deflection.” you tease, tilting your head to the side as you look back up into his eyes. You begin to gently sway side to side along to the music floating through the air around you, almost as if acting as a blanket to shield your moment from those around you.

He shrugs, a smirk forming on his face before he leans down to give you a sweet kiss, melting into your arms as he feels the tension from his shift slowly releasing from his body. He’s not sure how you do it, but he always feels like you’re able to lift the problems off his shoulders when he’s in your arms.

You’re ripped away from your moment when you hear Chimney calling your name desperately. You break apart from Buck’s embrace and turn to face Chimney with a smile, raising a brow.

“Come play with me. You’re the only other one that knows how it is to put up with a Buckley like I do.” You laugh, giving Maddie a knowing look as she hands you the cue stick with a roll of her eyes. She goes over and stands with Buck, and both of them look at you and Chimney beginning a new game with fond looks. 

Your game is far less competitive than the one before, as neither you nor Chimney feel the need to beat each other. Even so, you can hear Buck and Maddie arguing with each other after each turn, telling the other person that a good hit didn’t count, and a bad hit deserves a redo. You all know that their argument isn’t serious; they both have small smiles on their faces, but it’s still entertaining to watch. 

The game is at a standstill as Buck argues that you deserve a redo for missing the ball when you tried to shoot. You were laughing so hard at their antics that your hand slipped and made you just barely graze the cue ball, and while you were willing to give up your turn, as you were already losing by a long shot, Buck clearly has other plans.

“I’m gonna go get a refill. You want anything?” you ask Chimney, and he shakes his head. 

“I wouldn’t come back if I were you. We’ll be here all night.” he teases, and you laugh as you shrug at his words.

“They could be arguing about who gives a better performance during karaoke. Could be worse.” you tell him. He hums in agreement, shaking his head as he laughs at the memory of their very long argument about it. While Maddie is a far better singer than Buck, he argues that he makes up for it with his “moves and face.”

You make your way to the bar; the voices of your friends being drowned out as you get further away from them. By the time you’re at the bar, you’re listening to a woman begging her friend for her phone back so she can call her ex, which makes you laugh. You wait at the bar for the bartender to make his way to you, and as you stand there, you feel a presence appear beside you.

You turn your head slightly; just enough to see the man from the corner of your eye, but he takes this clear sign that you don’t want to talk as an invitation.

“Come here often?” he purrs, leaning against the bar on his elbow. You scoff, shaking your head as you let out a quiet laugh. You turn your head to face him, raising a brow.

“Did you really just try to use that line?” you ask in disbelief. He’s cute, you guess, but he’s nowhere as attractive as Buck. And either way, nothing he could say would make you actually want to leave with him.

Although your eyes show clear signs of disinterest, he sees the way you turn to face him, and he smirks. Clearly to him, you want him to keep talking. He had been watching you all night, and although he saw you with Buck, he still decides to take a chance now that you’re alone.

“Why, is it gonna work?” he asks suggestively, sliding impossibly closer to you. You can feel his cologne burning your nose, and it takes everything in you to scrunch your face up and tell him to fuck off. You don’t though, instead giving him the benefit of the doubt; that he hadn’t seen you with your boyfriend earlier.

“Absolutely not. Sorry.” you tell him with an apologetic, yet vaguely fake smile. He smirks, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he leans down to whisper in your ear.

“You wanna get out of here?” This man clearly doesn’t know when to stop, you think. Did he seriously think you saying “absolutely not” was you begging him to take you back to his place?

“I’m good, actually.” you tell him, turning to try to get the bartender’s attention. You can feel unease creeping into your belly, and you can see the way his eyes travel down to your tits when your eyes move away from his frame. His smirk drops at your words, and he leans down so his face is right beside yours, the alcohol on his breath filling your nose and making your stomach churn.

“I think you’re lying. You just want me to keep trying.” he purrs, raising two fingers to the side of your jaw and tilting your head back to face him. You move your face out of his grasp, leaning back and off of the bar as you see that his nose is practically touching yours. You feel bile crawling up your throat as your eyes dart around the bar, trying desperately to meet one of your friends’ eyes, if not Buck’s. 

“Come on, sweetheart. I know you’re desperate for it.” he says in a slightly condescending tone. Your brows furrow at his words. What the hell is he talking about? He grabs your wide hips roughly when you don’t respond right away, his words shocking you to silence. He pulls you against him, pushing himself against you at the same time, and your hands immediately go to his chest to push him away. He’s not exactly a big guy, but he must clearly have muscles under his shirt, as he barely budges at your desperate attempt to create some space between you two.

“I have a boyfriend.” you tell him, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the loud voices around you. Your eyes keep searching around the bar to anyone that will look at you. Surely, someone will help you. But no one looks. Everyone is in their own little world as they continue to talk and sway to the music with the people they came with.

“Well, he shouldn’t have left you alone.” he whispers into your ear, leaning down to place a hot kiss against your neck. You flinch as his lips make contact with your skin, trying desperately to wiggle out of his grip as his lips burn your skin. You want to find Buck, you want to launch yourself into his arms and never let go, but first, you need to get away from this creep. 

“Hey! Get your hands off of her!” you suddenly hear over the music, and you sigh, head turning to see Buck stomping toward you. You barely even notice Bobby and Eddie a few steps behind him, immediately following him when they saw his body get tense and his fists clench at his sides.

You let out a sigh of relief as you feel the man ripped away from you, watching with wide eyes as Buck stares the man down and pushes his chest a few times.

“You confused about the word ‘no?’ Mean’s she doesn’t fucking want you.” he seethes. You gasp as Buck raises a fist, ready to punch the man, but Eddie and Bobby are rushing to him immediately and pulling him back. You almost laugh when you see the man use this chance as a time to scurry away, weaving himself through the crowd and toward the exit. 

You take a few steps toward Buck, then wrap your arms around his torso, sniffling softly as a few tears fall from your eyes. Now that the threat is gone, you can’t help the tears from falling. You can’t imagine what might’ve happened if Buck hadn’t seen you.

“Shh. I got you, baby.” he whispers into your ear, his body relaxing slightly as he wraps his arms around you. He rubs your back slowly, chin resting on the top of your head as you try to catch your breath through your tears. 

“Can we go home?” you ask him softly, looking up at him through your lashes. He nods immediately, one hand moving to your cheek to wipe your tears. “Of course, baby.” he replies in a similar tone. He leans down to kiss your forehead, then looks up at Bobby and Eddie, who nod before he has a chance to speak. He gives them a tight-lipped smile, then turns you both towards the exit. 

Once you’re out of the loud bar, he stops you, putting his hands on your arms and turning you to face him. He looks down at your sad, scared expression and your shaky hands and his heart breaks. He should’ve been there, he thinks.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a gentle tone. You nod slowly, letting in a shaky breath as you try to slow your racing heart. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I should’ve-” You cut him off before he can say anything else, shaking your head.

“It’s not your fault. You were talking to Maddie, and I wanted to get another drink.” you tell him, sniffling softly between sentences. He sighs, bringing you in for another tight hug. You melt into his arms again, your body relaxing completely now that the sounds from the bar are no longer pounding against your skull and you’re back in the safety of Buck’s arms.

“But I could’ve-” he whispers, but you shake your head again, speaking before he can.

“No. Baby, it’s fine. You got there before anything could really happen. And you’re here now, so you can take me home.” you tell him, your last sentence almost coming out as a question. You tilt your head up to look at him, resting your chin on his chest, and he gives you a troubled smile as he nods. 

“Okay. Let’s get you home.” 

He leads you to his jeep with a hand firmly around your shoulders, almost as if shielding you from the world. If it were up to him, he would keep you within arm’s reach, or at least within eyesight from now on, but he knows that’s unrealistic. 

Once you’re in the jeep and safely buckled, he moves around to the driver's side and gets in. Once his seatbelt is buckled and the jeep is in drive he puts a hand on your thigh, his grip tight as he thinks about that man’s hands on you. While he knows Bobby and Eddie had good reason to pull him away before he could get a punch in, he wishes he could’ve fucking killed him for even thinking about doing that to a woman, let alone you. 

He helps you out of the car and up to his apartment when he’s parked in his parking spot, and then you both change into comfy clothes before you cuddle up on the couch. He puts on a movie, but his focus is on you, how your head is resting on his shoulder and your hand is tightly gripping the front of his hoodie. He kisses your temple, trying to read the expression on your face to make sure you’re really alright before he hesitantly moves his gaze to the tv. 

“Thank you.” you mumble, not even bothering to tear your gaze from the tv as you speak. He squeezes your shoulder, shaking his head.

“You don’t need to thank me, baby. I’ll protect my girl. Always.” he tells you earnestly, and he means it. If you were to be in any kind of danger, he knows he’d do just about anything to make sure he’s in between you and the thing threatening to cause you harm.

notes: likes/comments/reblogs would be much appreciated if you liked this<33

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[goldfades]

STOLEN MOMENTS IN PARKING LOTS──RAFE CAMERON

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine it's crucial that we stand in solidarity with those who need our support. right now, the people of palestine are facing unimaginable hardship, and it's up to all of us to do what we can to help. whether it's raising awareness, donating to relief organizations, or supporting calls for justice and peace, every action counts. we can amplify their voices, shed light on their struggles, and work towards a future where every individual can live with dignity and freedom. your support can make a difference! FREE PALESTINE!

for this request!

─ summary | rafe tries to provoke jealousy by showing public affection for sofia, but as tensions rise, he confronts you and reveals his feelings.

─ pairing | rafe cameron x ex!fem!reader

─ warnings | NSFW!! (with plot) under the cut!! p in v, praise, pretty soft, nothing too cray but it's in the backseat of his car soooo. some angst in the beginning, rafe tries to fight someone (when does he not?), mention of drinking, ummm maybe cheating cause i lowk forgot about sofia cause bro does break up with her... but wtv! it's for the plot!

─ ev's notes | my requests are open if you wanna send anything in! i actually love rafe more than i do life itself and... i wanna feed yall so PLEASE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SEND ME ANYTHING. anyways... sorry i just had to get that out there!!

ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!

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The air feels thick around you as you weave through the crowded beach, trying to keep your gaze anywhere but on Rafe. His laugh, louder than it needs to be, cuts through the noise of the party, and you can’t help but notice Sofia wrapped around him.

She leans into his touch, her smile bright as his hands roam casually over her waist, like he used to do with you. You catch a glimpse of them, Rafe pulling her closer, his lips moving to hers in a display meant for everyone, but especially for you. You look away, forcing yourself to focus on the bonfire, the drinks, anything. But it’s impossible to ignore the magnetic pull. It’s like he’s everywhere at once, the weight of his stare pressing into you even though his attention should be elsewhere.

And maybe it is—his lips are on her—but his eyes, whenever you risk a glance, are always searching for you.

You tighten your grip around your drink, jaw clenched against the swirl of emotions building in your chest. Each stolen glance at Rafe pulls at something deep inside you, but you refuse to let it show. The heat of the bonfire warms your skin, the crackling flames a welcome distraction as you will yourself to block out the image of him with her.

The party hums around you, but all you can hear is his laughter—so familiar, yet distant, like he’s a world away, even though he’s right there.

But before the thoughts can spiral further, someone steps into your line of sight, blocking the view you’ve been pretending not to care about. You blink up, surprised to see a guy you vaguely recognize from around town, his easy smile and tousled brown hair a stark contrast to the tension thrumming inside you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice smooth, the kind that carries well over the music. “You looked like you could use some company.”

You offer him a half-smile, more out of politeness than genuine interest, but something in you shifts—an instinct, maybe, to distract yourself, to prove to yourself that you’re fine. If Rafe can move, so can you. So, you shrug, meeting his gaze for longer than you have with anyone all night.

“Maybe I do,” you reply, your voice light despite the ache still gnawing at the back of your mind.

He steps closer, leaning casually on the railing next to you. “Name’s Tyler. You’ve been to these parties before, right?”

You nod, taking a sip of your drink, your eyes drifting briefly toward where Rafe stands before snapping back to Tyler. He follows your gaze but doesn’t comment on it. “Yeah, once or twice,” you say, playing along.

Tyler’s grin widens, sensing an opening. “Let me guess, you’re not a fan of the scene? You don’t seem like the type to be into the chaos.”

You laugh softly, surprising yourself. “Not usually,” you admit, swirling your drink. “But it’s better than staying home.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he says, his eyes roaming over your face, lingering a second longer than necessary. “But I’ve gotta say, I’m glad you came out tonight.”

There’s a warmth in his words, a casual flirtation that makes it easy to forget the lingering tension in your chest. You tilt your head, giving him a look you haven’t given anyone in a while—playful, even if only for the moment. “And why’s that?”

His smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans in, lowering his voice. “Because I wouldn’t have had the chance to meet you.”

You feel a small spark of satisfaction flare inside, the kind that comes from knowing you’re being noticed, admired, even if it’s fleeting. You toy with the edge of your cup, glancing up at him beneath your lashes. “Well, aren’t you charming.”

Tyler laughs, a low, easy sound that feels like a balm against the tension in your mind. “Just telling the truth,” he says, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm as he gestures toward the fire. “Want to grab a seat by the bonfire? I’d hate for you to be stuck standing here all night.”

You hesitate for a second, glancing toward the beach where Rafe and Sofia are still tangled in each other. But the sight no longer stings as much—it’s dulled, replaced by a sudden urge to push back, to be seen with someone else, just as he’s parading her around. It’s petty, you know that. But right now, you don’t care.

“Sure,” you say, offering Tyler a real smile this time, one that lights up your eyes. “Why not?”

As the two of you make your way to the fire, you can feel Rafe’s eyes on you, burning hotter than the flames, but you don’t look back. Not yet. You settle onto one of the logs beside Tyler, letting his easy conversation and light touches distract you, pretending for a moment that you don’t feel the weight of Rafe’s gaze following your every move.

A few hours (and drinks) later, you find yourself leaning against Tyler’s car, his hands on your waist, lips trailing down your neck as the distant sounds of the party fade into the background. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been out here, away from the noise, away from him. The warmth of the alcohol buzzes through you, making it easy to forget about the tension that had been gnawing at you all night.

Tyler’s mouth finds yours, and you lean into it, closing the gap between you. His kiss is heated but unhurried, his touch light on your skin, and for the first time tonight, you let yourself slip into the moment. The back of your mind, the part that’s always aware of Rafe, quiets—just for now. Tyler’s hands move down to your hips, pulling you closer, and you tilt your head, deepening the kiss as his fingers trace soft patterns over your waist.

For a few blissful seconds, you don’t think about Rafe at all. It’s just you, Tyler, and the cool night air pressing in around you. Tyler’s touch is comforting, a distraction, a way to escape the complicated mess of emotions Rafe always drags you into. And for the first time tonight, you don’t feel like you’re suffocating under the weight of what used to be.

Tyler breaks the kiss, his lips still brushing against yours as he grins. “You sure know how to make a guy’s night, sweetheart,” he teases, his voice low and breathy, pulling you in even further.

You laugh softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Do I, really?” You reply, matching his grin, feeling the haze of everything slip further away.

Tyler’s hands tighten around your waist, his mouth once again capturing yours as you press against the cool metal of the car. His kisses are eager now, more insistent, and you match his energy, allowing yourself to get lost in the moment. The taste of alcohol lingers between you, the sound of your breathing mingling with the distant crash of waves and faint music from the party you left behind.

You close your eyes, momentarily letting go of everything—of Rafe, of the tangled mess he left behind in your head. Tyler’s lips move against yours, and for just a second, you feel light. Free.

But then, everything shifts.

The tension in the air thickens in an instant, and you sense it before you even open your eyes. A sudden presence, looming and charged, like a storm about to break. When you finally pull back from Tyler and glance up, your heart stumbles in your chest.

Rafe stands a few feet away, his expression dark—dangerously dark. His eyes lock onto yours first, blazing with an anger so intense it makes your stomach flip. Then his gaze flicks to Tyler, and you can practically feel the rage rolling off him in waves.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rafe’s voice is low, almost a growl, but it’s enough to send a chill down your spine.

Tyler, oblivious to the storm he’s just walked into, straightens up, his arm still loosely around your waist. “Relax, man,” he says, trying to sound casual, though there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice. “We were just—”

Rafe doesn’t let him finish. He takes a step closer, fists clenched at his sides, his whole body vibrating with barely-contained fury. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he spits, his eyes still fixed on you. But then his gaze cuts back to Tyler, and something dangerous flashes there. “But if you don’t get your hands off her right now, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Tyler scoffs, dropping his arm but not backing down. “What’s your deal, Cameron? She’s not your girl anymore.”

Those words are like a lit match thrown into a gasoline fire.

In an instant, Rafe’s on him, shoving Tyler hard against the side of the car. “What did you just say?” Rafe’s voice is low and menacing, his face inches from Tyler’s. His fists are white-knuckled, trembling with the need to unleash the anger bottled up inside him. “You think you can just put your hands on her like that?”

Tyler stumbles, but he manages to push back, his hands coming up defensively. “Chill, man! It’s not that serious!”

But it is. For Rafe, it’s everything.

You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the wild, desperate look in his eyes as they flicker between you and Tyler. He’s spiraling, and you know this side of him all too well—the part that lashes out, that destroys when he feels like he’s losing control.

“Rafe, stop,” you say, your voice sharper than you intended, cutting through the haze of tension. You step forward, placing yourself between him and Tyler, your hand pressing against Rafe’s chest. His muscles are taut beneath your touch, coiled and ready to explode. “This isn’t worth it.”

For a moment, Rafe doesn’t move. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, his eyes locked on yours, searching, desperate for something he can’t find. He looks down at your hand on his chest, and for a second, you think he might back down.

But then he shakes his head, his voice tight with frustration. “What’s your fucking problem?” he snaps, his words aimed at you now. “Do you not miss me? Is this how you move on?”

You flinch, taken aback by the raw vulnerability buried beneath his anger. His words hit harder than any shove, cutting through the defenses you’ve been trying to build all night. You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat.

Rafe’s hands grip your arms suddenly, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place. His eyes bore into yours, intense and searching, the anger faltering for a split second as something else flickers there—something almost like hurt. “Tell me,” he demands, his voice quieter now, but no less desperate. “Tell me you don’t miss me.”

Rafe's grip tightens for a fraction of a second, his eyes still locked on yours, searching for something, anything, that will ease the storm raging inside him. His question lingers between you, thick and heavy, but you can’t answer him, not here, not like this. Tyler, still lingering nearby, lets out an irritated scoff, but there’s a tremor in it. He knows better than to challenge Rafe further—everyone does.

You feel Rafe’s breath against your skin, shallow and ragged, as if he's waiting for the moment you confirm his worst fears. But instead of answering him, you take a deep breath, your hand brushing over his chest. “Come on,” you murmur, voice softer now, low enough that only he can hear. “Let’s go.”

For a brief moment, Rafe hesitates, his gaze flickering toward Tyler, like he’s still deciding whether to throw another punch. But your hand slides down, gently tugging at his arm, and his attention snaps back to you. Slowly, his grip loosens.

Tyler, sensing the shift, straightens up but keeps his distance, his bravado from earlier slipping away as he watches you lead Rafe toward the beach. “Whatever, man,” Tyler mutters, though his voice wavers, betraying the fear he's been masking. “You two deserve each other.”

You don’t even look back at him, and Rafe doesn’t either. His focus is entirely on you now, the tension between his clenched jaw and the way he follows your lead without protest. Tyler slinks off, disappearing into the crowd as if he’s suddenly remembered who he’s dealing with.

As you walk further from the party, the sounds of the bonfire and distant music grow fainter, leaving only the soft rush of the waves and the cool breeze whipping against your skin. Rafe’s fingers brush against your hand, and though the anger in him hasn’t fully burned out, his pace slows as the two of you near the shore.

The silence between you is heavy, electric. You can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down, the tension thick enough to suffocate. His frustration, his desperation—it’s all still there, simmering beneath the surface. But now, without an audience, without the pretense of Tyler or Sofia, it feels rawer, more exposed.

Rafe stops just shy of the water, his grip on you tightening again, though not out of anger this time. It’s almost as if he’s holding onto you for stability, for some anchor to stop him from drowning in whatever dark place his mind has gone. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, his voice quiet, rough around the edges, but no longer carrying the rage that had consumed him moments before. “Why are you acting like you don’t care?”

You feel the words clawing at the back of your throat, the urge to lash out or deflect, but the vulnerability in his eyes makes it impossible. Instead, you stand there, caught between the pull of the past and the mess of emotions swirling around you now.

It’s all too complicated, and yet somehow, painfully simple. You’ve never stopped caring. But Rafe… Rafe has always made things more difficult than they needed to be.

Rafe’s question lingers in the salty night air, hanging between you like a taut string waiting to snap. His eyes search your face for something—an answer, an apology, anything to make sense of the confusion brewing in his mind. But you’re not ready to give him what he wants. Not yet, at least.

The sound of the ocean crashing against the shore fills the silence between you, your pulse racing in time with the waves. You look away, focusing on the dark horizon, your toes sinking into the cool sand as you try to gather your thoughts. Why are you doing this? The question echoes in your mind, but it’s not as simple as Rafe seems to think.

Maybe it’s because you’re tired—tired of feeling like he’s pulling the strings, tired of the toxic push and pull of your relationship. Maybe you’re doing it because it hurts too much to care about someone who only seems to care when you’re slipping away. Or maybe it’s because, deep down, you know that no matter how hard he tries to provoke you, to force a reaction, the person who’s really hurting is him.

You glance at him, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself really look. His eyes are still wild with anger, but there’s something else there too—something that cracks through the hard shell he’s built around himself. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his breathing ragged from the tension that’s been gripping him since the moment he saw you with Tyler. His hands, though no longer tight on your arms, still linger, as if afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go entirely.

“I’m not acting like I don’t care,” you say finally, your voice quieter than you intended. There’s a vulnerability in the admission that makes your stomach twist, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “I just… I can’t do this with you, Rafe. Not like this.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, his brows furrowing, but then he hesitates, the frustration flickering in his eyes giving way to something closer to desperation. “Then how?” His voice is quieter now, too, though it’s laced with an edge of exasperation. “Tell me how, because I don’t know what to do anymore.”

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the ache in your chest keeps you from it. He doesn’t know what to do? The guy who’s spent the entire night trying to make you jealous, parading Sofia around like some twisted declaration of victory, now stands in front of you, unsure, vulnerable.

But this is Rafe Cameron. The boy who hides his insecurities behind anger and control. The boy who pushes you away just to pull you back in, like some sick game where neither of you ever really wins.

“You think this is all my fault?” you ask, taking a step back, breaking the physical connection between you. His hands fall away, and though his body stays rooted in place, his expression twists as if the loss of contact has left him exposed. “You think you can just act like that all night, throw Sofia in my face, and I’m supposed to be okay with it?”

Rafe winces at your words, and for a moment, he looks away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I wasn’t trying to—” He stops, gritting his teeth, clearly wrestling with what to say. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Right,” you mutter, folding your arms over your chest, the bitterness in your tone impossible to hide. “Because trying to hurt me is the only way you know how to get my attention?”

He stares at you, his lips parting like he wants to protest, but nothing comes out. Instead, he clenches his jaw and looks down, the anger draining from his posture, leaving behind only exhaustion. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, so quietly you almost don’t hear him over the waves. “I just… I didn’t know how to make you miss me. I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up.”

The confession hits you harder than you expect, a crack in the armor he’s always so careful to maintain. It’s the first time all night he’s shown you anything real, anything beyond the bluster and anger he uses to shield himself. And it leaves you speechless.

Rafe lets out a frustrated breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares down at the sand, avoiding your gaze. “I know I’m not… good at this. At us.” His voice wavers slightly, like admitting it is a betrayal of the tough, unshakable image he’s spent his whole life building. “But I can’t stand the thought of you with someone else. Especially not him.”

There it is. The raw, vulnerable truth buried beneath layers of anger and bravado. The truth you’ve always known but never heard him admit out loud.

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of his words settle into the hollow ache in your chest. “Rafe… I can’t keep doing this. The fighting, the jealousy—it’s too much.” Your voice cracks, and you hate how exposed you feel saying it out loud. But it needs to be said.

His eyes snap back to yours, wide and frantic, as if he’s afraid you’re slipping through his fingers. “I’ll stop,” he blurts out, stepping closer, the desperation back in his voice. “I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t—don’t walk away.”

You bite your lip, torn between the part of you that wants to believe him and the part of you that knows it’s not that simple. He’s said things like this before, made promises in moments of weakness, only to fall back into old patterns when the anger returns. But this time, there’s something different in his eyes—a genuine fear that this might really be it.

“I don’t know if you can stop, Rafe,” you say quietly, the honesty of your words hanging heavy between you. “You’re always so angry… and I can’t be the one trying to fix it every time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his jaw tightening as he absorbs what you’ve said. But then, to your surprise, he nods, his expression shifting from desperation to something more resigned. “You’re right,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I am angry. But not at you.”

You blink, taken aback by the admission. It’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged that the rage he carries isn’t about you—not really. It’s always been deeper than that, rooted in things he’s never fully let you in on.

“So what then?” you ask, your tone softer now, more searching. “What are you so angry about?”

Rafe looks away again, his jaw clenched as if he’s trying to hold something back. But then he sighs, running both hands through his hair in a gesture that screams frustration. “Everything,” he mutters, his voice rough. “My family, my life… I don’t know. I don’t know how to fix it.”

You watch him, your heart aching at the sight of him so lost, so broken. For a moment, all the frustration you’ve felt toward him melts away, replaced by the familiar ache of wanting to help him, to fix what’s been broken between you.

But you know that’s not your job. It never was.

Rafe’s confession hangs in the air, weighty and raw, his vulnerability exposed in a way that catches you off guard. For a moment, all the anger and frustration that has built up between you feels insignificant. The walls he keeps so tightly guarded have crumbled, and in their place, there's a boy you recognize—a boy desperate for something solid in a world that’s been spiraling out of control.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you reach out, brushing your fingers against his arm. His breath hitches at the contact, and slowly, his gaze finds yours again. His eyes are dark, a mix of anger, longing, and something deeper, something that’s always been there but never fully spoken between you two.

“I’m not walking away,” you murmur, barely able to find your voice as the tension between you thickens. “I’m still here, Rafe. But you need to figure out what you want… and stop trying to hurt me to get there.”

His expression softens at your words, the desperation giving way to a flicker of hope. For a moment, he just stares at you, his lips parted like he’s trying to say something, but no words come. Instead, he steps closer, his hands brushing your waist, hesitant, as if testing the boundaries between you.

“Tell me what to do,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. “Tell me how to fix this.”

The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine, and despite everything—despite the anger, the games, the toxic cycle—you find yourself leaning into him. The truth is, you don’t have all the answers. You never have. But standing this close to him, feeling the heat radiating from his body, you know one thing for certain—you miss him. As much as you’ve tried to push him away, you can’t deny the pull that’s always been there, the magnetic connection between you.

“You start by being honest with me,” you say quietly, your fingers finding their way to the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric as if anchoring yourself. “No more games, Rafe.”

He nods, swallowing hard as his hands slide up your waist, pulling you closer, the space between you shrinking with each passing second. “I’ll be honest,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over your skin, sending a rush of heat through your body. “I’m done with the games, baby.”

Before you can respond, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s desperate and hungry, all the frustration and longing pouring into the contact. It’s not gentle; it’s raw and unfiltered, like he’s been holding back for too long, and now that he has you, he can’t stop himself.

You gasp against his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as you kiss him back just as fiercely. The world around you blurs into nothingness—the sound of the waves, the distant party—it all fades away until the only thing that exists is him. His hands roam your body, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and you melt into him, the heat between you building with every passing second.

He pulls you even closer, his body pressing against yours as his lips move with a kind of desperation that makes your heart race. It's overwhelming, the way he kisses you, the way he holds you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. You feel the intensity of everything he's been holding back—the anger, the pain, the desire—and it ignites something deep within you.

You break the kiss, gasping for air, but he doesn’t let you pull away for long. His lips find your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat, and you can’t stop the soft moan that escapes your lips. His name tumbles from your mouth in a breathless whisper, and you feel him tense against you, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and hoarse as his hands slide under your shirt, his touch igniting every nerve in your body. “God, I’ve missed you so much.”

Your heart stutters at his words, the sincerity in his voice taking you off guard. It’s not just the physical connection that’s pulling you back in—it’s the raw emotion behind it, the way he’s finally letting you see the side of him he’s been hiding for so long.

And then, somehow, you find yourself back in parking lot, against his car. His lips never leave yours, his kiss hungry and desperate.

“Rafe…” You barely manage to get his name out as he lifts you slightly, pushing you against the side of his car, his body pressing you firmly against the cool metal. His lips find yours again, and this time the kiss is slower, more deliberate, as if he’s savoring the taste of you.

Your mind spins, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all—the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’s afraid this might be the last time. There's a desperation in the way he clings to you, like he's trying to make up for every moment he's hurt you, every second he's pushed you away.

Rafe’s hands grip your hips as he pulls you tighter against him, his touch searing through the thin fabric of your shirt. The way his body presses into yours is almost suffocating, but in a way that you crave, like you’ve been starved for this kind of contact for too long. His lips move against yours with a mixture of urgency and tenderness, a contrast that leaves you dizzy, struggling to catch your breath.

Every kiss feels like a question, as if he’s asking for more, for you to let him in completely again. And you want to. Despite all the games, all the hurt, there’s something undeniable about being with him—something that makes your heart race in ways you haven’t felt since the beginning.

You can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tighten as his hands slide up your back, his fingertips grazing the bare skin just under the hem of your shirt. It’s almost like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you, as if this is his last chance to make things right.

His lips leave yours for just a moment, trailing down your jaw and finding that sensitive spot just below your ear. You shiver as his hot breath fans against your skin, your body reacting instinctively to his every move. His name falls from your lips in a breathless whisper, and you feel him pause, his breath hitching at the sound.

You feel his hand reach for the door behind you, opening it before he practically threw you into the backseat. Rafe climbs on top of you, and his lips are on yours again. You moan at the contact, your head falling back into the cool leather of his backseat. God, how you missed those cushions.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough with emotion, barely holding himself together. His hands tighten their grip on your waist, and you feel his desperation in every touch, in every kiss that follows. It’s not just physical—there’s a vulnerability there, a need that goes far deeper than the surface.

Your heart skips a beat as you realize what he’s truly saying. This isn’t just about the heat of the moment or the chemistry that’s always drawn you two together. It’s about him finally letting you see past the walls he’s built—past the anger, the bravado, and the façade he shows everyone else.

You tilt your head back, giving him more access as his lips move lower, trailing down your collarbone, and your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. The world around you seems to blur, the distant sound of the waves crashing against the shore and the soft hum of the party fading into the background until all that’s left is the two of you, tangled together in the dim glow of the night.

He leans back slightly and all you could hear in the darkness of the night was the clink of his belt, and a shiver went down your spine as you think about what's coming. You almost immediately slip out of your shorts as you slid back, giving yourself enough room to spread out before Rafe is in between your legs.

You can make out his face in the darkness, the faint moonlight casting shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the tension in his jaw. His eyes, those piercing blue eyes that have always had a way of making you feel seen—and sometimes too exposed—are locked on you, and it makes your heart (and pussy) beat faster.

“Rafe,” you breathe, your voice barely audible as his lips return to yours in a searing kiss. It’s slow this time, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second, every taste of you. His hands slide up your sides, taking the edge of your shirt with them, and your breath hitches as you feel the cool night air against your skin.

Then, you feel his warm tip against your thigh. Never leaving your lips, Rafe slowly leans his cock right into your sopping pussy. You let out a soft moan, the feeling of being filled up by his cock again making your head spin with pure bliss.

“Oh, shit,” he draws out as his head falls back, the feeling of your warm cunt overwhelming. “God I missed you, pretty baby.”

And it feels like time has stopped, like the only thing that matters is the heat between you, the way your bodies fit together perfectly, like this is where you’re meant to be. His hands roam over your back, your sides, exploring with a kind of urgency that makes your pulse quicken as he pushes in deeper into your pussy.

It hurts, at first until he bottoms you out. He's still for a moment as he leans his forehead against yours, his breathing heavy. After he felt you tighten around him, he instantly pulled your hips before he began thrusting in and out of you slowly, as if he was warming up.

“Oh, fuck,” you cry out as your hands find his shoulders. Your breath comes out in short, ragged gasps as you cling to him, your body responding to his in ways that are both familiar and intoxicatingly new.

He's fucking into you at this point, his own grunts echoing in the empty car. You could feel the windows begin to fog up as his thrusts become more sharp, more meaningful. It’s overwhelming, the intensity of it all, but you can’t stop yourself—you don’t want to. You’ve missed this, missed him, even if you won’t admit it out loud.

At the sound of your cries of pleasure, Rafe chuckles breathless. “Oh, yeah? You like that?”

All you could do was nod as he begins increasing the speed of his thrusts, he was rocking into you with brute force but he was still gentle, somehow. His hands reach up to find your throat, holding it as he fucks into you harder. Rafe lifts your hips a little more so that he could reach that sweet spot, and you knew it was over.

“Rafe, fuck!” You cry as your head falls back into the cushion, your mouth slightly open and your eyes rolling back in your head. You're shaking, at this point—you're not holding back whatsoever.

Anyone who was walking by his car could probably see and hear what's happening, and probably think he was murdering you. And they were right, he was absolutely obliterating your insides. But you didn't care, and neither did Rafe.

His breathing is heavy, matching the erratic rhythm of his hips, and he leans closer, his forehead resting against yours. His scent—a mix of saltwater, cologne, and something distinctly him—invades your senses, grounding you in the moment, making everything else disappear.

“Oh, my god I'm gonna—”

Before you could even finish your sentence, the tight knot in your stomach snaps and it feels like everything is still for a moment. You can't even hear yourself anymore, it feels like you were on a cloud as you cum around his cock.

A few more deep thrusts and he was spilling inside you, his own body shaking above you. His lips find yours in a sloppy and desperate kiss, his hips keeping you placed right beneath him. He doesn't pull out—no, he wouldn't even dare. He doesn't want to. Not yet, of course. You both just lay in the afterglow of your lovemaking.

“I missed you,” he finally whispers, his voice rough and edged with something almost like pain. His fingers tighten around your waist, as though he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning, and your heart stutters at the vulnerability laced in them.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His breath is warm against your skin, his presence overwhelming but somehow comforting, like a weight you didn’t know you needed. You want to say something, to respond, but the words get caught in your throat, tangled up in the whirlwind of emotions that threaten to consume you.

Instead, you reach up, your fingers grazing his jawline, feeling the stubble under your fingertips. It’s a small gesture, but it speaks volumes—an acknowledgment of what you both know but can’t yet fully voice. His eyes close at the contact, and for a split second, the tension melts away, leaving just the two of you in this moment.

Then his lips are on yours again, but this time it’s different. It’s slower, more deliberate, like he’s savoring every second, every taste of you. His hands trail up your sides, pulling you impossibly closer, and your body responds in kind, the need for him growing stronger with every kiss.

You lose yourself in the feeling of him—how perfect he feels when he's inside of you, the heat of his skin, the way his fingers trace patterns along your back. The world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you in the darkness, tangled together in a way that feels both new and familiar at the same time.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, everything else fades away. The jealousy, the anger, the hurt—it all dissolves into the background, leaving just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, caught in a moment that you know you won’t soon forget.

You’ve been through hell with Rafe, and maybe there’s more waiting ahead, but right now, none of that matters. Right now, all you can think about is him—the way he touches you, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing that’s real.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[coryndoll]

what would you do for love?

exboyfriend!rafe cameron x exgirlfriend!reader

— in which y/n spirals into a possessive obsession over her ex-boyfriend rafe. she quietly pulls the strings from the shadows, creating accidents, bribing others, and doing whatever it takes to maintain control—believing she is the only one truly capable of loving him.

warnings: dark!reader, rafe being the love quinn to readers joe goldberg i fear, or is reader delusional? world may never know !!

authors note: i couldnt help myself in writing this, ill write for waking up to you immediately soon LMAO, but i do have class today so it may be delayed even longer. if u arent part of the tag list, feel free to lmk thru replies, anons, dms, or reblogs !! notifications are always on <3

previous

you flinch when you hear the sharp shatter of glass nearby, some bottle smashing against the wall. a group of guys, mostly drunk and reckless, laughing as the shards scatter. your eyes roll somewhere else, anywhere else, away from the noise, the chaos.

you’ve been lingering around the same group for too long, and you need something new, something to distract you, pull you into a different space.

your shoes scuff against the concrete as you walk, weaving through people like you’re on autopilot, not really paying attention to where you’re headed until you catch sight of something—a fold-out table tennis table being hauled out of the back of someone’s beat-up van.

you almost laugh, but stas, your friend, is already there, pushing some guy off of her and reaching for you when she spots you walking by.

“y/n, you have to play!” she shouts, her voice a little too loud over the music, excitement making her words slur slightly. she pulls at your arm, trying to drag you into whatever drinking game they’re about to start. beer pong, flip cup, it doesn’t really matter. you’ve already had enough.

your head swims as she pulls you closer to the group, and you shake your head, gently pulling away. “i’ll watch,” you mutter, but stas barely hears you, already distracted by the table being set up.

stas keeps talking, about what? you don’t know, because you’re not listening anymore. her words turn into background noise as your eyes trail off somewhere else. across the way, your other friend shaw has set up his makeshift dj booth, some way for everyone to hear something rather than just screams, chants, and talking the whole time.

it’s not much of a dance floor, more of an invisible line where people stand around, swaying and talking, their heads bobbing to the beat. a few are bold enough to move in closer, letting the music take over, but most are just hanging out.

and there, right in the middle of it, you spot her. sofia.

her hips sway as she leads rafe toward the music, her hand wrapped around his, holding it above her head like she’s pulling him into some private little world. she’s got a drink in her other hand, laughing as she moves, carefree in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

rafe is smiling, but not at her. not really. you see the moment he catches sight of shaw behind the dj booth, the way he briefly pulls his attention away from sofia, stepping toward shaw to greet him. sofia, left without rafe’s guiding hand, stumbles for a second—just a second—but it’s enough. it’s like watching a baby take its first steps. cute, if you cared.

you don’t.

instead, your lips curl slightly. you glance over at stas, who’s still chattering about god knows what, oblivious to where your mind’s gone.

“shaw’s been eyeing you lately,” you say casually, tossing the lie out like it’s nothing. stas stops mid-sentence, blinking at you like she’s processing it. she turns her head to look at shaw, her grip on your arm tightening slightly.

you can practically feel her swallow, the way her expression shifts into something unreadable, and she tugs on your arm. “i wanna dance now,” she says, voice flat, but you can feel the pulse of urgency behind it.

perfect.

she pulls you with her, cutting across the skatepark toward the music, dragging you closer to where rafe and sofia are. no questions asked, and you let her lead.

you weave your way behind stas as you move to the rhythm of the music just enough to blend in. your body moves without thought, hips swaying as the heavy bass pounds through the skatepark.

stas releases your hand once she’s right in front of the makeshift booth, standing on her tiptoes and gripping the edge of the table, leaning in to talk to shaw. her voice is high, maybe a little slurred.

you gnaw on your bottom lip, stepping back for a moment, trying to make space for yourself. that’s when you feel it—someone bumping into you. the contact is light, unintentional, but it snaps you out of your daze. you spin around quickly, ready to apologize, but the words freeze in your throat the second you see who it is.

sofia’s standing right in front of you, staring back with a soft, almost shy smile, her lips parted as if she’s about to say something—probably an apology too.

she doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t have a clue.

you take her in, your eyes scanning her from head to toe. “cute dress,” you say, the words slipping out with a smile that never quite reaches your eyes. it’s polite enough, but there’s a sharp edge, a venom she doesn’t seem to catch.

sofia beams at the compliment, completely oblivious. she’s sweet, sure. her niceness, her smile—it’s all so carefully curated, like it’s been drilled into her.

the way she smiles up at you, so clueless, so unaffected. it almost makes you want to laugh.

you stand there for a split second longer, savoring the moment before stas calls your name, tugging on your arm, pulling you back toward the booth. you let yourself be dragged away, but not before stealing one last glance at sofia.

stas pulls you along behind the booth, and shaw greets you with that easy smile of his. without hesitation, you throw your arms around him, squeezing him tight. it makes you laugh the moment you let go. stas is right in the middle of it all, her laughter joining yours. shaw switches the track, a new beat pulsing through the speakers, and the three of you dissolve into your own little bubble, wrapped up in the party.

but sofia—well, she hasn’t moved far.

you can feel her eyes on you, lingering, like she’s trying to piece something together in her head. something about you must not sit right with her, something off. maybe it’s the way you looked at her earlier, or maybe it’s just that gut feeling people get when they sense danger but can’t quite place where it’s coming from.

she keeps watching you for a second longer, her expression faltering. she’s trying to convince herself there’s nothing to worry about, that you’re just some random girl at the party. after all, you complimented her dress, right? you even smiled—so what’s the harm?

but the crowd around her is thick now, people pressing in from all sides, dancing, shouting, moving like they own the night. she’s swallowed by the chaos. you see her hesitate, her movements more uncertain, her eyes darting around like she’s looking for an escape. and that’s when her gaze finally breaks from you—she’s searching for him.

you watch her weave through the crowd, her small frame almost lost in the mass of bodies, that anxious look in her eyes growing. she’s trying to keep calm, to pretend she’s not bothered, but it’s written all over her face.

the smugness spreads through you again, sinking deeper.

and then you see him.

rafe moves through the crowd with ease, his eyes landing on sofia immediately. he slips an arm around her shoulders like it’s second nature, his voice low as he probably asks if she’s alright. sofia nods, but you can see it—she’s unsettled.

and you? you just keep watching, your gaze fixed on them, every part of you relishing the control you hold over the situation without even lifting a finger.

then you hear it—some girl’s laugh from near the skate drop-ins. it pulls your attention away from sofia and rafe for a second, and you spot her almost immediately. you don’t know her, but she’s crouched near the concrete, spraycan in hand, adding some half-assed tag to the wall. her laugh is carefree, like she’s proud of her work, like it means something.

but your eyes trail away from her, settling on something else, something familiar in the mess of graffiti scrawled across the concrete.

blue spray paint. initials. r and s.

it should mean nothing, right? just random letters like all the other tags scattered around this place. but no, you know better. the handwriting—it’s too familiar, too practiced, almost like a signature you’ve memorized without ever really trying.

did you do this, rafe?

the thought sends a wave of bitter amusement through you, twisting your lips into something resembling a smile, but one that’s more cold than kind.

r and s.

simple. stupid, even. but it’s not. you know better. it’s rafe, leaving his mark, tying himself to sofia in a way that’s so casual it makes you sick.

and worse? he did it without you noticing.

it’s not about the letters themselves. it’s about what they mean. this isn’t just some random graffiti. no, this is a declaration—small and hidden enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, but not you. never you.

your mind convinces you that he’s playing with you, testing how much you’re paying attention, how closely you’re watching. and of course, you’re always watching.

really, rafe?

the thought burns as it settles in your chest. rafe cameron—practically born with a spotlight above his head—has the nerve to blend in when he wants to, to pull something like this off without you even seeing it happen. it’s impressive, really. he did this when your guard was down. when you weren’t watching.

you imagine him, crouched by the wall, glancing over his shoulder, making sure you weren’t looking. the thought twists something in your chest.

when did he do it?

when you were busy pretending not to care?

when your eyes were somewhere else for once?

he’s smooth, you’ll give him that. it’s a reminder, subtle but sharp, that he can always be a step ahead, always just out of reach when you think you’ve got him cornered.

you stand up straighter, licking your lips as that familiar bitterness floods you. the ownership, the jealousy, it all wraps tight around your gut. yeah, he’s got skills, huh? skills you didn’t give him enough credit for. he might be running around with her, playing his little game, but he’s still yours.

you smile, but it’s empty, more a grimace than anything else. it’s almost funny, really. the whole thing. r and s, like that’s supposed to matter. like it could ever really mean something.

it won’t last, and you’ll be here when it falls apart, picking up the pieces like you always do. because that’s the truth, isn’t it?

no matter where he runs or who he tries to hide behind, he always comes back to you.

he just doesn’t know it yet.

tags: @iissza @lotuslovers @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @yootvi @skyslowalking @ariiwritess @beebeerockknot @hoelesslyt @enchantinglovergirl @katekells @maybankslover @icaqttt @xcinnamonmalfoyx

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

The Fight || Billy The Kid x reader

Summary: Billy involves himself in a physical fight over you.

Warnings: violence, swearing, blood

Wc: 1,347

A/n: uh- this is my very first time writing a Billy fic so pls bear w me (especially w how they talk and stuff) bc in the the series I don’t really find Billy talking like how ppl write abt him (absolutely not hate whatsoever to those who do, I absolutely love ur fics find you all so talented 😭) so I’ll try my best to be as accurate as I can. Do let me know if I make a mistake so I can improve :)

Divider by @pommecita

"I'd fuck her any day if she wasn't whoring herself for him," Ollinger slurs, throwing his head back to let the contents of the bottle run down his throat as the men around him laugh. Billy's head pikes up at the sound. Typical Ollinger, talking about some woman as if she was an object.

Billy watches from the other side of the room as he continues to talk to them, his voice becoming louder by the second. "hot for a fucking gringo, and that's saying something," He shakes his head his eyes half close by how wasted he was.

"Wonder how Billy would feel if I had her, don't think he's too keen on sharin?" He nudges the guy beside him before bursting out laughing. Hearing this, he realises that Ollinger was talking about you. Calling you a whore.

He slammed the bottle in his hand down on the table making a loud noise. Pat Garrett and Jessie slightly flinch before they look up at Billy who was already standing, fuming.

"What's goin' on?" Pat asks, his eyes trying to follow Billy's line of gaze. Billy doesn't answer, instead, he storms over to where Bob Ollinger was and his friends. They were all laughing until one of the guys ushered everyone and tapped Ollinger to face Billy.

He slowly turned around, seemingly not bothered by Billy's presence or the fact that he towered over him. "Have something to say 'bout my girl Ollinger? Hm?" He stands his ground, taking another swig of his alcohol as he maintains eye contact with Billy. Everyone in the room had quietened down, eyes trained on the two who never got along.

"Maybe. Wanna hear what I gotta say Billy?" He smirks as Pat Garret and Jessie had already stood up from where they were. Billy narrows his eyes at the man. "I think she's a pretty little gringa you got there, but she needs a real man, not some kid like you-" "You're fucking pathetic, y'know that?" Billy spat, venom laced in his words.

Ollinger seemed to have sobered up when he said that. He looked at Billy with pure rage. "What’d you call me, boy." His blood was boiling at this point. "I said." Billy steps closer, "You're fucking pathetic." He threw a punch at his jaw as Ollinger falls back from the impact and his lack of balance.

At this point the room was cheering the two on as they throw punches at each other. Ollinger swings at Billy but misses, he was glad he wasn't drinking as much that night. He then lunges and aims towards Billy's stomach, knocking him onto the table as all its contents fell on the floor. "C'mon Billy get up!" Garrett pushes him back up.

Billy had a busted lip and a cut on his eyebrow as a trail of blood fell down the side of his face. However, it was nothing compared to the damage he did on Ollinger. "Call a whore one more time, I dare you," Billy yelled, throwing punch after punch as he was on top of him. "Billy! Billy stop!" Billy heard your familiar voice but didn't stop. All he could see was red.

From the moment you stepped foot out of your carriage that dropped you off in front of the pub, you knew a brawl of some sort was going on inside by the way you could hear cheers and the noise of furniture being knocked over.

You hurriedly walk in. You couldn't see what was going on over the tall people who stood in front of you. Weaving your way through the crowd to try and see what the commotion was about, you bumped into Jessie. "Woah there-" "Jessie, what's going on? Where's Billy?" You quickly ask him before your eyes fall onto him.

He was on top of Ollinger, throwing punch after punch. Your eyes widen in horror as you try to go to him but was held back by Jessie who had an arm around your shoulder. "Let me go! I need to stop him Jessie!" You struggle against his iron like grip. "Can't have you get involved in fight, sweetheart. Can’t let you goin' home with a scratch on your pretty face now can I?"

He says against the side of your face as you squirm, helplessly watching the fight. There was blood everywhere and you feared that Billy had killed Ollinger. "Jessie!" You thrash in his grip before he gives Garrett a look who nods and quickly breaks up the fight.

"That's enough, Billy. You got what you wanted," Pat and few other guys pulled Billy back who was breathing heavily, blood covered his shirt and hands. Billy spits on the ground. "All right, show's over!" Jessie yells as people start leaving. Ollinger gets pulled up by a few others as he's dragged away, his body limp.

"Don't you fucking go near her! You hear me Ollinger?" Billy yells before he spits more blood out. "Enough, Billy!" You exasperated, kneeling beside him to take his face in your hands, inspecting it.

Thank god there wasn’t much damage, only a busted lip and a cut on his eyebrow. “For god’s sake Billy! What happened now?” You search his eyes as he stares back at you, blankly. You catch Pat and Jessie looking at you before their eyes find the floor rather interesting. You stand up, dress already spotted in crimson as you brush the loose strands of your hair behind your ears, “What happened here?”

~

You made a beeline to your bathroom. Billy closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of her bed, he let out a groan before falling back onto the soft mattress. He starts to sit up when he hears you walk back in, a first aid kit in your hands.

You hadn't spoken a word to him since the two of you left the pub and came back to your house. You were grateful that your parents were away for the week, they would have thrown a fit if they saw you covered in blood and Billy batted up.

Moving to stand in between his legs, Billy lifts his hands up to rest on your hips but you slap his hands away. "Darlin'-" "I don't want to hear it Billy," You say, annoyance dripping from you voice as he hisses at the contact of disinfectant on his cut.

Billy lets out a sigh, his eyes trained on your angel like face as you attend to his face. "I'm sorry, I really am-" "Five times. Five times you've gotten into a fight because of me." You scoff, tilting his head firmly as you go over his eyebrow.

"You told me you would stop Billy. I can't keep playing nurse with you because you can't bite your tongue," You make eye contact with him. "You expect me to just sit around and do nothing when some guy is calling you my whore?" Billy's voice gets louder as he furrows his eyebrows at you.

You gulp, eyes looking everywhere but him. "Look at me!" He grips your chin with his thumb and index finger, "You've known me long enough to know I ain't that type of guy," He spoke, his eyes darkening.

"And you've known me long enough to know that I can handle whatever they call me. I don't need you getting into a fight every time someone foul mouths me," Your eyes begin to water. You hated seeing Billy like this. You hated how most of his fights revolved around the topic of you.

"They're all worth it, doll. You're worth it." Billy wipes away the singular tear that managed to escape. You sniffle lightly before he pulls you onto his lap, your arms securing themselves around his neck as he strokes your hair.

"Try not to get into another fight because of me," You mutter, your fingers drawing random shapes on his back as you hear him chuckle, "Can't keep any promises, darlin'" He kisses your hair as the two of you hold each other.

[ofswordsandpens]

actually I also wanna talk about the part where Percy convinces Bob to kill Hyperion because even though Percy never says anything outright sinister, the way he handles the entire situation with such cool ease, playing on Bob’s emotions... its so insane???

Because Annabeth’s reaction to the three of them encountering Hyperion reforming is: “oh this is bad we need to get out of here” She knows if Bob remembers himself, that it's not going to play out well for Percy and her. She also thinks about how they're being pursued and don't have a lot of time. Her solution to the problem, seemingly, is to leave.

But Percy's solution is to work the situation to his advantage. He re-affirms Bob's loyalty to him:

Percy then re-establishes Bob's moral code: "Some monsters are good. Some are bad. This Titan is bad. He tried to kill me and a lot of people. He's not good like you are."

And it ends with Percy leaving the choice of whatever to do with Hyperion to Bob but of course, is it really what Bob chose to do? Bob decides to kill Hyperion. It's not what he may have done, if Percy hadn't intervened. But it's exactly what Percy was oh-so-sweetly leading Bob to do.

And listen, I'm not claiming that it was exactly morally bankrupt of Percy to take advantage of a once-evil titan who could get him and his girlfriend through hell in one piece. Percy, Annabeth, they manipulate monsters and enemies all the time. Annabeth ended the previous book with manipulating Arachne into weaving her own web. So it's not exactly like she's against using manipulative tactics, in theory.

But Bob, at this point, is not just some monster. He is so painfully sincere in his belief in Percy and their friendship, so yes, it does feel a bit sinister whenever Percy uses Bob... and he really uses Bob.

And I think what makes the scene so unsettling, it isn't just that Percy manipulated Bob, its how well Percy manipulated him. He manipulates Bob so well that Percy doesn't even have to kill Hyperion... because Bob does it for him. He manipulates Bob so well, that Annabeth couldn't tell if Percy was purposefully trying to manipulate the situation. (Newsflash, he most definitely was). Like holy shit.

[helluvapoison]

Make Me Weak

˚✧₊⁎ The Vees ⁎⁺˳✧༚

warnings: violence

ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ

˚✧₊⁎ Velvette ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Everything you are she should abhor– and would if it was anyone else— so she doesn’t pretend to understand how you weave into her life so easily. That time is instead spent wondering how the fuck she’s survived both her hellish lives without you

• Velvette always felt she was owed the praise and compliments she got. Receiving them from you was an entirely different type of high to ride. Your candied tone and sickeningly sweet words clung to her like smoke and had her itching for more

• You massage her hands so she has no choice but to surrender her phone, only then does she realize how cramped they’ve become. You sit in her workshop during Hell Week, sending a mellowing wave that relaxes her chaos in the form of a simple thumbs up. You make up for not being on the receiving end of her camera by setting up aesthetic dates for her to capture instead

• Velvette captures your chin, “You put up with a lotta my shit, Dollface. I’m not great at sharing credit, but I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“But I didn’t do anything?”

“You’re my muse, baby. Gimme the word and I can have you on a billboard tonight. Fuck Joanne, the raggetty bitch, I’ll bump her and have you up there for all of Hell to see!”

Your smile falters to a grimace, your eyes telling her what she already knows. Vel doesn’t get why you hate the limelight. This conversation always ends one way and if she hears you say one bad thing about yourself, she’ll tear out her hair. With a sigh, she tucks you back under her arm and kisses the crown of your head

“Fine. I didn’t wanna share you anyways.”

Your light laugh makes her smile again

˚✧₊⁎ Valentino ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• Val does everything in his power not to allow you to witness one of his volatile moments. He has a very specific image of you in his mind and to a looser extent, you do too. You’re not prim or naive that you don’t know what he does, but his violent tendencies are something else to behold. You’re too sweet, too pure to completely join his world

• It’s never bothered him before, seeing that look on someone’s face. The one where their eyes go wide in horror because they know exactly what comes next but there’s no telling what would happen if the pedestal Val put you on crumbled because you saw him grabbing a whore by the neck and using them as an ashtray

• Truly, no indulgence he’s ever sampled has come close to taking the edge off him like one of your hugs. Softer than angel wings and more intoxicating than any elixir, you’re euphoria trapped in a sinner’s body

• “I almost feel bad for keeping you to myself,” Val purrs in your ear. He’s been laying underneath you for six minutes and already the shittiness of the day evaporated, “I could bottle and sell you. Make everyone in Hell as happy as I am.”

A nervous, bitter laugh escapes you

“You wouldn’t make much money, Val.”

“I would make millions, corazón” He argues seriously, though he has no intention of sharing you

˚✧₊⁎ Vox ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• The irony is lost on him; someone as soft as you could bring him, an Overlord, to succumb. Below the surface, he’s more insecure than he lets on. He’s perfected the mask of a charming show host, developed it so well that it bleeds into his personality. So much so, that you make him glitch when he gets an inkling of self doubt. Your gentleness makes him weak and it terrifies him, fills him with the urge to push you away but your arms are so inviting that he lets himself be cradled by them. How could he do anything but?

• Rare are the days where he actually feels tired but those are the days he seeks out your affections. To him, you’re safe. You won’t judge him, you don’t pry for details, you’d never tell him to suck it up

• Vox lets himself sink into the couch beside you, tapping your thigh with a claw to invite you to come closer. You never fail to accept and deliver exactly what he needs. It’s bizarre how you know what he needs when he doesn’t himself. Turning to straddle him, you rest your head on his chest and hug him impossibly closer

• “You’re tense today,” You comment quietly, giving him a comforting squeeze.

“Come with me to set for once, you’ll find out why.”

Nuzzling into his chest as if trying to find his nonexistent heartbeat, you replied, “Nah. Sounds like too much of a hassle.”

“Exactly why I need you there.”

“Promise not to bring me on air like you’re always threatening to?”

A dry cackle escapes as he keeps his gaze towards the ceiling. Vox has this fanatical plan that you two could be the power couple of Hell, outranking Lucifer and Lilith (and lasting twice as long) if you would just sit at the same desk as him, deliver news and playful banter that would knock 666 News down a couple thousand pegs. You were worried someone wouldn’t want to see your face, you’d make his ratings plummet, you’d ruin everything he worked so hard to build. He hates when you spiral like that.

“No.” Vox mumbles honestly.

He’d prove you wrong like he’s done everyone else, one way or another

[sturnslcver]

Being bsf with nick but Chris likes reader and always tries to be near her

ੈ✩‧₊˚STUCK ADJACENT ˚.°: ₊˚ ୨

 — chris sturniolo x fem reader —

— fluff, no warnings!

“can we try somewhere else we always go there?” you roll your eyes, slipping your socks on. “all the other boba shops around here taste like hand sanitizer” nick protested. “you’re going to all the wrong spots” you reply swiping nicks phone from his hands. “this place!” you point to his phone. “my sister used to take me here all the time. it’s actually good i swear” nick sighs, making his way toward the counter to retrieve his keys. he glances around before shouting for chris. “yeah?” “wheres my keys?” no response. chris’ footsteps thud as he hops downstairs. “what?” “i can’t find my keys” nick complains. chris points to the door. “i hung them up. where are you guys headed?” “boba shop” you vaguely retort. “can i go?” “uhh.. i don’t know. if nicks okay with it, im okay with it.” you smile. nick turns back toward chris. “no.” before chris can utter a rebuttal nick cuts him off. “you don’t even like boba” “sorry chris.” you shrug your shoulders. he sighs, slowly making his way back toward his room.

a couple hours pass. your stomachs full of strawberry and matcha boba. you and nick walking across the beach, exchanging laughs and comical remarks. it’s already pitch black out. you’re interrupted with multiple vibrations emitting from your phone, lighting up the screen. it’s chris. you briefly skim his messages reading, “when are you guys getting back?” and “are you on the way?” you nudge nick with your shoulder, revealing your texts to him. “let’s just go. it’s dark already anyways.” nick huffs.

nick closes the door behind you both as you slip off your uggs. you take his empty cup in your hands, disposing of both yours and his. “hey” chris appears from outside the hallway. “what’s up?” you sigh, bringing your phone up, showing chris his previously sent messages. “i don’t know. matts already laying down and i’m bored.” nick weaves through the both of you and plops himself down on the couch. “do you guys wanna watch a movie then?” you look at chris and nod before heading for the couch. you immediately take notice to how close chris seats himself to you. the sides of your legs and arms are practically touching. “chris” you mumble slightly annoyed before scooting a bit. throughout the movie, he just inches his way back in. you accept defeat and exhale, bringing your head to his shoulder and crossing your arms. his hair tickles your cheek as he begins to contort different shapes around your leg with his finger. you move your leg, gently brushing him off. he starts up again. this time, on your arm.

growing irritated with chris, you stand and make your way to nicks room. “i’m just gonna head up” you pause turning to nick. he nods before you’re back on your way. chris leans forward, shuffling up behind you. he trickles his fingers lightly beside your waist. you quickly shove them away. “chris!” you hiss at him, in a stern whisper. he throws his hands in the air, turning toward his bedroom, as you head to nicks.

your awoken by a backhand to your cheek. you turn to see nick, shuffling in his sleep. you lean up a little to check the time. it’s only one in the morning. you toss and turn in attempt to fall back asleep and fail miserably. you sigh before sitting upright and gently tiptoeing to the door, careful not to wake nick.

you leave two soft knocks at chris’ door, in hopes he’s still awake. “yeah?” he calls out. “hey” you smile creaking the door open. “what’s up?” chris replies. you shut the door and make your way to his bed, sitting on the edge. “i don’t know. i can’t sleep.” chris pats the bed, signaling you to scoot up next to him, with his arms open. you oblidge. “that’s okay” he speaks softly into your hair, pushing it out of your face. “you can sleep in here tonight, if you want?” you nod, relieved. “sorry for yelling at you earlier…but really? what’s up with you lately?” you chuckle. chris runs his knuckles softly up and down your arm and sighs. “i don’t know” “yeah you do.” you imply smiling. “i guess… i just like to be around you.” he admits. “and i really wanted to be with you today.” you run a hand through chris’ hair. “you could’ve just said so. i would’ve made time for you” “yeah?” “yeah.” you reassure. you lean into chris, attentive to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, while also tracing different shapes around his chest. he scratches your back and you immediately melt into his touch. he then brings his unoccupied hand around you, intertwining both of your fingers. you feel his warm and steady breaths in the crook of your neck as the both of you doze off into one another.

sorry i gave up halfway through. this took so long. i wrote like half and it didn’t save and i had to rewrite it. i hope it’s not too bad. keep the requests coming :) im responding to all of them rn!!

[yellowbrokenblue]

The Club - Part Two

Maya returns to the club to see Harry, unaware that his friend would also be waiting there for her…

Harry x Niall x OC

read part one here

cw: smut, oral, degrading, threesome, idek all u need to know is this is the filthiest thing i’ve ever written thank me later

Harry didn’t stop watching the club entrance. His eyes were glued to the door all night, and since he’d been here, he had asked the bouncer at least three different times if she had arrived yet.

But it wasn’t until 11pm he noticed her, the same blonde bouncy curls shining under the dim lights. He couldn’t wait to have her again.

“That’s her?”

Harry turned to his left, where his friend was sat in a booth, with a glass of whiskey clutched in his hand.

“Yeah. Maya, her name is.”

“She’s hot.” 

“Uh, huh.”

He stood up and weaved his way through the crowd of people towards her, his hand grabbing her waist from behind as soon as he reached her.

“You told me you’d be here an hour ago.” Harry said into her ear, startling her with his presence. “You’re late.”

“Harry.” She breathed, turning around to face him.

“Maya.” He replied.

 A mere 24 hours ago they were stood in the same place on the same dancefloor while he fucked her with his fingers, and as much as he’d love to repeat last night’s event, Harry had other plans for her tonight. 

He took a step closer to her, his lips brushing over her ear.

“You look so good, Maya.” He said, “This little bralette and your short skirt.”

He smirked, hearing a small whimper escape her lips.

“Did you get dressed up for me?” He asked, “All for me?”

“All for you, Harry.”

Harry breathed her in, closing his eyes as he inhaled the scent of her and her perfume. He couldn’t wait to have her again; he didn’t plan on wasting any time.

“We’re doing things a little different tonight.” Harry said, “I don’t do this with everyone.”

“What is it?”

Harry smirked.

“There’s someone I need you to meet before we can get started.”

He led her over to the booth, adjusting his pants as he walked. The anticipation had reached his dick.

They reached the table, where Harry’s friend was sat waiting for them, his eyes following Maya as she walked. Harry gestured for her to sit in the booth first, and he slid in next to her.

“Maya, this is my good friend Niall.” He said, placing a hand on her bare thigh. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Maya. Harry has told me about you.” He said, in a thick irish accent, “He’s told me what a good girl you are.”

“Oh,” Harry said, squeezing her thigh, “A real good girl.”

Maya looked between the two men sat with her. They were probably the two most attractive men she’d ever seen in her life, and they were both staring her down like they wanted to completely devour her.

Her lips parted, with another small whimper.

“D’you mind if I share you with Niall tonight, gorgeous? I can’t always keep a pretty little thing like you to myself all the time.”

“Share?” She questioned, “You both…?”

“We both want you, Maya.” Niall said, “Do you want us?”

Her panties were soaked just from looking at both of them. She wanted to moan just from their words.

She nodded in reply to them.

“I wanna hear you say it, baby.” Harry said, “Tell us you want us.”

“I want you.” She said to Harry, before turning to Niall, “Both of you.”

“’Atta girl.” Harry grinned. 

Mayas attention turned to Niall as he began to speak.

“Now, Harry got you last night, but I haven’t had you at all.” He said, smirking, “So I’d like some proof that you want me, Maya. Show me how much you want us.”

Confusion spread over her face, but she wanted them both so badly she was willing to do pretty much anything.

“Do you want me to…” She gestured towards his pants.

Niall chuckled, “No, honey.”

“Niall likes his girls to work for it.” Harry interrupted.

“Work for it?”

“Yes.” Niall said, “We’re gonna stay here, at this booth, until you make yourself cum, and then Harry and I will give you whatever you want.”

“Have you made yourself cum before?” Harry asked. “You’ve touched yourself before?”

She nodded, “I haven’t made myself cum before…”

“You can do it,” Niall said, “And then we’re all yours.”

Maya reached for her skirt, hiking it up as far up her hips as they could go, before sliding her panties all the way down her legs, taking them off completely.

Feeling brave, she lifted the panties off the floor and placed them on the table. Both of their jaws clenched.

Maya felt their eyes on her as her hand slowly crept towards her dripping wet pussy. She was soaking for them, and Niall and Harry both knew it from the state of the panties she had placed on the table.

The let out a soft moan as she ran a finger through her folds, before reaching her clit. The fact she was in a club with hundreds of other people didn’t even bother her in this moment, all she wanted was to please the two guys next to her.

“Look at her, Niall. Moaning already.” Harry said, “She’s so desperate for us she’s gonna jerk herself off just cause we asked her too.”

“So compliant.” Niall said, “So needy.”

Two of her fingers slowly circled her clit, applying the right amount of pressure for her to moan at her own touch.

“That’s it, Maya.” Harry said, “Keep going.”

“Oh!” Maya groaned, her fingers speeding up.

“Do you feel good, Maya?” Niall asked, “Do you feel good touching yourself? Do you feel good with your fingers in your cunt?”

“Uh, huh.” She moaned, her hips bucking against her own fingers.

She wasn’t close yet, and if she wanted these men to fuck her then she was going to have to make herself cum. In another attempt, she took her other hand and tried to mimic Harry’s actions yesterday, pushing two of her own fingers into her entrance, and pumping them in and out as fast as she could.

“Oh, she’s desperate, Ni, you gotta see this.” Harry said, gesturing for Niall to move next to Maya. “She got two hands going now.”

Niall sat next to her, his dick rock hard as he watched her touch herself.

“Are you imagining Harry’s cock inside ya right now, imagine him filling you up?”

She nodded, desperately throwing her head back as she cried out.

“I’m close.” She said, “I’m so close.”

“Keep going.” Harry said, “Cum for us, baby.”

“I can’t.” She cried, “Not without you, Harry.”

“Yes you can, Maya. Just keep those fingers moving in your pretty little pussy. Niall and I are right here for whatever you want when you finish.”

“Oh!” She moaned, her clit pulsing with the pressure.

“How ‘bout I have a little taste of that pussy of yours later,” Niall said into her ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine, “And maybe you can suck Harry off while I’m doing it.”

“Does that sound good, Maya?” Harry asked, “You ready to be a dirty little whore for us?”

Harry’s words seemingly were all she needed to tip her over the edge. Her orgasm came crashing down on her, and she cried out both of her names as she came. She rested her head against Nialls shoulder, regaining her breath.

“Oh, you’re as good a girl as Harry told me.” Niall said, “Can’t wait to try you out.”

Harry grinned, wrapping his arm around her waist and shuffling closer, his mouth moving to her neck. Niall smirked at his actions, and done the same, both men attacking either side of her neck.

Her cunt was aching for them, all she wanted was for them to wreck her. She didn’t care what the done to her she just wanted them so bad that it hurt.

She moaned as they sucked on her skin, and Harry grabbed her hand, pressing it against his crotch.

“Need you get you upstairs, baby. I need you to sort this out for me.” He said.

“Take off your skirt though.” Niall said, “It’s dark, no one’s gonna pay attention. But I wanna see that cute little naked ass climb the stairs.”

“That’s barely a skirt, Niall.” Harry said, “Our dirty little slut dressed in barely anything because she wants to fuck us so bad.”

“What’s upstairs?” She asked, as Harry slipped his fingers under the waistband of her skirt, pulling it down off of her legs.

“I got a room up there. Nothin’ special, just where Niall and I like to fuck pretty girls.”

The three of them left the booth, and Mayas legs were shaking so much with anticipation that she barely made it to the staircase. Harry took her by the hand, leading her upstairs, and Niall pinched her ass, grinning as they approached the bedroom.

“Get your shirt off.” Harry said, “Bra too. There’s too much we want to do to you, we’re not wasting any time.”

“C’mon, c’mon, Harry.” Niall teased, “Take it slow, take it slow. I haven’t even kissed the girl yet.”

Without warning, Nialls lips were on Mayas. He tasted of the whiskey he’d been drinking, but smelled of expensive cologne. His fingers were tangled in her hair when she felt Harry come from behind, sliding his hands around her waist, kissing down the back of her neck.

Her aching cunt was screaming to be fucked, and her hips absentmindedly bucked against Nialls, grinding against his erection.

He pulled back, smirking.

“Someone’s eager, hm?” He questioned, in which Maya responded with a nod, “Get on the bed then, on your hands and knees.”

“Thought you were gonna eat her sweet little pussy out?” Harry questioned.

“I change my mind. I need my cock in her.”

“I’m gonna fill you up with my cum, baby girl, and you’re gonna suck Harry’s fat cock while I watch it drip out of you.”

She swallowed, her big eyes looking up at the two men.

“You heard him,” Harry said, “On the bed, Maya.”

She climbed up onto the bed, crawling on her hands and knees.

“Aw, look at her, Niall.” Harry said, “Her pussy is fuckin’ dripping for us.”

Harry pulled his pants off, along with his briefs, letting his erection spring free before kneeling in front of Maya on the bed.

“You think you can take it?” Harry asked, “Daddy’s big cock in your mouth?”

She nodded, eagerly.

“Let me make you feel good,” She begged, reaching for his dick.

“Not yet, baby. Not till I watch the look on your face when Niall shoves his dick all the way up your pretty little body. Wanna watch you.”

Taken by surprise, Niall was already positioned behind her. He quickly lined his cock up with her entrance, and pushed himself all the way in.

She screamed with ecstasy, the feeling of his dick all the way inside her making her feel pleasure she’d never felt before.

“So fuckin’ tight.” Niall said, “Your pussy feels so good on my dick, Maya. Taking it like a good little whore.”

She moaned as he pulled almost all the way out of her, before quickly thrusting inside of her again.

“Can’t wait to fill you up with my cum.” He moaned.

Maya groaned, her head looking upwards to look at Harry. Their eyes met and she moaned.

Niall’s thrusts became faster, Mayas mouth wide open as she took him.

“Get Harry’s dick in your mouth, Maya.” Niall said through a moan, “I want him to cum in your mouth the same time I cum in your cunt.”

Maya wasted no time listening to Nialls demands, and reached for Harry’s dick, taking the tip in her mouth.

“All the way, Maya. You can’t take me.” Harry said.

Harry came closer to her, forcing his cock further down her throat. She moaned as it hit the back of her throat, holding back a gag.

“Oh, Maya. Your mouth feels so fuckin’ good.” Harry moaned.

With hollow cheeks, her lips pressed tightly on his dick, his hips bucking forwards as she sucked him off.

Maya was ridiculously close to an orgasm, struggling to concentrate on anything, but she knew Harry was close to finishing. Niall fucked rough, and she wasn’t going to be able to hold on for much longer.

“Don’t worry, Maya.” Harry said, “I got it from here, you done such a good job, baby. Now let me watch as you cum all over Nialls cock.”

She dropped Harry’s dick from her mouth, and allowed herself to be ruthlessly fucked by Niall. She screamed their names over and over until she snapped.

The most mind-blowing, insane orgasm of her life washed over her, soaking Nialls cock with her cum.

“Look at me when you’re cumming, Maya. I want to see you.” Harry said in front of her.

Their eyes met, Mayas mouth hanging open as cum dripped from her pussy.

She moaned, her body falling limp and her head crashing into the bed as she rode out the last of her high.

Niall continued to thrust into her, his hips bucking against her until he came inside of her, moaning as his cum filled up her pussy.

The three lay on the bed, catching their breath, for a few minutes.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, baby.” Harry said. “We can’t have a pretty thing like you looking all messed up like this.”

“But Harry,” Maya said with big eyes, “I haven’t had your cock yet.”

Harry swallowed. Her smudged eyeliner, her swollen lips… He was down bad.

“I want you to fuck me up.”

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