#Fastest Game on Ice

[jonasiegenthaler]

njd@nyr | 03.04.24

[puckdrunklove]

oh i could cry

Mitch Marner, age 4

[superspeedsuperstar]

That's IT! He has HAD IT! The controller was ON! The FLOOR! Never has Sonic T. Hedgehog has been more insulted than when he was on the slowest escalator imaginable! No, wait, there WAS that type Robotnik stuffed him inside of that pandemonium of a labyrinth while he stole Sonic's real shoes... slowing him down... oh... the agony.

But this. This was close to it. Phantasy Star was JUST AD BAD as its successor for the Genesis/Mega Drive and, quite frankly, Sonic wasn't having it! At all!

The mazes? He wasted so much time in them that he didn't even find what he was looking for! The enemies? He liked a challenge, but this was just biting him in the spiny butt, more than his own sharp quills! The weapons and item? All overpriced since the enemies were too tough to fight!

PLOP! There he goes, laying on the floor when he was bombarded with boredom. He just laid there in defiance! The Master System's sound chip was grating on his ears, so he had to dig all the 8 bits out! What a drag!

[cheollollipop]

pole position. | k. mingyu

genre: angst. fluff. smut (NSFW 18+ MDNI). childhood friends to enemies to lovers.

wc: 10.6k

content warning(s): super angst! yn is angry. talks about parental death. unprotected sex it (wrap it tf up!), oral (f! receiving), f1 so fast driving, reckless driving (please drive safe and responsibly!)

🏎️ author's note!

f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu 👹👹 that is all.

There are some names you never really outrun.

In Monza, mine is whispered like a ghost story.

"YN's back?"

As if I were a curse.

It was as if I hadn't been here the whole time. Just hidden in the shadows of champagne flutes and pit lane secrets.

It's been seven years since the crash. Seven years since my father's car went up in flames on lap forty-two, since I stood in the paddock and watched the marshals throw up the red flag, my throat raw from screaming. Seven years since I promised myself I'd never set foot near a racetrack again.

And yet

I'm sitting in my apartment in Barcelona, staring at the black envelope the courier sent this morning. My name... MY name, is handwritten across the front in sharp, arrogant strokes.

The seal on the back is red wax. Embossed with a crest I know too well: MGK.

Kim Mingyu.

I don't have to open it. I already know what it is.

An invitation.

It's not the first time he's tried.

Mingyu's been sending messages for months. Quiet ones, clever ones. I ignored them all. The roses in Maranello? Trashed. The paddock pass in Milan? Returned. His call after the driver's gala last winter? I let it ring until the sound died.

He doesn't take rejection well.

He never has.

But this... this is different.

This is personal. The handwriting tells me that. Mingyu could've had a PR assistant draft something polished, clean, and cold. He didn't. He wanted me to know it was him. That it's always been him.

God, he's insufferable. He was always so sure of himself. The face of MGK Racing, the most aggressive driver on the grid, the fastest pit exit on record, and the charm that makes even my most jaded friends blush.

But beneath the swag and the tailored suits, there's something else. I see it every time his name flashes across the ticker. Every time he clutches a champagne bottle on the podium like he owns the world.

He wants to be a legend.

And legends always come with ghosts.

I open the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.

"Monza

Saturday. Pre-qualifying. I want you on the balcony.

Come see what a real legacy looks like."

– M

My teeth grit around the nerve of it. I can hear his voice in my head.

Deep, amused, cocky.

Come see what a real legacy looks like.

What a bastard.

I should burn it. Rip it into a hundred pieces and let the ashes swirl over my terrace like the memory of my father's last race. But I don't.

I set the letter down on the counter and pour myself a drink. Neat. No ice.

Because here's the thing about running. You can only go so far before someone catches up. And Kim Mingyu? He's fast. Faster than he looks. Faster than he has any right to be. And for better or worse, he's the only driver who's ever looked me in the eyes like he knows.

He knows what it costs.

Knows what it takes.

Knows that underneath all my disdain and quiet exile, I miss it.

I miss the sound.

The roar.

The rush.

I miss my father's world, even though it tore mine apart.

And maybe, just maybe, I miss Mingyu.

Not that I'd ever admit that. Especially not to him.

I set up the private jet for the next morning. One-way.

I pack like I'm going to war. Black sunglasses, leather jacket, zero patience. If he wants me at Monza, fine. I'll show up. But I'm not coming back as some wide-eyed fan with nostalgia in my throat.

I'm YN.

Daughter of the greatest to ever touch the wheel.

Raised in pit lanes and championship parties.

Trained to spot a liar in a sponsor's suit before he finishes shaking your hand.

And if Kim Mingyu wants to play this game, he better be ready to lose.

Because I may have left the track, but, I never left the fight.

⸻

I land in Italy under a bruised sky. The airport car is already waiting. Matte black, sleek. The driver barely says a word as we weave through traffic and out toward the circuit. Every kilometer closer, my pulse climbs. It's muscle memory, adrenaline, and fury.

Nostalgia is dangerous.

So is desire.

I spot the MGK paddock before we even pull in. Bright red with gold trim, obnoxiously regal. Just like him.

And there he is.

Kim Mingyu.

Leaning against the railing like a goddamn movie poster. Fireproofs around his waist, white shirt clinging to sweat and arrogance. Sunglasses tucked into the neck like he doesn't need them to blind you.

He sees me before I step out of the car. Of course he does.

A slow, knowing grin cuts across his face.

"Thought you'd be taller," I say, chin high as I step into view.

He laughs, low and amused and pushes off the rail.

"And I thought you'd keep running."

I smile without warmth. "Guess we're both disappointed."

But the way he looks at me.

Like I'm the finish line and the starting gun all at once.

That's the problem.

That's what will ruin us both.

The paddock smells like rubber and adrenaline.

It hits me the moment I step past the barricades, heat rising from the asphalt, the thrum of engines testing their limits, the unmistakable pulse of a sport that's more religion than competition. A place where gods are made in milliseconds and ghosts live in the shadows of tire marks.

I shouldn't have come.

I feel how the staff look at me. Half recognition, half disbelief. Like they're not sure if I'm real. I keep my sunglasses on and my expression locked, but it's all muscle memory now. Every step toward the MGK garage pulls something tight in my chest.

The last time I stood here, I was a daughter mourning a legacy. Today, I'm just trying to survive one.

"Still walking like you own the grid," Mingyu mutters beside me, voice smug as sin. He's close, closer than he needs to be. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."

I don't look at him.

"I walk like someone who knows where the hell she's going," I reply, cool and clean.

"Right. Right into my garage," he says with a grin.

"Temporary lapse in judgment."

He laughs. "You keep saying that like you didn't get on a plane for me."

I stop and pivot to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Kim. I didn't come here for you. I came for the car. For the circuit. For the noise. You? You're just the distraction in the driver's seat."

His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes narrow just a little. "And yet, here you are. Watching me work."

I hate how calm he sounds. How sure. Like he's already won some battle I didn't agree to fight.

We step into the garage, and the world sharpens.

The MGK car. His car is a brutal, beautiful machine. Polished red with razor-edge aerodynamics and barely contained fury. She looks fast even when standing still, the kind of car that doesn't ask for forgiveness, just blood.

I run my fingers across the rear wing casually. Careless.

"You really trust her?" I ask.

Mingyu leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I'm part of the engine. "With my life."

"Big words."

"Big machine."

I glance over my shoulder. "She won't save you from a mistake."

"I don't make them."

That gets my attention. I turn, eyebrows raised. "That's a bold thing to say in front of a legacy."

His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "You think you know this world because you were born into it."

"No," I say, stepping closer just to see if he flinches. He doesn't. "I know this world because it burned itself into me. I know the way engines scream before they seize. I know the color of smoke that means a fire's already started. And I know when a driver is tempting fate just to see if it flinches."

"You think that's me?"

"I think you want to be a myth. And you're arrogant enough to die trying."

We're too close now. There's a beat of silence so thick it hums.

Mingyu's voice drops. "You sound a little like you care."

"I don't."

He leans in, so close I can feel the breath between us. "Then why are you shaking?"

I shove past him without answering.

⸻

The balcony is tucked above the paddock, and there is a private viewing box with tinted glass, which is the best line of sight to the Ascari chicane. The seat they've reserved for me still has the waxy shine of never having been used. Mingyu's initials are stitched into the headrest beside mine.

Of course they are.

He wants me here. Wants me to see him. Wants me to choke on the legacy he's building, lap by lap.

Petty.

Arrogant.

Exactly the kind of man who shouldn't interest me.

But when the pit lights go green, and he pulls out of the garage like the devil himself is chasing him, I can't look away.

He's so fast.

Not just in speed but in intention. Every corner he devours is personal. Every straight is a dare. The way he handles the car. It's not finesse, it's command. A raw, ruthless kind of beauty.

He pushes wide at Parabolica, kisses the edge of track limits, and instead of correcting, he leans into it. Dancing with danger like he's immune to consequences.

Jesus.

I hate how impressed I am.

Worse. I hate that I expected it.

Because no one talks about Mingyu's hands without also talking about what he does with them behind the wheel, he doesn't just drive, he hunts. He takes every apex, every braking zone, and every rival on the track like they owe him something.

I lean back in my chair, teeth clenched.

This isn't a boy playing at F1. This is a man building an empire.

And god help me, I understand exactly what that costs.

⸻

After practice, I stay put.

I don't go down. I don't clap. I don't run to the garage to praise him like the other engineers and PR vultures. I sip my drink. I watch the replays. And when someone knocks on the glass behind me, I don't have to turn around to know it's him.

The door swings open.

He walks in like he owns the air I'm breathing. Sweat-slick, flushed, radiating heat and pride and something untouchable. He's still in his suit, gloves half-peeled, fireproofs unzipped to the waist.

"You came," he says simply.

I nod. "You drove."

He walks over, grabs a water bottle, and downs half before speaking again. "What did you think?"

I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let it bite.

"You're fast," I admit, finally.

He grins.

"But you already know that."

"Sure," he says, closing the gap between us. "But I wanted you to say it."

I narrow my eyes. "Careful, Mingyu. If you keep needing validation from me, I might start thinking you care what I think."

His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.

"I do," he says quietly.

It's too honest. Too soon. I look away.

"No, you don't," I say, smirking. "You care about being seen. You care about the myth. And I'm just a convenient mirror for your ego."

He takes a slow step forward, then another. His voice is lower now. Steady. "You think this is ego?"

"I know it is."

"I think it's something else."

"Let me guess. Fate?"

"No," he says, voice like gravel. "Obsession."

My throat tightens.

He doesn't touch me. Just stands there. Looking.

"You don't hate me, YN," he says. "You hate that you left. You hate that I'm here. You hate that you still feel something when I drive."

I breathe through my nose. "I hate a lot of things, Mingyu."

"But not me."

I don't answer.

Because I don't know if I can lie to his face when he's this close.

The spell breaks when the second knock comes. This one sharper, more insistent. Mingyu doesn't move at first, but then the door creaks again.

"YN?"

A voice I half recognize. I turn.

It's Marcus, a mechanic from a neighboring team. Fresh out of the garage, still wiping grease from his fingers with a rag tucked into his waistband. His eyes widen when he sees me.

"Holy shit," he says, breathless. "You're here."

"Looks that way," I murmur, stepping away from where Mingyu had been moments before. He's gone again, vanished like smoke.

"Didn't think I'd see you at a race again. Especially this one."

I give him a one shoulder shrug, careful not to show my cards. "Monza’s hard to resist."

More people show up. Word spreads fast in this world. First one of the engineers I used to work with. Then a junior team manager. Then a marketing intern I think I once shared a cigarette with on a balcony in Singapore. They come in waves, all with the same expression: half shock, half curiosity.

"What brings you back?"

"You working again?"

"Writing a piece?"

"You here with someone?"

I deflect. I smile. I lie through my teeth and offer just enough to sound real.

"Freelance consulting. Just dipping back in. One-off project. Not sure if it'll stick."

They nod like they understand. They don't.

Someone snaps a photo. Then another. I barely register it, floating through small talk with the grace of a politician and the detachment of a ghost.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

"Drivers, to your cars."

Everyone perks up. The energy shifts. A ripple of anticipation floods the paddock.

I excuse myself and make my way to the balcony. Elevated, just removed enough from the chaos. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and settle against the railing, heart rate rising despite myself.

Pre-qualifying. Twenty laps. Track temperature is brutal. Pressure higher than most of them admit.

The pitlane opens, and one by one, the cars snake onto the grid. Engines purr and roar and scream in protest. Mechanics scatter. Strategists bark last minute data through radios.

And then there's him. Car #9.

He rolls into his slot like he's settling into a throne. Calm. Collected. Untouchable.

The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

And then

Out.

The sound is instantaneous and deafening. They shoot off like bullets, hugging corners with ruthless precision. I watch from above, tracking their formation. The front pack jostles for position, tires squealing as they brake too late, accelerate too early.

Mingyu hangs back for the first few laps. Watching. Calculating.

It's lap seven when he starts his climb.

A clean overtake at Sainte Devote. A bold move at Mirabeau that earns a gasp from the crowd. By lap ten, he's top three. By lap fourteen, he's trading seconds with the leader. And by lap seventeen, he makes the move.

A slingshot on the straight, barely legal. Inches to spare. DRS wide open.

Pole.

Just like that.

The final lap is pure theatre. He doesn't need to prove anything, but he does anyway. Throwing sparks through the tunnel, flirting with disaster at the chicane. Showboating. Glorious.

When the checkered flag waves, the name on the board is his.

Pole position: Kim Mingyu.

Time: 1:11.330

The box explodes in celebration. His team goes wild. I hear it echo even from here.

I watch the replay. Frame by frame. Slow-motion heroism. Precision, madness, beauty.

The paddock buzzes with post-qualifying static. Reporters crowding around flashing cameras, pit crews celebrating in their own corners, and the air practically vibrating with ego and exhaust.

And at the center of it all, like always, stands him.

Dripping sweat, champagne, and audacity.

His suit's peeled down to his waist, his fireproof undershirt sticking in all the right places, dark hair pushed back like he just walked out of a photo shoot instead of a cockpit. Every angle is clean, curated. The smirk, the wink to the camera, the stupid little fist pump.

I don't move.

I don't clap.

Not when his name lights up the leaderboard, not when the pit crew erupts like someone detonated joy, and definitely not when he glances over his shoulder like he's looking for someone.

Because I know exactly who he's looking for.

And I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze first.

⸻

I'm leaning against the side of the hospitality tent, holding a bottle of water and a chip on my shoulder sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber.

He finds me anyway.

"Didn't see you in parc fermé," he says, approaching.

"Didn't need to be there," I reply, cool. "The cameras were doing enough worshipping for the both of us."

He grins like it's a compliment. "You sound jealous."

"Of what? Your thirst trap victory lap?"

He steps closer. Too close. "Of being the fastest on the grid."

"I've been the fastest," I say, looking him dead in the eye. "And I didn't need a camera crew to validate it."

"Ouch," he laughs, one hand over his chest. "Still bitter?"

"No," I say smoothly. "Just bored."

His smirk twitches, and I know I've landed a hit.

But Mingyu, the arrogant bastard that he is, never backs down. He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with something almost curious. Or maybe hunger.

"You still talk like you're the one with a seat," he says.

"You still talk like you're untouchable."

"I just secured the pole at one of the most technical tracks on the circuit. If I'm not untouchable, who is?"

"Someone who doesn't throw away a lead at Monaco."

That wipes the smirk off his face for a half-second. Good.

But then, he laughs. Quietly. Like he's indulging me.

"Still keeping tabs on my stats, huh?"

"I keep tabs on hazards," I say, voice low. "And you drive like you're one bad decision away from becoming one."

He leans in. "Funny. I always thought I reminded you of someone."

The words slice, even though I see them coming.

I stand straighter. "Don't."

His smile turns razor sharp. "Why not? You've been pretending this weekend is just a casual drop by, like you didn't grow up in these paddocks like your blood isn't still fifty percent ethanol and carbon brake dust."

"You think bringing up my dad earns you points?"

"I think it's the truth," he says, quiet and cutting. "And I think it scares the hell out of you."

I say nothing. Not because he's right, but because I know if I open my mouth, I'll say something that tastes too much like grief.

He must sense it because instead of pressing harder, he pivots.

"You remember Spa?"

Of course, I remember Spa.

The humid summer heat. The taste of victory is one lap away. The night before his first junior race, when he couldn't stop pacing, I told him to either get in the car or get over himself.

He thinks bringing that up softens me.

It doesn't.

"You mean the weekend you nearly totaled your car trying to impress the media?" I ask. "Yeah, I remember."

"You were in my garage the entire time," he says, stepping closer. "Even when everyone else left."

"I stayed because you wouldn't shut up," I say. "Your whole team looked like they wanted to throttle you."

"You didn't."

"I should have."

"You called me a glorified kart driver with a God complex."

"And you still asked me to sit in your car the next morning."

He laughs, and for a second, it's too easy to remember that summer sun and his stupid grin, the way he looked at me like I already belonged in his world.

But I don't now.

Not in this one.

I take a step back. "Spa was a long time ago."

"Not for me."

I narrow my eyes. "Still clinging to every compliment I gave you before puberty finished hitting?"

"You weren't exactly stingy with them."

"You had one good overtake."

"It was beautiful, and you know it."

"It was reckless and nearly illegal."

"That's how I knew you'd notice."

The air tightens between us.

He's toeing the line. Not crossing it, but daring me to.

"I'm not here to relive Spa," I say. "And I'm not here for you."

Mingyu nods once, jaw tight. "Keep telling yourself that. You still showed."

I turn to leave, but his voice catches me mid step.

"You know," he says, voice cooler now, "you can pretend all you want. But you're not bored, and you're not above it. You still feel it. The adrenaline. The pull. The need to win. You're just pissed it's me in the seat and not you."

I freeze.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Here's the difference between us," I say slowly, turning back. "You drive to be loved. I drove to win. I don't need to be anyone's poster child."

"And I don't need to dig up a dead man's legacy to prove I belong here."

That hits harder than he expects.

He knows it. I see it in the brief flicker of regret that crosses his face.

But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.

I smile. Cold. Clean. Surgical.

"Pole position suits you, Kim," I say. "Let's see how long you hold it."

Then I walk off, my spine straight and my heart a war drum.

Because the worst part isn't that he's good.

It's that I still want to see how far he'll fall.

And worse, how much of me would go with him.

⸻

Rooftop parties in Monza are always overdone.

Too much champagne, too many rich boys pretending they aren't terrified of crashing tomorrow, and music pulsing just loud enough to drown out the fear of failure. Everything glitters here. Skin, sweat, ambition.

I almost don't come.

But when a media liaison sends me a smug little "Hope to see you at the rooftop party tonight ;)" text, I throw on my sharpest heels and arrive ten minutes late with a perfectly timed smile and someone else's arm around my waist.

Not a date. Not really.

Just someone dangerous looking enough to make people look twice when we walk in.

Including Kim Mingyu.

I feel his stare the moment we step out of the elevator. It latches onto me before the doors even fully open. Across the rooftop, flanked by half the grid and a circle of admirers, he stands with a drink in his hand and fury behind his eyes.

Good.

I tilt my chin, ignoring him. My companion, Luca, some former endurance driver turned influencer, leans down to say something near my ear. I don't catch all of it. I'm too focused on the way Mingyu's grip tightens around his glass.

Petty? Maybe.

But if he gets to walk around this circuit like he owns every inch of it, then I get to remind him I'm not one of those inches.

I mingle, laugh at things that aren't funny, and dance with Luca, knowing full well who's watching. The music pulses through the rooftop, rich bass and heat twining through my bloodstream like jet fuel. But after a while, it becomes too much. The noise, the humidity, the attention.

So, I slip away.

Out onto the balcony where the air is finally calm, quiet, and mine. Below, the streets of Monza glint like they're made of diamonds. Somewhere out there, the race track weaves between buildings like a heartbeat.

It still lives in me. The pulse of it. The memory.

I close my eyes.

"You like bringing someone new to every event?"

I don't turn around.

"Do you like policing who I arrive with?"

His voice is closer now. Still sharp, still smug. But a little quieter.

"I just think it's funny," Mingyu says. "You say you've left this world behind, but you keep showing up to these things like you never left."

I finally face him. He's leaning against the railing, looking too good in a black button down and sleeves rolled just high enough to show his forearms.

"Maybe I just missed the champagne," I say flatly. "Or the egos."

He chuckles, gaze flicking down before finding my eyes again. "Is that why you brought Luca? To stroke yours?"

I cross my arms. "He's harmless."

"Yeah," he says, voice sharper than before. "Exactly."

We're quiet for a moment. The wind lifts strands of my hair, and neither of us moves.

Then, softer

"I shouldn't have brought up your dad."

I freeze.

It's not the apology that catches me off guard. It's the way he says it. Like it's been sitting in his chest too long, getting heavier every time he breathed around it.

"I was pissed," he goes on. "You got under my skin. You always do."

"Not a great excuse."

"I know."

I study him. He's not hiding behind a smirk now. There's something almost raw in the way he looks at me.

"You think it scares me," I say. "This place. The cars. The legacy. But it doesn't."

"Then what does?"

I look at him.

"You."

That wasn't supposed to slip.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but it's already in the air between us, hanging heavy like mist before a storm.

Mingyu stares at me like he's afraid to breathe wrong.

"You mean that?" he asks, and it's the most unsure I've ever heard him sound.

I laugh, but it's hollow. "God, don't get cocky about it."

"I'm not."

"You will."

"I won't if you stay."

"I'm not staying."

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

He takes a step forward. "You're not."

"I can't do this."

"We're not doing anything—"

"No," I snap, stepping back. "You want to pretend like it's all part of the game. Like the flirting, the fighting, the looks, they're just banter. But it's not, Mingyu. It never was."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do," he says, and it's breathless now. "Why do you think I'm always looking for you? In every damn room? Why do you think I hate it when you're with anyone else? Or when you act like none of this matters?"

I shake my head. "You don't get to say that. Not after Spa. Not after last year."

"That wasn't—"

"You don't get to make me feel like I walked away from something sacred when you're the one who turned it into a circus."

He flinches.

"I'm not some ghost hanging around the paddock for nostalgia," I add, voice rising. "I loved this once. I loved you once. And you let the spotlight eat both of us alive."

He's quiet. Too quiet.

And the silence is suddenly unbearable.

"I shouldn't have come," I say, stepping away.

"YN—"

But I don't stop.

I push past the door and back into the party, slipping into the noise and crowd before he can see how much my hands are shaking.

⸻

I wake up to sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains and a hangover of emotion I can't shake.

Three missed calls. Five unread messages.

MINGYU:

I shouldn't have let you walk away. Can we talk? Please. You still there? I didn't mean to hurt you.

I toss the phone face down on the hotel bed and press my hands to my face.

The night plays back in flashes. His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. My own, sharp and cracked at the edges. The look in his eyes when I said you scared me.

I shouldn't have said that.

I shouldn't have said any of it.

But it's too late to take it back and too soon to face what it means.

By the time I reach the paddock, it's already alive. Mechanics are moving like clockwork, engineers are barking data, and fans are pressed to barricades in a blur of color and flags. Race day in Monza is unlike any other, with tight corners, blind apexes, and no room for error.

I know this circuit like muscle memory.

I know Mingyu better.

He's usually calm on race days. Sharp, focused. He jokes with the crew and leans against the pit wall like it's just another day in paradise. But today? Something's off.

He barely glances at the camera during his grid walk. He doesn't even acknowledge the announcer calling his name. His jaw's tight, mouth a line carved in stone as he slides into the cockpit.

I stand off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding everything I can't control. I tell myself I don't care. That I'm just here because my name still gets me into these places, not because I'm holding my breath as the lights go red.

But when they go out...

He launches like he's chasing something he'll never catch.

Lap after lap, he's off.

Late on turn in. Snapping into corners, pushing too hard on exits, and overcorrecting in ways he never does. He's still fast, of course he is, but it's not the way Mingyu drives. It's frantic, reckless. Emotional.

And that's what scares me.

"He's not listening to strategy," someone mutters near the pit wall. "Keeps overriding."

"Tyres won't last at this rate."

I inch closer, ears straining for the radio feed I know too well.

"Box, box, box," comes the call.

He doesn't answer.

On the next lap, he finally peels into the pit lane. Too hot, too fast and skids a little over the line.

When his car screeches to a halt, someone reaches for my wrist.

"Team principal wants you in the garage," they say. "Now."

"I'm not—"

"He asked."

I don't ask why.

The second I enter the garage, the air shifts. Controlled chaos. Tire guns scream. Mechanics swarm. Mingyu's helmet reflects the lights above like a mirror, but I don't need to look at his face to see how angry he is.

He won't look at me.

Not once.

He pulls out of the pit box with a screech and a flash of red taillight, leaving black streaks behind.

The pit wall murmurs.

"His sector time dropped again."

"Something's wrong."

No one says my name. No one asks why I'm here. But I see the looks. I feel the unspoken tension curl around my ribcage like wire.

I turn to the monitor. The feed tracks his car as it dances through Casino Square, close, too close to the barriers. He's fast. Too fast. Trying to bleed something out of himself with every turn.

"He's going to bin it if he doesn't calm down," a voice says behind me.

I press a fist to my lips.

This is my fault.

I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have brought someone else. I shouldn't have let things go that far on the balcony. Shouldn't have said his name like it meant more than it should.

Because it does.

And I know that. I've always known that.

Lap 42.

He clips the inside curb through the Nouvelle chicane. A puff of tire smoke, but he recovers.

Barely.

The engineer tries again. "Mingyu, you need to cool the tires. Ease through Sector 2."

Silence.

My heart thunders like a race start.

The camera angle shifts and catches him through the tunnel, just a blur of speed and shadow, and I swear, even in that silence, I can feel the weight of his fury.

This isn't about the race anymore.

This is about me.

I turn away from the screen and press my back to the wall, chest tight.

He's trying to outdrive a heartbreak we haven't even admitted to and trying to put distance between what we said and what we meant. But this track doesn't forgive emotion. It doesn't give you space to figure it out mid lap.

It punishes.

It ends careers.

It took my father.

And if Mingyu doesn't get out of his head, it might take him too.

I press the headset closer, voice shaking. "Tell him to stop driving angry."

The engineer glances at me. "He's not listening."

"Then make him."

He hesitates.

I close my eyes.

"Tell him," I whisper, "I'm still here."

The air in the garage is suffocating.

I can feel the tension crackling through it like static. Engineers hunch closer to monitors, eyes darting between telemetry and tire temps, sector splits and radio chatter. Everyone's whispering, but no one's saying the only thing they're all thinking.

He's going to crash.

Lap 65 of 78.

Monza is unforgiving. It always has been. One lapse, one moment too late or too early, and it's all over. Mingyu's been walking that razor-thin edge for almost an hour now, and each lap is just sharpening the blade.

He still hasn't responded to strategy.

Not since Lap 42.

Not since he saw me in the garage.

I stare at the screen in front of me. My fists clenched, feeling every heartbeat in my throat as his car screeches into Tabac, too close, his rear end twitching dangerously.

"He's overdriving," someone says. "He's gonna cook those mediums before the flag."

"Mingyu, box if you can't stabilize the rear," the race engineer tries again. "You're losing the back every other turn. We can adjust."

Silence.

Again.

They're running out of options.

I'm already moving before I realize it.

The headset's warm from someone else's head, but I don't care. I snatch it off the rack, and the team principal turns toward me like I've grown a second head.

"He's not listening to anyone," I say. "So let me try."

There's a pause, half a second of hesitation, then he nods once.

I don't wait.

My thumb hits the comm switch, and I speak before I can talk myself out of it.

"Mingyu."

Nothing.

"Why are you driving like a damn idiot?!"

Still nothing. But I know he hears me. I know he's probably gripping the wheel harder now, jaw clenched, cursing me inside his helmet. I press harder.

"You're throwing away a podium because of me? Seriously? Because you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe through a corner?"

A hiss of static. Not a response. Not yet. But I feel the tension rise from the track through the screen.

I close my eyes. Lower my voice.

"I know why you're doing this."

Sector one—green.

He's pushing harder. Too hard.

"You think I don't see you? You think I haven't seen you from the beginning?"

"I've spent my entire life running from this world. From the noise, the risk, the pain—"

My voice wavers.

"I watched it take someone I loved and twist it into a legacy I didn't want. And then you... God, then you…”

"You were arrogant, infuriating, loud as hell, and you made me remember what it was like to care."

The garage is dead silent now. Every screen, every eye, locked on the feed. No one's even pretending to look away.

"You made me care about something again, and I hate you for that."

I exhale through my teeth. Every part of me is shaking.

"But if you crash that car, Mingyu, if you throw it away, don't you dare think for one second I won't hate myself more."

A breath.

Then, finally, after laps of nothing—

"You had me at Mingyu."

His voice is breathless. Rough. Like gravel over a fire. But it's there. And he's there.

I press a fist to my mouth as tears threaten the corners of my eyes.

Lap 73.

He steadies.

His cornering evens out, his braking returns to rhythm, and suddenly, he's in Sector 2 like he owns it. Purple time. Fastest lap of the race. He overtakes in the tunnel with a clean sweep that draws a gasp from the team.

Someone cheers behind me. The garage erupts.

He's back.

He's himself again.

"Mingyu, you're P2 now," the engineer says quickly. "Perez is 1.3 seconds ahead."

"Copy," Mingyu breathes. "Let's go get him."

Lap 76. The fight is on.

I stand frozen, watching him dance through the circuit like the car is an extension of his spine like nothing ever went wrong. A clean overtake in the hairpin. One wheel to the inside at Rascasse. He's right on Perez's tail now.

Final lap.

The crowd is on their feet. Cameras flash. My heart is in my throat as Mingyu comes down into Mirabeau—

—and that's when it happens.

A puff of smoke.

"Yellow flag, Sector 1."

I slam the headset against my ear. "What the hell happened?!"

"Left rear," the engineer mutters. "Tyre failure. He's still moving. He's trying to hold on."

My knees nearly give out as I see it.

Mingyu's car is dragging. The rear's gone soft, wobbling dangerously as he limps through the turn, still trying to defend P2. Sparks fly from the undercarriage. He's still driving.

He's still fighting.

My voice breaks. "Just finish. Please, just get across the line."

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't need to.

He's never stopped.

And as he crosses the finish line. P4, holding on with sheer grit and fire in his chest. I realize I've been holding my breath for the last minute.

The garage explodes around me. Mechanics shout. Hands are on heads. Everyone is debriefing and analyzing.

But I'm frozen in place, staring at the screen, watching his car slow, watching the replay again and again.

He heard me.

He stayed.

But I can't help the thought clawing up my throat like guilt—

What if I hadn't said anything at all?

Engines still roar in the distance as the last few cars trickle into the paddock. The smell of rubber and fuel clings to everything, metal, asphalt, even my skin. People shout in five different languages around me, team radios squawk with chatter, mechanics wave carbon fiber flags in the air, and photographers are already climbing barricades like vultures.

And then I see him.

Helmet off. Hair sweat-damp and curled at the nape. His suit unzipped just past his collarbones, the fireproof undershirt clinging to every muscle in his chest like it was poured on. His jaw's locked, mouth tight, eyes cold. Sunglasses hang useless in his grip.

P4. Dragged a car home on one tire like it was war and he refused to lose.

He hasn't seen me yet.

He's surrounded by engineers, people slapping his back like a war hero, cameras in his face, boom mics chasing his voice as he mutters answers to media questions I can't hear.

I should leave.

This is his moment. Not mine.

But I can't move.

I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to.

And then he turns.

Our eyes lock.

Everything else goes silent.

He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look relieved. He looks like a storm holding back landfall. Tight, too still, like one wrong move could shatter the restraint he's holding onto by sheer will.

I watch the muscle in his jaw flex once. Twice.

Then he starts walking toward me.

The crowd parts for him like it knows.

Suddenly, I can't breathe.

His footsteps echo against the pavement, steady and brutal, until he's just a few feet away. We're still technically inside the barrier, but this is Mingyu, so rules bend the second he decides they should.

He stops.

Too close.

He doesn't speak.

So I do.

"You didn't even flinch."

He raises a brow, voice rough. "You did."

I blink, throat tight. "You were about to lose the rear at Mirabeau."

"I did lose the rear. You just didn't notice because you were too busy yelling at me through the headset like you were calling a damn opera."

My mouth falls open. "I was trying to save your life."

"I was trying to win a race."

"And almost died doing it."

His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. It's something dark and sharp.

"Worth it."

I shove his shoulder. Hard.

He doesn't budge.

"Stop saying shit like that!" I snap. "You think it's brave? That it's romantic? It's stupid, Mingyu. It's arrogant and reckless and selfish."

His eyes narrow, something slipping behind them.

"You're mad because I drove on the edge," he says quietly. "But you don't get to be mad about why."

"I'm mad because you thought throwing it away would prove something."

"It did."

The words slam into me.

He takes a step forward, voice lower now, eyes locked to mine like we're the only two people in the goddamn paddock.

"I needed you to see what I am. Not the pretty parts. Not the press conferences and grid walks and champagne. This. The worst of it. The fear. The obsession. The part of me that chooses the edge because it's the only place I feel real."

My breath catches. His voice cracks just slightly.

"And I needed to know if you'd still be there after that."

I blink.

And blink again.

"You're insane," I whisper. "You're insane if you think you can weaponize my feelings against me like that."

His face doesn't change. "What feelings?"

I grit my teeth. My hands curl at my sides. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. I want to never see him again.

I step closer.

"Don't play dumb with me now, Kim."

He exhales a laugh, humorless. "You think I don't know what it meant, hearing your voice in my ears? Do you think I didn't feel it in my spine when you said my name like that? I've been begging you to say anything to me that wasn't soaked in venom, and now that you have, now that I've heard it—"

He cuts off.

I stare up at him.

He's shaking. Only a little. But it's there.

And for the first time since I met him... Mingyu looks scared.

"Mingyu," I whisper. "You could've died."

"I know."

"You could've—" My voice breaks. "You would've left me before I ever got to tell you..."

I clamp my mouth shut.

But he hears it.

God, of course, he does.

Like instinct, his hand lifts halfway to my cheek before he catches himself. Drops it. There's too much air between us and not nearly enough at all.

"You were everything I never wanted," I say quietly. "But then I saw the way you fight. The way you fly. And I hated you for it."

He steps forward again, barely a breath from me now.

"I've been in love with you since Spa."

I suck in a breath.

"You had grease on your cheek," he continues, "and fire in your eyes, and told me to stop smirking before you 'rearranged my entire goddamn personality.' I knew then."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you'd spit it back in my face."

"I probably would've."

He laughs under his breath.

I can't look at him.

But I also can't not.

We're so close now, the crowd is fading again, and my heart is a war drum in my chest.

"I can't do this right now," I whisper. "Not here. Not like this."

"I know," he says softly.

And then, finally, he steps back.

The space between us is unbearable.

"Find me later," he says.

I don't answer.

But my heart's already chasing him down pit lane.

The second he's gone, the air collapses around me.

I don't move. Can't. I'm standing in the shell of a conversation that ripped more out of me than I want to admit, and all I can hear is what I didn't say.

I'm still catching my breath when I hear him.

"Rough night?"

I don't even have to turn around.

The accent. The smooth, condescending lilt. The casual arrogance I know too well.

Julius.

"What do you want?" I ask, voice flat.

He steps closer as if this is some kind of reunion. Like we've ever been anything other than a mistake born out of loneliness and distraction.

"You looked like you needed an out," he says, gaze flicking in the direction Mingyu disappeared. "Thought I'd offer one."

I finally turn to face him. His smug half-smile is already pushing every wrong button.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Because you looked like you were about two seconds away from unraveling."

I roll my eyes and push past him.

He follows, of course.

"Touchy," he says with a laugh, matching my stride as I head for the stairs. "Is it because lover boy stormed off without a proper goodbye?"

I stop short.

"Don't call him that."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "The whole paddock's been buzzing. You think people haven't noticed the way he looks at you like he's already bled for you?"

My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in gossip."

"No," Julius says, stepping in close, "you're just interested in fucking with people's heads."

I see red.

"Excuse me?"

"You reel him in, then you push him away," he says, calm and measured. "It's your favorite game, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't owe Julius a single goddamn truth.

But that's when I feel it, that flicker at the edge of the garage. My head snaps up.

Mingyu.

Standing just across the paddock.

Watching.

For a split second, our eyes lock.

And whatever raw, unfinished thing we left between us, whatever shaky, hopeful tether we almost built, it snaps.

Because all he sees is this.

Me and Julius. Too close. Too familiar.

I can see it on his face the moment the assumption sinks in like poison.

I move.

Fast.

"Mingyu—"

But he turns.

Gone.

Just like that.

Shit.

I whirl back toward Julius, fury sparking behind my eyes. "Did you follow me out here on purpose?"

He raises his hands like he's innocent. "What? I saw a moment and took it. That's what you do, too, isn't it?"

"I'm not playing games."

"No," he says, cool and cruel. "But you are playing him."

I don't even realize I've shoved him until he stumbles back a step.

"You don't get to talk about him," I snap.

Julius straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his designer jacket.

"You always were more fun when you were angry."

I don't give him the satisfaction of another word.

I storm off, heart pounding, throat burning, brain screaming at me for letting Mingyu walk away thinking something I should've fought harder to stop.

⸻

I don't remember getting back to the hotel.

I remember the slam of the door behind me. The weight of my phone in my hand. The pressure building in my chest like something was going to break open if I didn't do something. I kicked off my heels somewhere near the closet, peeled out of the dress like it was choking me, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in nothing but a black slip and regret.

The image of Mingyu walking away wouldn't stop replaying in my mind.

That look on his face, like I'd confirmed the very thing he was always afraid to say out loud. Like I'd chosen wrong.

Again.

I grabbed my phone.

Can we talk?

No response.

Please.

Still nothing.

I stared at the screen until the texts blurred. My thumb hovered over the call button.

I pressed it.

It rang once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

I hung up before it could finish.

The party was still going downstairs, celebration rolling on without him, without me. Music echoed faintly through the walls, like a reminder that the rest of the world was moving and I wasn't.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, bouncing my leg, nerves sparking like faulty wires. Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe he didn't want to see me. Maybe this was all one big, tangled mess I'd made worse.

But the part of me that chased him down pit lane wouldn't shut up.

I pulled on a fresh dress. Simple, black, low-cut and tied my hair back with trembling fingers. No makeup this time. No armor. Just me and whatever was left of this thing between us.

On the elevator ride down, I texted Jinho.

Is he there?

A pause.

Jinho: Rooftop. But... maybe don't push it tonight.

I stared at that for a long moment.

I'm already on my way.

The rooftop was quiet.

Not the romantic kind of quiet. Just cold, sharp, and a little too still. The skyline flickered in the distance, but all I could focus on was him.

Mingyu.

He stood with his back to me, elbows braced against the railing like he'd been standing there forever. His jacket was half-zipped, collar ruffled, and hair a mess. He didn't move when I stepped out.

He didn't have to. He knew it was me.

"I wasn't going to come," I said quietly.

Still nothing.

"But I needed to explain."

"You don't have to explain Julius," he muttered.

"I want to."

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just... closed off. Like a door halfway shut.

"He showed up out of nowhere," I said. "I didn't want him there. He said something, and I pushed him away. That's all it was."

Mingyu looked at me, jaw tight.

"I saw him touch you."

"I didn't touch him back."

"But you didn't pull away."

I took a step closer. "Because I was frozen. Not because I wanted him."

His stare didn't waver.

"I don't want him, Mingyu. I haven't for a long time."

"Then why is it so easy for you to run to everything that isn't me?"

That cut deep.

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My heart pounded.

"You say I scare you," he said, voice low, almost bitter. "But you're the one who keeps turning away. I already told you how I feel. I stood there in the middle of a goddamn pit lane and told you I was in love with you. And you—" he shook his head, laughing once, without humor—"you just walked away."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't say it back."

I froze.

"You never do," he said. "You feel it, but you never say it. And I can't keep guessing, YN. I'm not asking for promises. I just want the truth."

I stared at him.

He stepped forward. Close. Closer than I could handle.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll walk away."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

He waited.

The silence stretched between us, unbearable.

"I can't," I whispered.

He stepped even closer. "Can't what?"

"Say it."

"Why?"

"Because if I say it—" my voice cracked, "then it's real."

"It's already real."

I shook my head. "It'll ruin everything."

"No," he said, voice rough. "It'll finally make it mean something."

My chest felt too tight. My breath was shallow.

He stared down at me, eyes blazing. "Say it, YN."

I shook my head. "I'm scared."

"I know," he said. "Say it anyway."

I blinked, eyes stinging.

He stepped in.

His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he was daring me not to hide.

"Say it," he whispered.

I couldn't.

So he kissed me.

Hard.

No hesitation. No room left for fear or reason or anything except him. His mouth was fire, his grip unrelenting, like he'd waited too long and lost too much to hold back now.

I gasped, and he swallowed it whole, one hand in my hair, the other curling around my hip. I clung to him like gravity, like his kiss was the only thing keeping me upright.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.

"You don't have to be ready," he whispered. "Just be here."

I didn't answer.

I just took his hand.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, like he didn't care that I hadn't said the words.

Like this was enough.

We left the rooftop in silence. No one stopped us. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as we moved past the closed doors, our steps too fast to be casual, too charged to be calm. My heart beat so loud I could barely hear the music downstairs anymore.

Mingyu hit the elevator button. The doors opened.

We stepped inside.

The second they closed behind us, I was against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with a force that knocked the air right out of me.

There was no hesitation this time. No slow build, no delicate approach. Just teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. His fingers threaded into my hair, tugging my head back so he could kiss deeper, rougher like he was trying to erase the hours we'd spent apart.

"You don't know," he growled against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to touch you like this."

I moaned into him, hands gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Then don't stop."

The elevator dinged.

He pulled away just long enough to drag me down the hallway, fingers tight around my wrist, not looking back once.

Room 1427. Keycard. Click.

The door shut behind us.

And then I was on the wall again, breathless, my dress hiked up around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine as he kissed me like he was starving.

I gasped as his hand slid under the hem of my dress, dragging up my leg, squeezing hard.

"You wore this for me?" he asked, voice low and wrecked. "This little thing with nothing underneath?"

"Yes," I breathed.

He groaned deep in his chest, mouth dropping to my neck as he bit, kissed, and licked across every sensitive inch of skin. My back arched. My fingers tangled in his hair.

"I need to see you," he murmured. "All of you."

I let him pull the dress over my head and toss it aside.

Then he stepped back.

And stared.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn't breathe.

"Fuck, YN," he whispered, eyes dragging down my body like he didn't know where to start. "You're so beautiful."

I crossed the room, took his hand, and placed it on my waist.

"Then touch me."

That broke him.

He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled, but just barely. He peeled his shirt off, his skin warm against mine, muscles flexing under my palms as I traced over his chest, stomach, and waistband line.

He laid me down on the bed like I was something sacred.

Then covered me with his body, hands exploring every inch of me like he had to relearn it, memorize it, own it.

"Fuck," he murmured as he kissed down my chest, my stomach, lower. "I love you."

"Mingyu—"

"I know," he said. "I know."

He spread my legs slowly, reverently. Kissed the inside of my thigh, then again, higher, teasing. My breath hitched.

"You're already so wet for me," he said, voice like a prayer and a curse all at once. "I didn't even have to ask."

"You never had to."

Then his mouth was on me.

I cried out, hands flying to his hair as he licked deep and slow, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. His tongue moved with purpose, with practiced reverence, curling just right until I was shaking under him.

"Come for me," he murmured against me. "Let me feel it."

I broke. Loud. Unfiltered. And he didn't stop. Not until I was breathless and trembling, thighs still twitching around his shoulders.

He kissed his way back up my body, licking into my mouth like he could taste me on his tongue.

"Do you want me?" he asked, voice thick, eyes dark and wide. "Tell me."

"I want you," I whispered. "I want you so bad."

He fumbled out of his pants, cursing under his breath, and I helped him, fingers desperate, hands greedy.

When he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, I gasped.

So did he.

"God," he choked out. "You feel like fucking heaven."

We moved together like we were making up for lost time. His hips met mine with force, his hand gripping my thigh, the other holding my wrist to the bed as he fucked me.

Deep, intentional, raw.

Each thrust was a confession.

Each moan, a word I couldn't say.

"I love you," he groaned into my skin. "Even when you can't say it. Even when you push me away."

I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not this time."

He moved faster, harder, our bodies slamming together in rhythm, the heat building, the pleasure blinding. I felt him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his hand in my hair, his heart pounding against mine.

"Come with me," he whispered, voice trembling.

"I'm—Mingyu—"

And then I shattered.

I came with a cry, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he followed, groaning my name, spilling into me with a shudder, his whole body pressed against mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

When it was over, we stayed there.

Naked. Twined together. Breathing hard.

His forehead rested against mine.

"I'm still scared," I whispered.

He kissed me softly. "Me too."

"But I'm here."

His arms wrapped tighter around me.

"Good," he said. "Stay."

He shifted just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe it but couldn't let himself. Not yet.

"Stay," he said again, quieter this time. A plea. A promise.

I cupped his face with both hands, running my thumbs gently over the angles of his cheeks. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when I touched him like that.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back. "Not anymore."

Something in him cracked then. I saw it happen.

His mouth crashed into mine, not desperate like before, but slow and deep. It was a kiss that felt like surrender. His hand slid into my hair, the other cradling my jaw, holding me like I was fragile like I mattered.

"I need you," he murmured between kisses. "Not just like that. I need you. All of you."

"You have me," I said, voice shaking. "You always did."

He rolled us gently, his body settling between my legs, and everything about him shifted. There was no rush. No urgency.

Only feeling.

He kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. Every inch of skin his mouth touched, he lingered. Worshipped. His hands mapped me like he needed to relearn me from scratch.

And I let him.

"I'm going slow," he whispered against my throat. "I want to feel all of it."

"Okay," I breathed. "I want that too."

When he finally entered me again, I gasped. Not from the stretch, but from the emotion of it. From the way his eyes locked on mine like he wanted to watch the moment he became a part of me again.

His hips moved gently, deeply, every roll of his body syncing with mine like we'd been built for this.

He kissed my cheek, the corner of my mouth, my shoulder, like he couldn't choose where to stay.

"You feel like home," he said, voice trembling. "I didn't know I could miss someone like this."

Tears stung my eyes.

I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him, pulling him in deeper.

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't say it before."

"Say it now."

My throat tightened. But I didn't look away.

"I love you, Mingyu."

His breath hitched. His thrusts stuttered.

I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

His forehead dropped to mine, eyes wet, breath shaky as he moved inside me, slow, our bodies rocking together like they were speaking in a language we finally understood.

The build was soft. Gradual. The kind that crept up on us until I was gasping his name into his mouth, nails dragging down his back as my orgasm hit with the weight of everything I'd held in for too long.

"Come with me," I whispered. "Let go."

He did, moaning my name like it was a prayer, hips pressing deep as he spilled into me, burying his face in my neck.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Breathing. Holding. Crying, just a little.

And when he pulled back, eyes red and raw, he kissed me again like I'd saved him.

"You mean it?" he asked quietly.

"I've never meant anything more."

He smiled,messy and perfect.

He kissed me again.

Softer now. Slower. Just warmth, breath, and the lingering weight of everything we couldn't say until now. His thumb stroked gently across my cheek as he pulled back, searching my eyes like he wanted to make sure I was still here.

I was.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

He eased out of me with a soft groan, his touch careful—reverent, like he didn't want to hurt me after everything we'd just shared. I winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he was already moving, grabbing a warm towel from the bathroom.

"I got you," he murmured, kneeling beside the bed.

I watched him in the low hotel light. The way his brows furrowed in quiet focus as he cleaned me up, as he pressed a kiss to my thigh when he finished. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.

He slid back into bed behind me, pulling me into his chest like he was scared I might disappear if he let go. My head tucked beneath his chin, our legs tangled together under the sheet. His palm found the curve of my waist, and fingers splayed like he was claiming the right to hold me.

I let the silence settle.

Until I whispered, "What happens now?"

He exhaled slowly. I could feel it against my temple. His hand moved up, brushing hair from my face.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think I’d ever get this far."

That made me smile. A small one. Tired. Real.

"I mean it," he continued. "I don't have a script for this part. For you. But I know what I want."

I looked up at him.

He met my eyes. Serious now.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever it looks like. But you have to know something."

I waited.

"This life. The races, the danger, the travel, it's not going away. It's who I am. It's what I've worked for my whole life."

I nodded. "I know."

"But I also know it scares you."

My throat tightened.

"You don't say it, but I see it every time I step on the track. You hold your breath like I might not come back."

"Because sometimes I think you won't," I whispered.

He didn't flinch.

"I get it," he said gently. "But I need you to be in this with me. Fully. Not halfway. Not with one foot out the door. I want you to be my person, YN. I want to come home to you. But I can't do that if you're always running."

I blinked hard. Swallowed even harder.

And then it broke.

The words, the weight, the years I'd held it in.

"My dad—" I started, voice cracking.

I felt him nod. Felt his lips press against the top of my head.

"You'll never go through that again," he said, voice firm. "I won't let you."

"You can't promise that," I whispered.

His hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face toward him.

"I know," he said. "But I can promise this. I'll never stop coming back to you. No matter what. You're it for me."

I closed my eyes, tears slipping free.

He kissed them away. One at a time. Slow and steady.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "Be scared. Be messy. Be mad at the world. But stay."

I nodded, voice too broken to speak.

And he held me like he'd never let go.

Our bodies cooled. Our breathing evened. The city outside kept moving, but in here, it was just us. Safe. Bare. Real.

I buried my face in his chest and let the exhaustion take me.

And this time, I didn't dream of losing him.

I dreamt of staying.

⤷ network tags: @k-films @blossomnet

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist

[heyitspapayaontop]

But what about Oscar? (!)

Request: anon <3

Pairing: Brother!Max Verstappen x Sister!reader

Themes: max fluff is back my books

Warnings: favoritism (with a child okay chill)

Summary: Cheering for her brother? Nope! Oscar is so much better.

“Pole just means you go first,” she deadpanned, looking about as excited as someone waiting for a dentist appointment. Max honestly felt like he’d just been dunked on by a moody pre-teen in a Lightning McQueen tee.

He made another go at it, sounding a bit desperate. “But my car was the fastest.”

Y/N just shrugged, twirling the string of her Verstappen cap like it was the world’s most boring fidget toy. “Oscar’s cool.”

Savage. The brutality. Max started wondering if this was cosmic payback for every time he’d punted someone wide at turn one.

Lando wandered over, grinning like he’d just watched a cat fall off a table. “Yikes, mate. She’s ice cold.”

“Yeah, cheers, Lando. Super helpful.”

Later, in the drivers’ room, Oscar strolled in, halfway through a granola bar. Max gave him a look. Maybe a bit too much intensity there. Oscar froze, granola mid-chomp.

“Uh, you good?”

Max groaned and dragged his hands over his face. “She didn’t even care about pole. Just asked where you were.”

Oscar blinked, then smirked. “She’s got her favorites.”

“Yeah, and apparently, it’s not me. Betrayal.”

Oscar flopped into a chair, looking way too relaxed. “Would you rather she liked Lando?”

“God, no. He’d have her driving a golf cart into Lake Como.”

Oscar cracked up, and, honestly, Max couldn’t stay mad. Not at Oscar. The guy was like if a Labrador put on a bucket hat and learned to talk.

After the race, Y/N was waiting in the garage with a tiny McLaren plushie clutched in her hands. She didn’t even blink at Max’s champagne-soaked race suit—just bolted straight for Oscar, who scooped her up like it was the most normal thing ever.

“Good race, Y/N?” he asked.

She nodded so hard her hat nearly fell off. “You went so fast.”

Max, still dripping, threw his hands in the air. “I win at home and my little sister’s giving all the credit to Piastri. Unreal.”

Lando sidled over, smirking like a little gremlin. “Guess you’ll have to step up your game, champ.”

“Or just bribe her with cookies,” Max muttered.

Oscar glanced over, sheepish. “She, uh, gave me this.” He held up a crumpled, slightly sticky drawing. It was… probably him? Maybe? Hard to say.

Max squinted. “She’s never drawn me with that many hearts.”

Oscar tried not to look smug. He failed. Miserably.

Weeks ticked by. Max tried everything—matching socks, extra bedtime stories, even a sneaky turn in the Red Bull sim (Christian would actually combust if he found out). Didn’t matter. Oscar was still her sun, moon, and all the stars.

One night, after a long slog at the track, Max found Y/N crashed out next to Oscar in the hospitality lounge, mouth open, dead to the world. Oscar looked over, awkward but weirdly proud.

“Sorry, mate. Think she likes me more.”

Max just sighed, a little defeated but kinda okay with it. “Yeah. She’s got pretty solid taste.”

Oscar grinned. “Must run in the family.”

Max rolled his eyes, but his chest didn’t feel so tight.

Honestly? If his little sister was gonna worship someone, Oscar wasn’t the worst choice. Not even close.

And maybe Max could get used to sharing the spotlight—at least until Y/N decided Toto Wolff was her new obsession. At that point, all bets were off.

[lyinginmeadow]

Breakaway pt I. | hockey!Azriel × reader

Summary: You're not a fan of a kiss cam. And neither is your boyfriend.

Word count: 1,8k

Warnings: swearing, miserable knowledge of hockey (sorry yall), Rhys being a protective asshole over his sister

A/n: Anyone a hockey fan? No, just me? Okay. Another thing is, that I described university as I know it in my country haha. I hope no one will be confused

Also yes, I did take inspiration from tiktok. I just loved that scene <3

>> Pt 2

Leaves started to fall which meant your favorite season was starting. You loved anything and everything that came with autumn. The pumpkin spice, moody weather, sweaters, and books. With autumn knocking on your door, the new semester has begun. You didn't mind studying, you actually enjoyed it to a certain degree, but the stress is what always got to you during exams. You were just starting your second year of university, so you knew what to expect. To many that was all. Just endless studying and partying to get their minds off things. You? Not really. Ever since you could remember, fall meant the hockey season started. Were you a hockey player? No, not at all. Ice skating was your passion, just not hockey. That didn't matter, because your brother was the golden child. Rhysand played because your father used to. You would never say it out loud, mainly because it would inflate his ego even more, but Rhysand was a star player. He was so much better than your father and you knew that if he wanted to, he would make it far. 

 Rhys never acted towards you with any malice other than just a bit of sibling rivalry. He was actually quite protective of you, given the fact you were his little sister. But whatever you did was never good enough for your father. You might study medicine, but Rhys was finishing law. You might figure skate but you were no hockey player. And most of all, you were a woman. And your father despised you for it. You were expected to make it to every game, but no one ever wanted to attend your competitions.  You enjoyed watching the games, especially when Rhys met his best friends and teammates at university. The games became so much more interesting when Azriel entered the ice. Rhys might be the captain and the center, but Azriel was a force to be reckoned with, the fastest player in the rink. You became friends with both Cassian and Azriel quickly since you often visited their house to get away from your parents. Rhysand of course was glad but you knew you were off-limits to his friends. Not only was it obvious in how he glared at both of them whenever they made a comment he didn’t appreciate. But the first time you met, Cass basically undressed you with his eyes. From what you heard he reminded them often to not mess with his sister.

It did not stop you from developing feelings for him the moment you laid eyes on him. For a while, it did seem he viewed you only as his best friend's little sister. Which you had a hard time accepting. Your relationship changed when you sneaked into a party they had thrown in celebration of a victory last year. You were a first-year, and your first semester at university had been hectic, but living close to your brother and away from your parents was a long-awaited blessing. Having a taste of freedom made you bold. Azriel couldn't take his eyes off of you, you had been like a magnet. He hadn't been the only one as you attracted the attention of another freshman. Azriel might not have acted on his attraction towards you before but seeing you with another man changed that. One thing led to another and you were sneaking out together whenever you found time.

It had been a year and your brother still had no clue. And you intended to keep it that way. You loved your boyfriend, you didn't want to worry about his teeth off the ice as well. Cassian on the other hand suspected, thankfully as you introduced him to your friend, Nesta, he became preoccupied and dropped the matter. 

''So who do you think will win? And be honest, they're not here, you can't hurt their fragile egos.'' Nesta disturbed your train of thought. You laughed shaking your head. You loved hanging out with her because of how direct she was, always saying exactly what was on her mind. You met Nesta when your university did a charity ballet on the ice of Nutcracker. You got the role of Clara and she was your ballet counterpart. You did not expect to establish a friendship with her, but she was exactly who you needed in your life. You knew she would call you out on your bullshit anytime and you liked her for it. She also happened to be the first person you told about Azriel. She was not surprised, saying that you weren't being as secretive as you thought you had been.

''You know I am still biased since I really want our team to win. The Cavaliers are good and they play dirty. But Cass will probably try to kill Eris on the ice. Given the history and all.'' You gave her a pointed look. Shifting your gaze to the rink, you tried to find number 38.

''They’ve got no chance against VU.'' Said a guy next to you. You hated when someone butted their way into a conversation. But given the fact, that you would be spending about two hours in close proximity, you had decided for a polite smile. ''I guess so.''

''So how come you've got such good seats? Know someone on the team?'' He chimed in again.

''You could say that. My brother is the captain.'' You answered keeping your eyes on Azriel as he warmed up.

''Rhysand is your brother?''

''Unfortunately.'' You nodded, and his eyes grew in size. ''That's so lucky! I wish I was a hockey player or just knew them. You see, I got these seats because I'll be writing an article about the game.'' You smiled politely again shifting your gaze to the rink when the puck was just about to hit the ice.

As the game progressed, the crowd became electric. All the fans were shouting and your ears began ringing. Velaris Bats were in the lead, but only by one goal and everyone was nervous. To make the game even more enjoyable, there were games for the fans as well. Students competed against one another to win points for their university and win the competition of the tribunes.

The competitions were fun and good entertainment during breaks. But while the game continued the camera was turned on. You laughed at a random do a meme moment, but quickly turned your head back to the ice. You didn't want to miss a second of Azriel's game. Fully focused, you didn't realize that the camera switched to a kiss cam. A guy sitting next to you turned his head to face you and pointed to the TV earning your attention. ''I mean when in Rome, right?'' He laughed as he tried to close the distance. ''Yeah, no, thank you.'' You laughed nervously shifting in your seat.

''Oh come on, it's just a kiss.'' He pressured, and you gave a panicked look towards the ice. You heard Nesta taking a sharp inhale to give the guy a piece of her mind. You were interrupted by shouts of the fans and loud banging on the glass. 

''Back the fuck off.'' You couldn't hear Az properly, but the message was quite clear, making the guy shift his gaze between the two of you uncomfortably. Az got two minutes for stalling the game which made the crowd boo and your brother yell obscenities as he often did when one of his teammates was sent to a bench. Thankfully during the power play the Cavaliers didn't get a goal in, but it was close. It only enraged Rhysand more which was abundantly clear when he almost broke his stick as the second period came to an end.

Azriel was sending daggers to the guy sitting next to you who looked like he wanted nothing more than to leave. He relaxed when the players left for their locker rooms. You just hoped Rhys didn't look much into Azriel's possessive behavior.

''What the fuck was that?'' Roared Rhys as he entered the locker room.

''I don't know what you're talking about.'' Azriel continued to take off his gear.

''Do not play with me! You could have cost us the game.''

''I was thinking I did you a favor. He had no right to touch her like that.'' He finally faced Rhysand.

''It was a fucking kiss cam.''

''She didn't want to be kissed. And he didn't back off.''

''So what? You made it your mission to help her while you were supposed to pay attention to the puck?'' Spit Rhys. Everyone in the locker room was silent watching the two stubborn players go head to head.

''Yes! And I would do it again.'' Azriel retorted.

''I could have you off the team for this.'' He hissed.

''Rhys-.'' Cassian signed. ''Be my guest.'' Azriel interrupted starring Rhysand down. He wouldn't back down. He couldn't. He knew you could have handled yourself back there. Hell, Nesta was there, too and she wouldn't let some guy do anything disrespectful. He just acted on an impulse. When he looked up and saw your panicked gaze, something shifted inside him. Rhys kept watching Azriel, staring right into his soul when suddenly his eyes grew larger as if recognizing what he should have seen from the very beginning.

''You've got to be kidding me.'' When Azriel didn't answer, Rhys continued, ''Tell me you don’t have a thing for my little sister.’’

''Azriel, I swear to everything that is holy, I will fucking punch you if you don't give me an answer.''

''We are together. Have been for almost a year.'' Azriel never saw anyone have an aneurysm. But if he could guess, Rhysand was a textbook example of how it looked like.

''I take it back, I will punch you anyway.'' And he might have if Cassian wasn't there to catch Rhys. ''Easy there killer. The game is still on. And you might not like it but Az is an asset.''

''I don't want to see you anywhere near her, understand? I know how you are with girls!'' Rhysand snarled.

''You know I can't do that.''

''Then you're off the team.''

''Fine.''

As they returned to the ice, the tension between Velaris Bats was palpable. Cassian was looking between his teammates probably trying to find a quick solution to the problem at hand. Azriel wasn't paying you any attention keeping his gaze on the ice only. You frowned slightly. When you looked at Rhys you found him staring back at you anger oozing out of his every move. 

He knew.

[keepthedelta]

thinking about the rosberg family and how a kardashian or dts style documentary about them would be amazing.

you have keke rosberg, a hard racing cigar smoking legend of motorsport from one of it's most dangerous eras, whose name literally means pixie rose mountain. the man who basically invented formula one in finland but was hated by his own media for being too cosmopolitan and when they tried to recognise his achievements refused to let them put his face on a postage stamp because he wouldn't make money off of it. studied to be a dentist but missed the entrance exam and became a racing driver instead. got out of having to take german in school by persuading the master that he would never need it but as soon as he met a hot older german woman went so insane over her that he proposed just months after meeting her and agreed to make it their primary language at home. set a record for the fastest lap in f1 history that lasted until 2004, won his first f1 race and then won a world championship before he won his second. known as a crazy racer who would go through you if you didn't let him past. also the softest dad who loves his baby boy more than anything else.

then there's sina, the coolest person in the rosberg family. was so hot and smart and talented that a man willingly sacrificed his cultural identity to be her husband. professional interpreter who knows a bunch of languages and taught them to her polyglot son. married a f1 world champion but hated his driving so much that she drove herself everywhere, even to events that she attended with him. showed up finland's independence day ball in a suit and bow tie against all dress customs. planned to give birth on her own because it's basically the same thing as going to the dentist, and she doesn't need a man for that. has an f1 champion husband and son and still banned f1 talk in her house for nico's entire career. got so nervous watching her baby race that she vacuumed the entire apartment each time. ditched her husband in dubai so that she could make it to the track to see nico become world champion in person. got drunk and talked about keke's sperm on live television.

nico rosberg, the saddest wettest kitten who ever lived. the most beloved baby in the world. cried at everything as a child. cried when he lost at tennis and when he won. uber competitive. incredibly athletic, competing internationally in karting and tennis. total nerd who had no trouble with his schoolwork despite missing school constantly and got accepted into imperial college london to study engineering. at the time the youngest person to ever drive an f1 car. the biggest single cause of sexuality crises in motorsport since 2006. was once sponsored by the german version of mtv. nicknamed after a teen pop sensation. met the love of his life when he was four and hit her over the head with a bucket while they were making sandcastles. had an incredibly difficult incredibly public divorce from a man he was never legally married to. dropped the mic said thank u, next and is so so happy in his retirement. has stripped down to his underwear on television and done a river clean up in designer coats. boy mom to an orange cat, girl dad to human children. loves his daughters more than anything, the kind of man who will leave a 2 million dollar car on a hill to hitchhike, with his videographer, to his daughters's christmas party. can pinpoint the amount of time lost in a corner exactly and needs everyone to know about it. deeply annoying, absolutely hilarious, incredibly kind.

and of course, vivian. ceo of the rosberg family. still planning the long game revenge on nico for hitting her with a bucket when they were children, born in germany, studied design in milan, can party harder than f1 drivers. has done the interior design for private jets, because apparently that's a thing. owner, creator and namesake of the best rated ice cream shop in the balearics. makes her daughters matching outfits for a taylor swift concert and publicly teases her husband for not being a fan. stages elaborate christmas photos with a different colour theme every year. wore a white dress with turquoise louboutins and chanel bag to match nico's race suit in one of the most iconic and yet deeply underappreciated wag moments in f1 history. ruined them with champagne but didn't care. wants her children to be happy. definitely pegs her husband.

most interesting motorsport family of all time. forget dts, i just want to know about them

[gojosluut]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Satoru Gojo HCs PT 2! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

₊⊹ chubby fem reader, not proof read ₊⊹

Satoru Gojo! Talks non stop about the most random topics to you. Since he had no one to talk to about his interests or anything truly that he liked outside of jujutsu sorcery, definitely believe this man is talking to you about anything and everything that comes to his pretty mind.

Satoru Gojo! Has a whole room in your shared house dedicated to his collection of Digimon plushies.

Gojo Satoru! Makes everything a competition. LIKE EVERYTHING. You two eating out at a restaurant? yea it’s turning into an eating contest. Playing literally a calming game like animal crossing or cooking mama? This man is hollering about who can do this the fastest or cook this recipe the fastest. like okay, calm down damn. 😭

Gojo Satoru! Hates it…more so despises it when you call him by his first name. It’s a requirement that you call him by his pet names you got for him.

Gojo Satoru! mid mission or mid fighting a curse will teleport to you and give you a quick kiss on the lips out of nowhere, and then just disappear back to his fight.

Gojo Satorus! Favorite version of you isn’t when you’re all dolled up. No. It’s when your hair isn’t done, face clear of makeup, and when you’re wearing your loungewear. It just makes him feel all warm and comfy inside, and it also makes him love you even more that you feel comfortable enough to not have to be dolled up for him all the time and just be your natural beauty around him.

Satoru Gojo! Would talk. Like would have almost full blown conversations with your pussy while he’s eating you out, and you just smack him on top of the head telling him to shut up and just eat it already…which just makes him swat your hand away telling you, your pussy is talking back and that it’s rude to just ignore someone while talking. (what an ass.)

Satoru Gojo! Loves when you wear his dress shirts around the house with nothing else on underneath. It only being buttoned up with just one or two buttons, as it just hangs off your body with your titty about to pop out.

Satoru Gojo! puts his eyewear on you whenever his cock is buried deep inside your pussy. No matter what eyewear he’s wearing that day from his bandages, blindfold, glasses. He’ll take them off his face while his hips thrusts into your soppy cunt - his hands gently placing his eyewear on your face blocking out your entire vision, making you whine from not being able to see his pretty face anymore which makes Satoru just let out a half moan chuckle.

Satoru Gojo! Palms at your tummy whenever he’s spooning you from behind. He doesn’t do it in a taunt way but in a loving way, he loves your curves so so much. His face buried in the crook of your neck breathing in your sweet scent - his large calloused hands palming and gripping at your soft tummy all while he whispers sweet words against your neck between kisses.

Satoru Gojo! LOVES whenever you bring food play into the bedroom. From chocolate syrup messily covering your tummy his large form in between your plush thighs leaning over while his warm tongue sloppily licks the chocolate sauce off your tummy. Or if he’s circling an ice cube against your puffy clit making you squirm and moan underneath him.

Satoru Gojo! Is always happy to wear those cute pink hello kitty pj pants for you, he doesn’t care about if he looks girly he’s masculine enough to simply not care. If it makes his pretty girl happy then he’ll do whatever you order for him to do.

Satoru Gojo! Who loves the freaky and messy shit in the bedroom but for the most part he loves the soft intimacy with you. Just vanilla calming sex that helps him relax after a long mission, or a long day dealing with the higher ups. Though particularly if the higher ups pissed him off to no ends, demanding him to do this and that. He’ll come home without saying a word going to your shared bedroom finding you relaxing on the bed. His large hands manhandling you on your hands and knees - back arched, and faced buried in the soft pillows making you yelp in shock at the fast movements. His large hands pulling your shorts down giving your asscheek a rough smack while he curses under his breath at the higher ups.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

[anonity]

loser

i'm not doing the banners at the top anymore simply because i just realized i don't actually have to.. (it's completely unedited so help a girl out and send an anon if you see an error peace + love!)

pairing: paige bueckers x azzi fudd wc: 2000 summary: paige can't stand losing - unless it's to azzi.

if you know paige bueckers, there is one thing you can say with absolute certainty: paige cannot lose. it’s not that she’s incapable of it – just ask iowa in the 2024 final four game. no, paige is perfectly capable of losing – but the loss is going to drive her crazy. it’s her best and worst trait, really. only someone with the competitiveness of paige bueckers would play basketball with the intensity that she does. unfortunately, this is a competitiveness that can’t be turned off, and so it’s nearly impossible to do anything without paige turning it into something. even the most mundane activities seem to have paige as their #1 player. her door-frame touching vertical is the “best in the country”. she holds the locker rooms record for fastest-showered, (ice points out that this isn’t a flex), and she’s the best at not breaking eye-contact, even when it’s not a staring contest. so, as she sits cross-legged on azzis apartment floor with a ps4 controller in hand, it’s nearly unbelievable how poorly she's playing. actually, azzi has insisted for the last 3 minutes, it is unbelievable. “paige,” she laughs. “drew builds better than you.”

“drew’s good at fortnite!” paige insists, even though she’s obviously building without conviction – she’s smashed the A button “by accident” four times now, and is placing walls with the enthusiasm of a confused golden retriever. 

azzi is oblivious, though, convinced paige has just suddenly become the worst fortnite player in the history of video games. and now that paige is playing so terribly, azzi’s never been more locked in in her life. the adrenaline coursing through her veins in this very moment can only be rivaled by her pre-game jitters – she’s gripping the controller so tight it might break. her eyes dart across the screen as the purple storm shrinks exponentially – it’s just her and paige.

azzi crouches quickly behind a wooden build, heart thudding in her chest and a shotgun in her hotbar. “you’re cooked,” she announces, despite the shaking of her hands.

if you know azzi fudd, you know she is absolutely cracked at a lot of things – her three point shot, her academics, her insane discipline and drive – but fortnite? not one of them. paige could end this. right now. 

she knows she can, because azzi hesitates for a second too long every time she peeks out from her build. she has an obvious movement pattern, and from where paige is standing, it’s an easy headshot. 

she doesn’t take it. instead, paige's bullet flies right past azzi’s character. azzi yelps in response, ducking back behind her box, fumbling with the controller in a panic. paige groans loudly. “shit.”

paige builds a little more, trying to make her position less obvious and “barely” dodging shots from azzi’s AR. when she thinks she’s done enough fumbling around to be convincing, she “accidentally” boxes herself in, resulting in a whispered “shit, shit, shit.” 

azzi has never been so close to beating paige bueckers in her life, and paige can feel the energy radiating off of her as she approaches. azzi is breathless and shouting when she breaks into paige's box – paige whiffs a shot and then lets herself get clipped. VICTORY ROYALEazzi shoots up from the bed so quickly she’s bound to get whiplash, her controller flying from her hands and hitting the foot of the mattress with a dull clack. as soon as it’s out of her hands, she turns to grab paige's shoulder and yanks them towards her. 

“NO. WAY.” she grins, punctuating each word with a shake of paiges entire body. for a second, paige can’t fight the corners of her mouth twitching up. unfortunately, she’s more excited about seeing azzi like this – victorious and giddy with disbelief – than she would’ve been if she’d beat her.

still, she dutifully schools an unimpressed expression on her face.  “whatever,” she dismisses. “you got lucky, like, one time.”

paige’s irritation at losing only seems to fuel azzi’s celebration. she flops against the comforter, throwing her arm into paige’s lap like the exhaustion of winning is finally catching up to her, and lets out a deep breath. “you’re just mad cuz you’re a loooooser.” and there’s not many people paige doesn’t mind losing to – but maybe azzi is okay. 

paige does not let azzi win every time – it’s only about 30% of the games they play. maybe 40. and really, it’s not even about letting azzi win – it’s about making sure she keeps playing. because if paige went full sweat mode every time, she would eventually get up to go do something more fun. and then what? so she throws a match here and there – whatever. sue her. paige has been the perfect actor through it all – missing shots just close enough to be believable, complaining just enough when she loses to seem genuinely frustrated. except that azzi isn’t stupid, and all good things have to come to an end.

it all clicks on a saturday afternoon. paige, azzi, ice, and KK are all loaded into a solos match, and paige suddenly goes from fumbling builds and panicking under pressure to absolutely wiping the fucking floor with everyone. ice is the first to go, screams coming from paiges headset so loud that azzi can hear them from the other side of the couch. then KK gets hunted down predatorily, eliminated before she can even get a shot in. it’s effortless. and then there’s just azzi.

paige is settled on top of a building, sniper in hand, staring straight down her barrel at her. she’s fumbling around in the streets of tilted towers, playing so poorly most people would assume she was a bot.

if paige shot now, azzi would be dead before she even realized paige was watching. instead, she misses. she shoots to the left of where azzi was walking to – and when paige takes just a second too long to reload her gun, it dawns on azzi.

she doesn’t say anything at first, though she can hear KK’s indignant “what the hell was that, paige?” from her headset. azzi stares blankly at her screen for a solid three seconds before slowly turning to look at paige.

paige, who is very pointedly looking at the ceiling, jaw tight with forced nonchalance.

“oh my god,” azzi breathes. “unbelievable.”

paiges controller clacks. she moves a little to the left, building a wall and crouching. as if she could intimidate azzi into returning back to the game, into ignoring her world-class fumble. her nose scrunches in mock-confusion. “what?” 

it doesn’t work – azzi’s eyes are already narrowing. “you’re letting me win.”paige scoffs. “why the hell would i let you win?”

azzi looks a little miffed, her eyebrows raising exponentially, and paige might be a little in trouble. “i don’t know, paige, you tell me!” “i missed!” paige throws her hand up in the air, using her other to wave the controller towards the TV. “i’m not a professional fort player. just play the game.”

despite paiges D1 performance, azzi looks unmoved. “you just obliterated ice and KK, but you can’t hit me standing in the road?”

through paige's headset, ice giggles. paige wants to kill her.

paige is just waiting for the drama to start. she knows azzi, knows how this is going to end. and predictably, azzi’s jaw suddenly drops – like it’s just now sinking in. “oh my god,” she repeats. “you only ever choke against me.” her gaze flits between paige and the TV, like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “how long have you been doing this?” so, yeah. paige is watching her ego die in front of her. and she desperately wants to keep this lie going, because 1. once azzi finds out she’s been lying, she’s never going to trust her again, and 2. once everyone finds out paige has been letting azzi win, they’re probably going to connect a lot of dots she’d rather leave scattered. 

but azzi looks so convinced, so absolutely sure, that there’s no going back. 

paige sighs, dropping her controller onto the sofa in defeat and leaning back into the arm rest. she rests her chin on her hand. picks a point on the carpet to stare at. and then, without making eye contact, murmurs, “..not that long.”

ice and KK both make offended noises through her headset, and there’s a clamor of “why don’t you ever let us win,” and “what makes her special?” but paige cannot even begin to deal with them.

paige feels the couch shift as azzi moves – closer, probably, as if her proximity might convince paige to look at her. “not that long?” she repeats.

paige risks a glance over, expecting a shocked and maybe even frustrated azzi, but instead she looks.. amused. and what the hell is amusing about this situation? if paige is embarrassed, azzi should be mortified. she’s absolutely dogshit at fortnite! instead, azzi is almost laughing (even though, again, nothings funny) when she says “paige, i brag about beating you.”

paige groans, lifting her head to drag a hand down her face. “yeah, i know.” she can feel azzi watching her. like she’s connecting dots. and then ice and KK are suspiciously quiet, like they’re connecting dots, and suddenly paige wants nothing more than for someone to say something. 

azzi suddenly tilts her head, and paige thinks, thank god, we’re going to move this along. but before paige can even begin to celebrate, azzi’s mouth opens. “why’d you let me win?” it feels kind of like when reporters ask invasive questions. she thinks if azzi is asking then she probably already knows, and suddenly paige wants nothing more than for everyone to stop speaking forever. no further questions, please. for the first time in her life, paige wishes that she was in media – there, she could glance uncomfortably over at CD or geno until someone stepped in. but settled with azzi in her apartment’s living room, paige is stuck with the truth – which is that she was letting azzi win just to see her happy.

which is kind of gay.

paige doesn’t say that out loud, obviously, because she’s stupid but not quite that stupid. except that now she’s kind of spiralled, and it’s been a really long time since azzi asked her why, and paige has no choice now but to simply not answer. instead, she averts her gaze back to the carpet. “‘ion know.”

the room is painfully silent. there’s shuffling in paiges headset – KK hums into her mic like shes stupid fucking morgan freeman. “and here in the wild we’ve found a 5 foot eleven point guard, paige bueckers, sounding dumb as hell,” she narrates. ice snorts. azzi finally shifts again, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them. “i mean..” she starts, and paige already wants to die. “i didn’t not like it.” what? paige has completely lost the plot.

“winning. i liked winning,” azzi clarifies, and paige thinks, winners do love winning. except that it’s not actually funny at all because she still can’t really decide if azzi is a wuh-luh-wuh winner or a straight one. paige swallows, voice tight. “i figured you might,” she settles on. “that’s why i let you.” “because i liked it?”

 “yes?” she responds, even though it lilts at the end like shes asking. what the fuck are they even talking about right now? there are too many innuendos being thrown around and paige is thirty seconds away from hanging up on ice and KK. azzi hums and kind of side-eyes paige from where she’s seated. “that’s very nice of you,” she says, slowly. “‘s what friends’re for,” paige slurs, moving rather quickly over the word friends, and she thinks for one horrific moment that azzi is going to call her on it.

but she doesn’t. instead, theres a fucking bang from the TV, and paige’s night has turned into some colossal joke. 

eliminated by fuzzyfuddfudd535

[woso-story]

Sore Loser

Leah Williamson x Reader

You always knew Leah was competitive. It was one of the many things you loved about her. She brought that fire onto the pitch every single game, and it was one of the reasons she was such a great leader. But what wasn’t always so great? That competitiveness extended far beyond football. It didn’t matter if it was a simple card game, a casual bet with Beth, or even something ridiculous like who could get dressed the fastest in the morning—Leah hated losing. And when she did? Well, she became a sulking, grumpy mess.

Which was exactly why you were not looking forward to tonight.

Game night at your apartment with the team was usually fun. It was loud, chaotic, and filled with laughter, but there was always the underlying knowledge that Leah would inevitably throw a small tantrum if she didn’t win. She had promised, again, that she’d be on her best behavior. You had given her a knowing look when she said it, and she had grinned, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “I swear, babe. I’ll be good.”

You wanted to believe her. Really, you did. But history had proven otherwise.

Sure enough, the night started off great. Everyone piled into your apartment, bringing snacks, drinks, and way too much energy after a long week of training. You sat curled up next to Leah on the couch, listening to the friendly banter flying around. Even Leah was in high spirits—laughing, joking, being her usual charming self.

Then came Taboo.

The teams were divided, and by some cruel twist of fate, you ended up on opposing sides. Leah shot you a playful smirk, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Prepare to lose, love.”

You smirked back. “We’ll see about that.”

At first, the game was lighthearted, the usual chaos ensuing with people shouting out wrong answers and groaning at tricky clues. But as the rounds progressed and the scores became tighter, you could feel Leah’s competitive streak creeping in. Her relaxed posture became rigid, her lips pressing into a tight line whenever her team missed an easy point.

And then—disaster struck.

Your team won.

The moment the final point was called, the room erupted into cheers and groans. Some of Leah’s teammates slumped dramatically onto the couch, laughing at their defeat, but Leah? She looked devastated. Like someone had just told her that football had been permanently canceled.

“No way. No. Absolutely not. You cheated,” she accused, pointing at you with narrowed eyes.

You barely held back your laugh. “Leah—”

“This game is rigged!” she continued, turning to everyone in the room, her voice filled with righteous indignation.

The room fell into silence for a beat before Kyra, ever the instigator, piped up. “Leah, you sound like little Harper when she doesn’t get ice cream.”

And just like that, everyone burst out laughing.

Everyone except Leah.

With an annoyed huff, she stomped out of the living room and into your bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Kyra smirked. “Told ya. Toddler.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go handle my toddler.”

Walking into your bedroom, you found Leah sitting on the bed, arms crossed over her chest, a deep frown etched onto her face. She looked so ridiculously cute in her little sulk that you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“Go away,” she muttered.

You didn’t. Instead, you sat beside her and grinned. “You know everyone loves you, right? They weren’t making fun of you.”

Leah turned her head away. “I don’t like being the butt of the joke.”

“You’re not. You’re just a sore loser, and everyone finds it hilarious.”

She shot you a glare, but it had no real heat behind it.

Leaning in, you pressed a kiss to her cheek. She remained still, her pout still intact. So, you kissed her again. And again. And again.

Finally, she cracked. A tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“There it is,” you murmured, grinning at her.

Leah sighed dramatically. “I still think you cheated.”

You chuckled. “Of course, you do. Anything for my little grumpy toddler.”

She shoved you playfully, but when you tugged her hand, she followed you back into the living room.

The second you both stepped out, the team erupted into cheers.

“Look at that! She smiles!” Caitlin teased.

Leah rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the slight blush creeping up her neck.

And, just as you predicted, for the rest of the night, everyone mysteriously let Leah win every game. Because sometimes, it was just easier that way.

And you? You wouldn’t have her any other way.

[struwberrii]

haikyuu!! boys date night 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

here are my cute headcanons on where i think haikyuu boys would take you on dates!! hope you guys enjoy (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

characters: kageyama, tsukishim, kuroo, kenma, bokuto, akaashi, oikawa, iwaizumi

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

kageyama

movie date!!

he would def pick you up super awkwardly but try his best to show that he’s excited to be with you

pays for all your snacks, also buys himself snacks even though he’s not hungry so you don’t have to eat alone

would probably watch a rom-com with you

leaves the movie in tears because he thought it was cute but he tries to hide it (╥﹏╥)

wins you a plushie at a crane machine on your way out

walks you home too :)

would shyly ask you to be his partner at the door to your house

tsukishima

arcade date!!

meets you there

smokes you in every game, shows no mercy (¬_¬")

wins you prizes though

gets you drinks/candy

if you actually do beat him in a game he says he let you win (he totally did NOT let you win!!!!!)

would probably want to stop and get fast food on the way out

walks you home and thanks you for letting him take you out

probably gives you like a keychain or something as a gift lol

kuroo

escape room!!

he picks you up from your house

you guys stop and get food before you get there

he catches onto most stuff pretty fast but slows down so you don’t feel bad if you don’t catch on as fast lol

still teases you a little if you don’t get something

gets super into it when he’s trying to solve a puzzle

genuinely stressing out if you can’t solve something ᯣ.ᯣ

when you guys escape he gives you a kiss on the cheek

like hes so happy he was taking it so seriously

walks you home and says next time he takes you out it’ll be as your boyfriend (>_<)

kenma

lego building date!!

i don’t see him as the type of guy who would want to go out if he doesn’t really have to so he’d probably invite you over

he picks you up from your house and walks with you to his for your date

also wants to play video games with you

he buys a lego for you guys to build together

you guys have really good convos :3

hes honestly kind of shy (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

also orders you food for you guys to eat together

not much to it;

he walks you back home at the end of it

bokuto

amusement park!!

def tries to talk you into going on all the tallest and fastest rides and almost passes out on all of them

he still gets back on the scary rides though

buys you funnel cake and ice cream

probably carries you on his back if youre tired

buys you guys matching hats too

makes you take pictures of him with all the mascots (˶˃⤙˂˶)

you guys take the cutest photobooth pictures and he ends up kissing your head in one of them (such a cutie pie ♡)

your amusement park pictures are his lock screen

brings you home too

akaashi

home cooked dinner!!

hes really awkward and anxious so i think he'd avoid somewhere super crowded but still would want to talk to you

you guys watch an online cooking class and make food for eachother :)

you guys have super good convos all night

he romantically wipes food from the corner of your mouth at some point (idk guys sorry)

hes super sweet all night and cracking jokes awkwardly (っ- ‸ - ς)

you guys build a puzzle together :D

probably end up watching a movie together too

oikawa

mini golf date!!

probably only takes you there since hes pretty decent at it

kind of shows off but still praises you for your for your skills (or lack there off)

takes so many pictures of you guys

he probably cheated behind your back and kicked his ball into the hole

gets you food and drinks after obliterating you in mini golf (he didnt he actually went easy but still didnt let him beat you)

carries all your stuff for you when youre finished

takes you home after and asks if he can kiss you ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

iwaizumi

hiking date!!

doesnt take you down a crazy path but its still a bit of a workout

def picks a route with nice scenery

takes a picture of you in front of the view and cant shut up about how pretty/handsome you look (cutie patootie ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

constantly pushing you to keep going (hes literally so fit its hard to keep up!!!)

he probably ends up having to carry you back (its ok guys i couldnt keep up with him either)

takes you to a cute sandwich shop after (healthy king)

brings you home and kisses you goodnight <3

[girlylukehughes]

HIT ME HARDER- matt rempe

matt rempe x fem njd reader!

summary: in a game vs the devils matt lands a rough hit on nico which leads to him being knocked to the ground and punched in the face. what he doesn’t expect, is for his assailant to be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

warnings: violence(i mean reader socks him pretty hard in the face), swearing, suggestive language, mentions of johnny(I miss him)

Y/n L/n had never been an overly physical player, she preferred to be light and fast on her feet rather than smashing her opponents into the boards. Playing in a male dominated league made it hard for her to not be so rough on the ice because she felt the need to prove she can be just as tough and strong as the rest of the players, so after being drafted to the devils she quickly learned how to be more defensive in her plays. Even though she has her fair share of penalty minutes she’s never once thrown a fist or taken part in a scrum, because in her defense, who would throw down with a girl?

That changed the night they played the rangers. Y/n had heard of Matt Rempe, who hadn’t, and she was not a fan. She thought he played dirty, and the hit he had just made on Nico was too dirty for her liking. As Nico laid crumpled against the boards with Matt skating away from him, Y/n took off across the ice. This may be the fastest she’s ever skated in a game, and with that speed she tackled Matt down to the ice with the strength of a linebacker. As Matt hit the ice hard the crowd in the Prudential Center went crazy. Flipping him over, throwing off her gloves, and landing a punch square across his right cheekbone just before the refs pulled her off him. Matt, sitting up in a pissed off daze to see who just clocked his shit, was met with the very angry stare of the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Her cheeks flushed red from the chill of the ice rink, or her anger one couldn’t be sure, her big blue eyes squinted, and her plump lips pressed into a snarl. The angry look on his face flipped to a star struck one. Here was this girl, who couldn’t be more than 5 '9 on her skates, who just threw him to the ground.

Y/n, getting pulled into the penalty box to face her sentence, was still glowering back at Matt who simply winked at her and skated to his own bench to get the cut she left on his cheek checked. That just pissed her off more. That was a dirty hit. Why isn’t he getting sent to the box? Why did he get off with no punishment? She slammed the door to the box closed so hard it rattled the glass around her. 30 seconds later, one ref knocked on the glass and called her back out while the other announced she’d be ejected from the game. And if she didn’t hate Matt Rempe before, she sure did now.

As she paced back and forth while she waited for the second period to be over the team's trainer came in to look at her hand.

“That was one hell of a punch kid.” Tony said to her as he wrapped her hand in gauze and neosporin before handing her a bag of ice.

“He’s lucky I was only able to get one in before the refs pulled me off him.” She grumbled back. Just as they were finishing up the second period had ended and her teammates were coming back to the locker room for intermission. You would have thought they had just won the Stanley Cup with how loud they were all cheering.

Nico walked up to her with a smile on his face before patting her on the head and pulling her in for a hug. “Thank you kleiner Kämpfer(little fighter)” he whispered in her ear before pulling away. After Nico fully pulled away the rest of her teammates were on top of her, shaking her shoulders and applauding her.

Meanwhile in the rangers locker room things were just as loud, mainly with laughter. “Remps, man, I can’t believe you just got taken out by a girl half your size,” Braden laughed. Matt simply smiled and went back to icing his cheek that had freshly done stitches sewn into it.

“She got me good, I'll tell you that much. Hurts like a bitch,” He simply laughed it off, “ESPN and Sportsnet are gonna have a field day with this one.”

When the game came to an end and the devils had another win in their pocket, Matt got pulled aside for an interview before he was able to get back to the locker room. “Great game you played tonight!,” the reporter said cheerfully, “though that hit on Hischier didn't have the outcome you expected it to did it?”

With a chuckle Matt responded, “No it sure didn't! I mean I've heard things about L/n and how fast she was but man I didn't expect her to be that fast or that strong.”

“She left a gnarly mark on you, that's for sure!” The reporter giggled.

“Yeah she did, ten stitches in the face, not bad for someone's first punch on the ice.” A smile broke across his face and he couldn't even be bothered by the pain it caused.

“She’s a fantastic player, she played against my sister Alley when she still played back in high school and I remember being so mesmerized by her skills. She’s never been very defensive in her plays until now, but whatever they did in Jersey to help her light that fire in herself, keep doing it.”

The reporter smiled back at Matt, “Is this you complimenting the devils coaching staff?” His smile faltered for a second, debating on being truthful or shrugging off the compliment.

“Yeah I guess I am, when you play in this league you have to be a rough player whether you like it or not. I’m glad they’re not taking it easy on her over there because she’s not like the rest of us, that they’re still pushing her to be a well rounded player. It’s inspiring to many young girls out there and I have to applaud her and her coaches for giving that to people.”

“Well thank you for the kind words tonight Matt! Great game!”

Y/n sat seething in her apartment watching the interview. Why couldn’t he be a butthurt asshole about it? Why did he have to be sweet? And kind? And look so hot with his helmet off? Turning the tv off she started pacing across her living room, nearly wearing a hole in the floor before her phone started ringing. Picking it up and realizing it’s Nico, she starts off on a rant before he can even get a word in.

“God I hate him! That interview is such bullshit! ‘She’s such a great player’ meh meh meh! ‘I applaud her for being an inspiration’ meh meh meh! Like shut the fuck up!”

“Y/n-”

“God he’s so fucking annoying!”

“Y/N!”

“What!”

“Are you done? Can I speak?” Nico asks, finally getting a word in.

“Yes.” She sighs, the stress in her shoulders releasing a bit.

“I was just calling to see if you’d watched the interview, apparently the answer is yes, and how your hand was feeling.” He replies calmly.

“My hand is fine. A few scrapes and some bruises but nothing broken or fractured and it moves just fine.”

“Good. Now drink some tea, take a bath, and relax. Take your mind off of him and don’t go on any socials for the rest of the night if you don’t wanna see his face again.”

“Fine. Thank you. Good night, Cap.”

“Good night, kleine Kämpfer(little fighter).” She hangs up the phone with a sigh, before brewing some tea and starting a hot bath. Twenty minutes in her phone rings with a text notification from her teammate Jack in their team group chat;

Team Sexy 🏒

The Annoying One: bro look at the video of y/n/n taking down the bfg😂 I’ve been laughing for like five minutes

Harvard man: god damn l/n did you have a secret football career we didn’t know about?

Lukey boy: I literally dropped my mouth guard on the bench floor because I was so shocked

Harvard man: luke the thing is barely ever in your mouth fully anyway that surprises absolutely no one.

Lukey boy: ok. rude.

The annoying one: is she like alive where is she she’s always on her phone

“Puck bunny”: I was taking a bath.

“Puck bunny”: also I said change my name. I hate it.

The annoying one: no.

The annoying one: anyways. that was the funniest shit I’ve ever seen. imagine being 6’8 and getting taken out by a girl more than a foot shorter than you

“Puck bunny”: idiot. good night I’m going to bed

Read 1:22am

***mattrempe just followed y/nl/n***

***mattrempe has sent you a message request***

mattrempe: hey

Accept ——— decline

y/nl/n: no.

mattrempe: wait hear me out

read 7:54am

***TWO WEEKS LATER***

Matt couldn’t get Y/N out of his head, no matter the hour of day she was all that was on his mind. That included now, as he was walking toward his favorite coffee shop in Manhattan. Truly he should have been watching where he was going instead of stalking her instagram like he did daily, his lack of awareness causing him to run into the single person he’d been wishing for. “Watch where you’re going.” The voice came from a foot below him. The smooth roughness all too familiar from the amount of times he’s watched her draft video.

Y/N looked up at the silent stranger. Her blue eyes squinted from the sun before they slept slightly to the left and his head blocked it out perfectly. “Matt?” she whispered stunned at the man before her. Matt wasn’t the only one obsessed. Y/N hadn’t stopped thinking about him either. “Hi” her voice came out meek before she cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders.

Matt looked starstruck. His mind raced before small lI’m sorry” whispered from his mouth. “It’s whatever,” Y/N said “I’ve gotta go.” Quickly moving around him and heading down the street. That's when his brain finally clicked on taking one step for every two she took. He reached her by the end of the block before grabbing her hand and turning her towards him.

“Can I take you for coffee?” His words came out a fast jumbled mess

“Sorry what”

“Can I take you for coffee?”

“Right now?”

“If you’re free yes”

“I mean sure.”

y/nl/n just posted a story!

nhl_tea just made a post!

nhl_tea: devils player y/n l/n seen out for coffee with rangers player matt rempe! could this be the start of a budding romance? we all love a good enemies to lovers trope!

comments:

user73: oh this is sooooo good

devilsfan13: wtf didn’t she literally beat his ass two weeks ago???

defnotjhugh: oh i’m laughing so hard

rangersfan19: puck bunny!

load more comments…

Matt🥊🫶🏻: *link* uh oh….

y/n🥰: oh god no

Matt🥊🫶🏻: they found us

y/n🥰: i’m gonna get sooooo much shit for this 😔

Team Sexy🏒

The Annoying One: hey y/nnnnnnn got something to tell us?

“Puck Bunny”: shut up.

Harvard man: come on just tell us 🙂

“Puck Bunny”: no.

Captain sexy: “i hate him” yeah right ;)

“Puck Bunny”: i HATE all of you

Lukey boy: no you don’t.

y/nl/n just made a post!

y/nl/n: i 🫶🏻 nyc

comments have been limited…

jackhughes: you did not

nicohischier: there’s no way

johnmarino: luke owes me $75

lukehughes: oh what the fuck

mattrempe: nyc 🫶🏻’s you

load more comments…

That coffee date with the first of many. Anytime they were both on the upper east coast they were together. Their night consisted of stolen kisses and whispered confessions.

Matt rolled over one night and just stared at her before whispering a soft, “thank you” against her hair.

“For what?” she asked.

“Punching me in the face.”

“Why?”

“Because that was the day I met the love of my life.”

mattrempe just made a post!

mattrempe: gf alert 🚨

tagged: y/nl/n

comments have been limited…

y/nl/n: 👁️🫶🏻🫵🏻

load more comments…

[augustwinesworld]

in love with “I look in peoples windows”

if you’re willing to share do you have any headcanons about Noah 🥹 since he’s also kinda unconscious, what kind of kid is he? What type of relationship does he have with his mom? What is he obsessed with/are his interests ?

i just want to know more about these characters you’ve created!!!

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

series description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x  female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe?

notes: Hiiiii, omg I am so sorry it took so long to answer this! I had a lot of shit going on last week, so I didn't write anything (and wasn't planning to tbh). Between exams, a three day opening event at the gallery, my birthday, and some other things I was very much overwhelmed. But finally, this headcannon is complete and I hope you like it<3<3

NEWS FLASH! : NEW CHAPTER WILL BE COMING OUT THIS SUNDAY, 18/05

word count: 2.1 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ 

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

Noah used to be obsessed with Dinosaur King:

The cards, the DVDs, the battered Nintendo DS game with the cracked hinge. His room is still a shrine to it: plushies arranged like sentries on the bookshelf, the limited-edition holo cards in a binder under his bed. Legend has it the only thing that soothed him as a colicky baby was the sound of Jurassic Park playing in the background—Mom swears by it, even if he now covers his eyes during the T. rex scene (but peeks through his fingers).

But that was, you know, a year ago. Back when he was a kid. Now he rolls his eyes and says things like “I outgrew it,” but the second someone gets a dinosaur fact wrong—like claiming Velociraptors were the size of humans—he’ll practically combust. He’ll start with a scoff, then a “That’s not even close,” and launch into a very serious correction, complete with citations. Then he’ll go back to pretending he doesn’t care, cheeks a little pink.

He plays junior hockey, has from a very young age, but only started playing in a team three years ago. The ice is the one place where all the noise in his head seems to hush. He wears his Pittsburgh Penguins every game day, knows the team’s stats better than his times tables, and can name every position on the ice. 

Noah plays center, because of course he does—he’s the kind of kid who needs to know where everyone is, what’s coming next, and how to quietly keep things from falling apart. Center demands focus, balance, foresight; it gives his overactive brain a job and his anxious heart a place to breathe. He’s not the fastest on the ice, but he sees things—reads the play like a puzzle, always thinking three moves ahead. It’s the one place he doesn’t feel too much--it’s just enough.

The rink smells like cold rubber and somebody’s gross old socks. It’s loud, too—like whistles and stomping and parents yelling even though no one can really hear them over the buzz of the ice machines. 

Noah squints under the bright lights as he adjusts his helmet. It’s too tight. Again. “You’re gonna squish my brain,” he told Mom this morning, wrinkling his nose while she buckled the strap. She just kissed his forehead and said, “Squished brains make better decisions.” Dumb. A bit lame. But still kinda funny. He laughed.

Logan skates up and shoves him, grinning. “Race you to the bench after,” he says.

“Last time you tripped.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

They bump shoulders. No one's mad. Logan makes a gagging noise.

“Ugh, dude, you smell like syrup.”

Noah shrugs. “Had pancakes.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’re like, sticky through your gear.”

“You’re just mad 'cause your mom made oatmeal again.”

Logan scowls. “That was private.”

They both start giggling, helmets clacking as they lean into each other, the kind of laugh that gets stuck in their throats.

Coach then shouts something about spacing and lines from the other side of the ice, but it’s kind of whatever. Noah just nods. He knows the basics: chase the puck, don’t fall, pass to Milo if he’s waving his arms around like crazy. He wipes his glove across his mouthguard and spits onto the rubber mat. Feels cool doing it. Like a real player.

The ref drops the puck.

He goes.

The ice makes that squeaky sound under his blades. His lungs burn, in a good way. He doesn’t see Mom, but he knows she’s watching. She always is. She claps louder than everyone, even yells his name sometimes—Noah hates that part—but today, when he glanced up at warm-ups, she was smiling with her hand over her mouth, talking to Logan’s dad. Mr. Harper. He’d laughed at something she said and leaned in a little. He’s standing kinda close. Like...close.. Noah doesn't know why he noticed. Or why it made his stomach feel weird. He just skates harder.

He wants her to watch. Just her.

LOOOOOVES boardgames. Especially the ones with many rules that his mom can’t understand so he has to explain with the utmost patience.

His routines. He likes knowing that every Friday night means takeout and a movie, or that Mom will play with his hair, leaving one or two braids hidden behind his hair after a bath if he’s tired. These things soothe the low hum of anxiety he doesn’t always have words for. Also, pancakes for dinner every Sunday. Chocolate chips for him and blueberries for mom. 

He shuts down emotionally under pressure. Especially if he’s scared or feels like he’s disappointed someone. So he might say, “I’m fine,” and then refuse to make eye contact for the rest of the night.

He gets jealous. Especially when it comes to his mom. If someone takes up her time—whether work, or even a friend—he might act out in subtle ways. Maybe he interrupts more. Maybe he pretends to “need” something he really doesn’t.

Milo’s sitting at the kitchen island, feet swinging, watching Noah’s mom slice apples like she’s doing magic.

“That smells so good,” he says, wide-eyed as she pulls cookies from the oven. “You should open a bakery or something.”

Noah stiffens. “She’s just making snacks,” he mutters.

His mom laughs, brushing flour from her cheek. “Milo, you’re sweet. But trust me, no one would buy cookies shaped like blobs.”

“She’s so nice,” Milo whispers to Logan, who’s already elbow-deep in the cookie plate.

Noah hears it. Hears all of it. And suddenly he’s on the verge of dying. “Mom,” he says loudly, climbing onto the stool beside her, “my throat kind of hurts.”

She turns to him, brow knitting. “Oh? Do you feel sick?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe you could make tea? Like the one with the honey and the—” He pauses, glancing at Milo.“—the kind you only make for me.”

There’s a beat. His mom looks at him for a second too long. Then she nods, brushing his bangs from his forehead. 

“Alright. Tea for the patient.”

Milo tries to ask her another question—something about the cookies—but she’s already moved to the kettle.

Noah shoots him a look. Not mean. Just... his. 

Like: mine.

Logan, clueless, stuffs another cookie into his mouth. “You’re so weird, dude.”

Noah shrugs, smug now. His mom's back was to Milo, and that’s what mattered.

He can be bossy with other kids. Especially younger ones. He thinks he’s just being “helpful,” but really he hates chaos and wants everyone to do what makes sense to him. This is when his dad’s rigidity shows up.

He’s prone to catastrophizing. He once got a B on a math quiz and whispered, “I’ll never get into a good school”—and he was only nine. A stomach ache? “What if it’s cancer.” Therapy’s been helping him name the spirals when they start, but they’re still real: fast, quiet, and hard to steer once his brain starts running.

A mildly anxious, overthinker. He overthinks, he spirals sometimes, but he's learning. He doesn’t always say it out loud, but it shows in the way he chews his sleeve or double-checks things that don’t need checking. And when he does speak up, he might say, “You should’ve called,” instead of “I missed you,” but the meaning still lands.

The house is quiet when you open the door—but not quiet enough. The TV is still on, humming low in the living room, and the lamp beside the couch casts a low glow. Your mother is passed out under a blanket, one slipper dangling off her foot.

You step further in, careful not to wake anyone. Then you hear it: the soft shuffle of bare feet on tile.

“Noah?”

He appears in the hallway, pajama pants wrinkled, hair flattened on one side. He’s holding his stuffed raptor by the neck, thumb pressed to the seam where the stitching came loose last week. His eyes are wide, but not upset. Just…watchful.

“You were gone a long time,” he says. Not accusing—just stating the facts. His voice is quiet. Even.

“I know, baby,” you say, setting your bag down by the door. “There was a delivery. Complications. I got stuck longer than I thought.”

He nods, like he’s tucking that away somewhere—filing it, the way he always does. You can see the questions lining up behind his eyes—how bad were the complications? did the baby make it? what if it happens again?—but he doesn’t ask.

He glances at the clock. “It’s really late.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” he says, chewing the edge of his sleeve. “I just thought maybe something happened.”

You cross to him and crouch down, brushing his hair gently back. He leans into your hand, just a little, like something in him finally lets go.

“I’m okay,” you say softly. “You can always call me. Even if Grandma’s here.”

He nods again. A pause.

“I checked the front door twice,” he says. No smile, just the truth of it. A quiet ritual. A way to feel safe.

You kiss his forehead. “I’m proud of you.”

And he holds your hand all the way down the hall.

He picks up on things quickly—tones, looks, when something’s off. He’s the kind of kid who’ll go quiet when a room turns tense, or who’ll suddenly say, “Are you mad at each other?” when no one’s said a word. It’s not precocious, just… tuned-in. Like someone who’s had to watch carefully, who’s learned to read the air before stepping into it.

Kind but grounded. He has his mom’s warmth and sense of care—the kind of kid who offers his snack to someone who forgot theirs, or comforts a crying classmate—but he also knows when to draw a quiet boundary. He might say, “I think we need space right now,” the same way his mom would calmly de-escalate a tense room.

Funny in a dry, observational way. Robby’s sarcasm filtered through a 9-year-old’s lens. Not mean-spirited, just blunt. He might deadpan when someone tries to fix something with duct tape, then go help anyway.

The pizza place smelled like garlic and the floor was sticky in some spots, but Noah didn’t mind. He liked this kind of busy—clinking plates, soda fountains hissing, Logan talking with his mouth full across the table. He liked it even more when his mom was here, sitting next to him, her jacket still zipped halfway up from the cold outside.

She was smiling politely. Again.

Logan’s dad had been talking for what felt like forever—mostly about the game, a little about his job (something boring, Noah couldn’t remember), and now about how impressive it was that she managed to come straight from work to the rink, and still had energy to take the boys out to eat.

“I’m just saying,” he added, leaning back in the booth like he’d landed a punchline. “If there were a Hockey Mom Hall of Fame, you’d be in it. With a statue and everything.”

Noah stared at him. Then turned slowly to his mom. She looked like she was trying not to laugh—or maybe trying not to roll her eyes. Hard to tell.

“She’s not even a hockey mom,” Noah said, voice flat. “She doesn’t even know the rules.”

His mom choked on her water. Logan giggled into his Sprite.

Logan’s dad blinked. “Well—I mean, she shows up. That’s the important part, right?”

Noah didn’t answer. He just took a bite of pizza, deadpan. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then: “Statues are weird.”

There was a pause. The kind adults make when they’re trying to figure out if a kid just insulted them. His mom reached under the table and squeezed his knee gently.

“You okay?” she murmured.

Noah shrugged. “Mhm.” He took another bite.

He wasn’t mad. Not exactly. He just didn’t like the way Logan’s dad kept looking at her, like she was extra impressive for being tired and kind and good at things. Like that was rare. Noah already knew that. He didn’t need someone else pointing it out like it was a surprise.

Across the table, Logan slurped from his straw way too loudly before adding, “Dad, are you trying to be embarrassing, or does it just happen naturally?”

His dad raised his hands in mock offense. “Hey, I’m charming. This is peak dad charisma.”

Logan snorted. “You sound like the car guy on TV. The one who yells and wears too much tanning lotion.”

Noah, still chewing, finally cracked a smile.

Logan’s dad looked over at Noah’s mom like see what I deal with? but she was just sipping her water, amused and entirely unsurprised.

Noah leaned into her side a little, just enough to feel her shoulder against his. Statues were weird. But this? This was fine.

Protective, especially of his mom. He doesn’t always understand what’s going on between her and Robby, but he feels it. If he thinks someone—especially his dad—is upsetting her, he doesn’t lash out; he just gets quiet and watchful. He notices everything, even when he doesn’t say it.

taglist: @snowflames-world, @nosebeers, @midnghtprentiss, @delicatetrashtree, @thestrals-and-firewiskey, @rosiepoise88, @miss-me-jack, @jojodojo02, @whimsicalfungiforager, @whos6claire, @melsunshine, @foolishseven, @misshoneypaper, @iceb1ink1uck, @kmc1989, @vlightning95, @girl-who-loves-books, @qardasngan, @madprincessinabox, @equallyshaw, @memoriesat30, @justobsessedwithyou,

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[felassan]

June 25th Game Informer article on DA:TV - cliff notes:

In CC we will be able to customize qunari Rook's horn type and material

There are "hundreds of options" in CC

Duelist spec for rogue class is the fastest, with 2 blades for rapid strikes

Saboteur spec for rogues uses tricks and traps

Veil ranger spec for rogues is purely ranged, sniping enemies from afar with a bow

The death caller mage spec is necromancy

The evoker mage spec wields fire, ice and lightning

The spellblade mage spec uses magic-infused melee attacks

The reaper warrior spec uses "night blades" to steal life and risk death to gain unnatural abilities

The slayer warrior spec is a simple but strong 2handed weapons expert

The champion warrior spec is a tactical defense fighter

Specs don't matter up front like in CC or anything ("you class into them via the skill trees you progress through the game")

Selecting Rook's faction is the penultimate step in CC

The Lords of Fortune are pirated-themed

Each faction has unique casual wear worn in specific cutscenes when the character isn't wearing armor

Each faction has 3 unique traits, e.g. for Lords of Fortune, they gain additional reputation with this particular faction, have increased damage versus mercenaries, and perform takedowns on enemies with slightly less effort

"Faction selection, which ties into your character's backstory, determines who your Rook was before, how they met Varric, why they travel with Varric instead of their faction, and more"

"The message of The Veilguard is you're not saving the world on your own – you need your companions, but you also need these factions, these other groups in the world. You help them, they help you now".

Each spec is tied to a faction

Each faction has a companion "as well as [people BioWare are calling agents, ancillarily] who exist as the faces of these factions. We didn't want to just say, 'Here's the Grey Wardens, go deal with them.' We wanted characters within that faction who are sympathetic, who you can see and become the face of the faction, so that even if there are moments where the faction as a whole may be on the outs with you, these characters are still with you; they've still got your back"

BioWare wanted to avoid pointless stuff like 'gather 200 random resources'. The factions want to help you but have realistic challenges and problems in front of them "so that narratively, it makes sense why you help them in return for their help when the time comes"

Rook's appearance, lineage and class can be changed using the Mirror of Transformation in the Lighthouse

Update: the article has been updated with the following Editor's Note -

"[Editor's Note: This article previously stated players can change their physical appearance, class, lineage, and identity using the Mirror of Transformation. That is incorrect as class, lineage, and identity are locked after you first select those. The article has been updated to reflect that, and Game Informer apologizes for any confusion this mistake may have caused.]"

[source]

[thee-fangirl-from-hell]

marked (teen wolf, stiles stilinski x reader)

pairing: stiles stilinski/reader, backround! scott/allison summary: scott’s cousin is back in beacon hills after a long absence. stiles thinks he is over his crush on her but boy is he wrong. one look at her and he is back to his fourteen year old awkward pining self. after taking reader to lydia’s party, a game of truth or dare might have dire consequences if stiles doesn't die of embarrassment first. tags: childhood friends to lovers, endless pining, yearning, seemingly unreciprocated feelings, takes place in season 1, but the characters are aged up for clear reasons, canon divergence (everyone lives, malia isn’t a coyote, cora is around) narration is 3rd person but tied to stiles’ perspective, stiles is a simp, playing truth or dare, the dares get raunchy, but no smut yet, canon typical stiles horniness, stiles is touch-starved af warnings: lotta cussing, i delve a bit into stiles’ grief of his mother, mentions of him missing her and wishing she was there to give him advice, themes of stiles having low self-esteem, thinking himself unworthy of reader, stiles being self-conscious of being a virgin, some guys tease him about it, blurry consent inherent to truth or dare? (nothing explicit happens, some horny dares but none of the characters are really pressured into doing something they don’t want to) alcohol consumption (remember I’m aging up the characters but I guess in america drinking at 18 is still underage drinking) biting, marking reader is: scott’s cousin (not mentioned if by blood) mentioned to have been kind of a tomboy as a kid, emotionally unavailable, troublemaker (it’s said that her parents sent her away to beacon hills because she kept getting in trouble), hotheaded, hinted at being a werewolf (will be confirmed in part two) word count: 9.4k

The train station was fairly quiet that Sunday morning. Two boys were waiting patiently on a bench for a train that announced to arrive half an hour late.

"Thanks again for helping me pick up my cousin, Stiles."

The boy shrugged as if to say no big deal.

The three of them used to be really close friends as little kids. She used to visit every summer vacation. They did everything together; go to the beach, cycle around the neighborhood, go for ice cream. Y/N and Scott used to make a competition out of everything. Who can make the better sandcastle? Who can finish their ice cream fastest?  Stiles was usually asked to be the referee which stressed him to no end because he didn't want to choose between his two best friends. It always ended in one of them being upset, although they never held a grudge for long.

But then Y/N got older, and Scott's parents got divorced; so change inevitably happened. She stopped visiting and Stiles hasn't really heard from her ever since. Scott would update him every once in a while. She cut her hair, had changed her style. She has a cat now. She picked up photography. She changed her style again.

Stiles wondered if he could pick her up from a crowd now that four years had passed since the last time he'd seen her. They weren't kids anymore. He wondered if she still did that cute thing when she'd smile with just one corner of her mouth like she was trying to hide it but couldn't help it. Or if she still twirled her hair around her index finger when she thought about something really hard.

The sound of an old lady making an announcement over the speakers jolted Stiles awake from his reverie. The train was about to arrive in 5 minutes. Finally.

"I don't want to sound ungrateful, it's just… will you promise me something, Stiles?" he nodded in response. "Promise you won't make it weird with Y/N being back?"

"Dude, it's been forever. I forgot I even used to have a crush on her. Plus I'm loyal to Lydia these days."

"She doesn't even remember your name," Scott pointed exasperated.

"Who? Lydia or Y/N?

Scott laughed. Stiles having a crush on his cousin wasn't gonna make a difference because she'd never like him back anyway. She didn't seem much into romance. One time a boy kissed her cheek at a birthday party and she hit him over the head with a pool noodle until he started crying. She used to chase guys around with bugs or worms in her hand and they would scream and scatter. She'd laugh about it. Stiles tried to compliment her once and she punched him in the arm so hard he fell over.

She used to punch him in the arm a lot actually, now that he thought about it. So much so that his shoulder area was in an almost constant dull pain while she was visiting. Stiles never thought he'd miss the pain until Scott told him she wasn't coming over that summer.

But now she was back. Scott says she's been getting into a lot of trouble lately and that her parents don't know what to do with her anymore. He's overheard phone conversations between his mom and Y/N's and the situation is dire. She says that sending her away is an alarm signal and if she doesn't start behaving now they'll need to take serious measures. Stiles had no idea what "serious measures" meant, but it couldn't be good. Yet another reason why Stiles shouldn't couldn't have a crush on her. She was gonna disappear again.

The train had finally made it to the station and small rivulets of people started pouring out with their suitcases and trolley bags. Stiles spotted Y/N with such ease he surprised himself.

She looked the exact same as he remembered. She looked nothing like she used to. Both statements were true at the same time. There was something about her – her eyes, her smile, that Stiles recognized immediately. Like you recognize the first few notes of your favorite song before it really starts playing. She was the same old girl who left Beacon Hills four years ago, yet she was brand new somehow.

She gave Scott a hug then he grabbed a few of her bags and started helping her carry them to the jeep parked nearby. Stiles debated whether or not to go in for a hug, but halfway through it he chickened out and pretended he was just leaning in for her backpack since it was the last piece of her luggage.

"It's fine," she assured him seeming mildly annoyed. "I got this one."

Of course she'd give Scott a hug, they're related and have kept in touch all this time. To her Stiles was just some kid she used to play with who had a massive and painfully obvious crush on her. He cringed internally thinking about all the times she caught him staring at her and she rolled her eyes or flipped him off. She was probably angry at Scott for bringing him here.

"Scotty?"

"You only call me that when you want something."

"Can I get shotgun? I'll get a better view and I want to take pictures."

She pulled out of her jean jacket's pocket a small digital camera and gave a lopsided smile. Yes, Stiles thought, she still did that.  Scott just pointed towards the front seat with his chin and jumped in the back of the jeep.

Stiles did his best to hide how nervous he was now that he wasn't just sharing a car with his first-ever crush, but she was gonna be in the front of the car with him. He was grateful his mom owned a jeep and not something tiny like a mini Cooper. Because then the half-hour-long drive would turn into pure torture.

They recounted stories on the way and laughed and Y/N took so many pictures. Some of them while hanging half out of the car, almost giving Stiles a heart attack in the process; some of them were artsy shots of the dashboard or the rearview mirror. She even took a picture of Stiles while he was driving, causing him to take one hand off the wheel to cover his face self-consciously. She berated him for putting them in danger but she laughed while doing it so she didn't really mean it.

"If I die in this car cause you wanted to be coy I'll haunt your ass," she says as she snaps another shot of him, this time both his hands were on the steering wheel.

"If we die in this car it'll be because you put a camera in the driver's face."

"The flash isn't even on." She turned around and took a picture of Scott next. Stiles saw him giving an awkward thumbs up in the rearview mirror. "Now that's more like it."

Stiles saw in the corner of his eye the camera turning towards him once again and he flipped her off without thinking. He immediately felt bad for it. Few years ago she would have flipped him off right back and laughed about it but they weren't twelve and best friends anymore. He needed to remind himself of that.

As Y/N went quiet for a second inspecting the picture she just took on the tiny screen of her camera, Stiles chewed on his lips and debated between apologizing sincerely or trying to play it off as a joke.

"Look Y/N, I'm sorry–" he started but got interrupted.

"This is actually really good, can I post this?"

Stiles had no idea Y/N posted her picture somewhere on the internet. She didn't have an instagram or facebook, he knew because he's looked for her. Some people may call it cyberstalking; he'd call it being curious. He even asked Scott when he got desperate and Scott said she doesn't really do social media. Sometimes she'd text Scott a really cool picture she took and if Stiles was there he'd show it to him. He always assumed the pictures were just for herself or maybe a portfolio if she planned on doing this professionally one day.

"Look you can't even see your face– if that's what you're worried about."

She turned the camera around for him to look just as they pulled over in Scott's driveway. The camera focused on Stiles' hand, which was strategically covering his face, and the rest of him was blurred and hardly recognizable. Stiles wouldn't call that a good picture but he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel flattered that Y/N wanted to post a picture of him on her social media.

"Sure, I don't mind."

"Thanks! And thanks for picking me up, too. My cousin is too lazy to get a driver's license."

"Oh, really? Where's yours?"

"I had one but my parents took it because I got caught sneaking out at night. I'll get it back in a few months."

They helped Y/N haul her luggage all the way up into the attic, where Ms. McCall arranged a makeshift bedroom for her. Stiles recognized the bedframe because it was Scott's years ago before he got the one he has in his room now. The mattress looked new and so did the bed sheets. They stood out in an otherwise very old, dusty room. It was clear Scott's mom made an effort to clean up but the attic was beyond salvation at that point. The room looked good but in the corners there were still some boxes of things the family kept stored away. There were cobwebs and water damage to the walls and ceiling.

Stiles thought there was a metaphor in there somewhere for an attic trying to double as a bedroom, trying to be something it's not. An attic being representative of all that is old and out of use but you hold unto it for sentimentality. Like a childhood crush; something familiar and comforting that won't go anywhere but throwing it away feels like a betrayal.

It reminded him that no matter how much you brushed off the dust of something old, it still doesn't make it work as if it's new. The past stays in the past and we have to move forward. Some things can not be brought back.

"Thanks again for the help," Y/N chimed in interrupting his train of thought.

Her hand brushed his as she grabbed her backpack from his hand and gently placed it on her bed. He felt a familiar shiver buzz through him. Starting from the very point her fingertips made contact with his skin and going everywhere at once.

Some things stay in the past and some things stay with you forever.

•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•

Stiles nervously fiddled with the buttons of his jacked before hitting his car’s horn the first time. He’s talked to Y/N and promised he’d pick her up for the party they were all going to since Scott wanted to pick Allison up and spend some one-on-one time with her. How this girl agreed on going to a party with his dorky best friend was beyond him.

The boy found himself checking his own reflection in his rearview mirror multiple times before honking a second time, just to make sure he was heard.

Y/N had moved to Beacon Hills three weeks and five days ago (not that Stiles was counting or anything). He was finally managing to be normal in her presence, at least when Scott or some other person was around them. Still, knowing there was only gonna be the two of them in his car with no buffer made him nervous. Stiles had a penchant for shoving his foot in his mouth every time he found himself alone in this girl’s presence. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so mortifying.

One time they were alone for all of five minutes, he and Scott were helping her unpack and shuffle some furniture around (there wasn’t a lot of it in her room/attic). Scott took a break to go to the bathroom. Stiles was shelving books while on the other end of the room, Y/N was unpacking and sorting out clothes. She pulled a cute sundress out of a box and tried it against her body for a second, looking in the mirror mounted on the wardrobe.

“I don’t know why I brought this with me, it’s gonna get too cold in the fall for this."

She still hung the dress on a clothes hanger with a disappointed look on her face.

“I’m sure it looks good on you. My mom used to wear dresses like that.”

Stiles let his head fall on the steering wheel, feeling embarrassment wash over him like it was happening all over again. He accidentally touched the horn a third time and jumped at the sound. Is he gonna seem impatient now that he’s honked three times? Fuck, he didn’t even get to see her and he already messed up.

At least it’s better than comparing her to his dead mother. Holy shit, does he not think before opening his mouth in front of her? My mom used to wear dresses like that. What a dumbass. Now she’s gonna assume he thinks of her like a mother figure –he doesn’t– or that he’s into her because she reminds him of his mother – she doesn’t. Either option made Stiles want to drive into a lake.

Deep in thought he almost didn’t hear the knocking on his car’s window. It was Y/N and she was wearing a red flannel over a graphic t-shirt with a comic book speech bubble that said ‘I’m fluent in sarcasm’, Melisa McCall was behind her snuggled in a comfy looking house robe.

Stiles leaned towards the car door and cracked it open from the inside as much as he could. If he was smarter he would have come out of the car and opened the door for her from the outside. And Y/N would find it charming and sweet, maybe it would make up for all the time he was less than charming or sweet. He thought about it before getting here but he got taken by surprise by Scott’s mom and then it suddenly felt like he would be trying too hard if he did that. He didn’t want to make it so obvious that he wanted this girl’s approval.

Ultimately that was what Stiles was chasing; approval. It’s not like he was gonna get a date or at least a kiss. Y/N was there temporarily and then she’d be gone and everything would have to go back to normal. Anything serious or permanent, anything they couldn’t go back from was out of the question. And Stiles had the feeling Y/N wasn’t the type of girl you kiss once only to walk away. So he settled for her to at least look at him like she wanted to kiss him and that would have to be enough.

Yeah, for him it would be enough.

Y/N made herself comfortable in the passenger seat, smoothing over her clothes when Melisa grabbed the car door and widened it, peaking her head in slightly.

“Make sure to look after her, ok Stiles? I’m trusting you to keep her safe.”

“Or you can come with us and keep an eye on her yourself, ma’am,” Stiles joked. “You’d blend right in.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

She rolled her eyes in fake annoyance but Stiles noticed a slight smile tugging at her lips.

“I mean it, I want you on your best behavior.”

“Yes ma’am,” Stiles quipped nodding his head towards the woman.

She leaned inside the car and fastened Y/N’s seatbelt on tightly. He expected the girl to protest or at least roll her eyes but she just gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek and a smile.

“And you, remember what your parents told you?”

“Promise I’ll be good, auntie. Besides you asked Stiles to babysit me and you know he’s such an angel.”

Melissa let out a snort and waved her hand goodbye as the two teenagers drove away.

Y/N jokingly called him an angel and he couldn’t help but think that his mother also used to do that. Every time he got himself into trouble, or detention, or he broke a vase; she’d call him her little angel and help clean whatever mess he was in.

He couldn’t say anything about that, though, if he compared her to his mother twice in a row he would simply jump out of the car while it was still in motion. If the friend zone was so dreaded by men everywhere, imagine what being son zoned will do to you.

Another thought crossed his mind and Stiles tried to shove it away before it was too late. He was unsuccessful. The last time Y/N was in Beacon Hills, his mom was still alive. He would give everything to go back to that place in time. Sell his soul to the devil to be twelve again and in love with his friend and have his mom tease him for it like before. He used to hate it. He’d get all red in the face and tell her to mind her own business.

“My son’s love life is my business,” she’d say.

“What love life? I have no love life.”

“Not now, but when you’re older I want you to know that you can talk to me about it.”

And then he’d make a face because the mere thought of talking to his mom about feelings towards girls and boys felt so embarrassing. Now he would kill for a chance to talk to his mom again and ask her something as mundane as what to do about his crush.

He stopped at a red light a bit too suddenly, causing both of them to sway in their seat. Stiles felt the familiar ache of trying to hold back tears, he tried looking up and when that didn’t work he let out a sigh. It would have been just like him to cry for no reason in front of the girl he liked.

“What’s wrong, Stiles?”

Y/N said his name softly, like a secret. He involuntarily held his breath as he felt her hand creep on top of his on the gear stick.

 “Nothing,” he found himself lying in spite of his glistening eyes.

Under any other circumstances, he would have just told Y/N the truth; that he was thinking about his mother. But he promised himself he would not mention her tonight, not so soon after the last time they spoke.

“We don’t have to go to this stupid party if you don’t want to. We can just go to your place and play some scrabble or we could read some comics and when you’re sick of me you can drop me home.”

Her thumb was rubbing the back of his hand and it affected Stiles more than it should for such an insignificant gesture.

“No, it’ll be good for you to go to a party. You know, meet kids outside of school, make some friends that aren’t me and Scott.”

He removed his gaze from the road to look at her, really look for the first time since she got in his car. He searched for a word that described her properly. The only one he could come up with was disarming. The kind of beauty that makes knights throw down their weapons and surrender, the kind that would make him kneel and beg. Except that Stiles was no knight in shining armor and the only weapon he was wielding was his wit. No wonder he forgot how to speak around her, how to be clever. She was disarming him.

 The light changed from red to green and it didn’t make her look sickly– like he expected but ethereal, otherworldly. Disarmingly beautiful, he thought.

“Stiles, go,” she whispered.

It took Stiles an embarrassing amount of seconds to realize what she was talking about. Green light. Go. When he finally managed to shift gears, the girl took her hand off of his and he immediately felt the loss of heat.

“You got lost in your thoughts again. You know, whenever you feel ready to talk about whatever is bothering you, I’m here.”

The words `really, I’m fine` were dancing on his lips once again. After all, how could he ever tell her that more often than not he lost himself in thoughts of her? Instead, he surprised himself by saying something else entirely.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•☾•

The music at the party was too loud and not really Stiles’ taste. Inside the house it smelled like booze and sweaty teenagers so he grabbed Y/N’s arm and gently dragged her after him all the way to Lydia’s backyard, where her pool was. Normally at parties, Stiles sits in a corner and talks to whoever will listen, mostly other socially awkward nerdy kids, they tended to find each other easily. But this time he found himself swaying to the music alongside Y/N wondering if he could try and pinch himself without making it super obvious.

To be fair, if this was a dream they’d probably be making out by now.

He saw Y/N leaning in closer and closer to the point where he honestly thought she was going in for a kiss, and then he felt her breath to his ear. She smelled like something sweet (berries?) and she was radiating heat. Stiles shivered. He was too dazed to decipher what was being said and, by the time he came back to his senses, she leaned away.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

She leaned in even closer this time propping a hand against his chest, and instead of whispering her words came out more like a shout.

“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks, ok?”

Without checking if Stiles understood what was being said this time she walked away and the boy found himself in the all too familiar position he usually ends up in at parties. He looked around for something to do while waiting for Y/N, wondering if he should’ve just gone with her inside.

Maybe she needed a second away from him. Maybe he was giving her the creeps. He liked to think that he was hiding his crush pretty well – yeah, he was awkward around her but so was he around everybody. He just wasn’t that good at the whole socializing thing.

While looking around for a corner to hide in, Stiles spotted his best friend dancing with Alison. He made a b-line towards them.

“Stiles, where’s Y/N?”

“She’s gone to get a drink. How are you holding up?”

He didn’t know how else to phrase the question without raising suspicion. Hey, Scott, how are you dealing with the first full moon since you’ve been bitten by a werewolf? That would send Allison running. But his friend knew exactly what he meant, he could tell by the look he gave him.

Stiles found it hard to believe that only a few days ago he thought the hardest thing for him to do this year would be hiding his feelings from his crush and his best friend. Now he’s gonna have to help said friend hide his werewolf side from… well, everybody. Spending time alone with Y/N in his car didn’t seem so daunting in retrospect.

“I’m fine,” Scott said, but Stiles didn’t buy it.

He was going to offer to go after Y/N and get a drink for him. Maybe that would drown out the wolf, but then again it might bring it to the surface. Better not to risk it.

Deep in thought, Stiles didn’t realize Y/N had made her way back to his side with two drinks in hand until suddenly her arms wrapped around him and she whispered something in his ear. He must have misheard her or fully hallucinated because there was no way that what she said was real.

“Hold me like you can’t get enough of me.”

Her arms were now holding him tighter and Stiles could feel the can of soda in her hand pressing against the back of his neck. It was cold and probably the only thing keeping him from melting in Y/N’s arms.

He hugged her back, unsure of where to place his hands at first. He decided one in the space between her shoulder blades and one right above her hip. He squeezed her gently, unable to shake the feeling that his hand fit perfectly in the dip of her waist. She leaned once again like she was trying to whisper something in his ear but this time Stiles placed his head on her shoulder, resting his forehead there in order to make it easier for her to tell him things.

“I’m gonna let go now, but leave one arm around me.”

Stiles breathed in her berry scent and let out a sigh. She was letting go too soon. He didn’t remember the last time he got a hug like this, full-bodied, as tight as it can get, feel it in your heart type of hug. When she let go it felt like somebody removed a rib from his chest.

As per her instructions, his hand remained firmly above her hip and although five minutes ago he’d kill to be this close to her, now it wasn’t close enough.

When he looked back from Y/N to Scott and Allison they had matching shocked expressions.

“Did I miss something important?” Scott asked perplexed and Stiles heard the barely contained anger simmering below the surface.

“Just a guy hitting on me at the punch bowl. I figured if he saw me with some other guy he’d give up. Men are like wolves that way, they respect each other’s territories.”

Stiles didn’t miss the irony of Y/N comparing men to wolves to her cousin, an actual wolf. He smirked and hoped she didn’t see it.

“Allison, is the guy in the lime green shirt still looking at me?”

Allison subtly looked towards the doorway over Y/N’s shoulder. She let out a tsk and gave the girl an apologetic smile. He must still be looking.

“Do you want me to talk to him, Y/N?” Scott nearly growled.

Scott was not-so-subtly glaring in the same direction as Allison was a second ago.

“Down boy,” Y/N joked. “Since when are you Mr. Though Guy?”

Stiles caught the yellow flash of Scott’s eyes for a second and felt the dread of the truth being out. He told Scott not to come to this stupid party, not on a full fucking moon. But does he ever listen to his smart and reasonable friend? Nooo.

Scott looked like he was about to transform when Y/N did something brilliant. She downed her drink in one big gulp and pushed her cousin into the pool behind him, falling with him in the process. The water splashed both Stiles and Allison, who let out an undignified squeak.

It worked. Scott seemed back to his normal self if a little peeved for being pushed in the pool. He pulled one arm all the way back, then hit the water at full force, splashing as much as he could directly at Y/N. She retaliated. Allison gave Stiles a nudge and pointed at the two playing in the pool as if to say “Look at these two idiots”. And he didn’t realize it at the moment but they both had a similar love struck expression pasted on their faces.

A couple other brave teenagers jumped in the pool after Y/N inspired them. Stiles tried to shield his face from all the water splashing in all directions. Suddenly he felt a soaking wet hand grab at his ankle.

“Y/N, no! It’s cold as shit tonight!”

She let go and flipped him off. The pool was getting crowded so the girl lifted herself out of it with surprising ease. She took her shirt off and did her best to wrangle out any water in it.

Stiles forgot how to breathe. One moment he was with his friends at the party having fun and the very next it’s just him and Y/N left in the whole world and she is shirtless and he can see her bra and her stomach and that dip where her waist meets her hip. He licks his lips desperately trying to find the strength to look away.

Three seconds. He gives himself three seconds to admire her and then he’s gonna turn around and forget what he’d seen.

One…

Two…

Three– Was that motherfucker who was bothering her earlier still there? Was he also staring at her body with the same hunger in his eyes? And if he was; how was Stiles any better than him?

He turns around to look for him, with no idea what he actually looks like but Y/N mentioned a lime green shirt and that’s hard to miss. All of a sudden he felt something cold and wet hit him in the back. It was Y/N’s shirt that she was brandishing like a whip. He saw her twisting it again and going for a second hit, which he dodged.

“You’re relentless,” he laughs but he’s pretty sure she didn’t hear it since the music was still blaring at full volume.

He took off his own jacket and draped it across her shoulders, surprised by the amount of heat her body was radiating still. As his hands gently brushed against her skin he expected it to be ice cold, but it felt feverish to the touch.

She couldn’t have caught a cold that fast, could she?

“Are you feeling ok?” he asked, the back of his hand brushing the side of her face trying to gauge her temperature.

“Yeah, I just run hot.”

She shook off the excess water in her hair in a dog-like manner. Stiles took a step back. He took the shirt from Y/N’s hand and tried to squeeze a few more drops of water out of it. When he looked back at her, his jacket was buttoned up and fully covering her. The boy decided that he liked this look on her even better.

He wasn’t sure what to feel more guilt over; how much he liked seeing Y/N half naked or the satisfaction he felt seeing her wearing his clothes. He had no right to be possessive over her but the thought popped into his head regardless: Let green shirt guy top this.

“Are you gonna give me your pants, too?” Y/N asked with a grin.

Stiles realized he must have been staring like an idiot this whole time and maybe the filthy things he was thinking were etched on his face. But if they were, Y/N didn’t seem to hate him just yet.

“Please, you’re gonna have to work harder than that to get in my pants.”

The girl laughed. A genuine and lighthearted sound that made Stiles’ heart stop for a beat. He was afraid his joke wasn’t gonna be received well, but Y/N has always been the type of person who can take a joke.

He gave the girl a once over, examining the still very wet state of her with worry.

“What am I gonna tell Melisa?” he wondered out loud.

“That we had fun, nerd.”

She punched his shoulder lightly and Stiles couldn’t stop a small smile from forming on his lips. There was still hope. They could still be friends like before and tease each other and have fun. In spite of his ever growing fondness for her, they could still salvage what remained of their friendship. And maybe Stiles would survive this trial like he survived everything that came before it.

“Let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”

Stiles looked back at Scott and Alison but they were playing in the pool together and he didn’t want to interrupt their date any more than he already had. He put a hand on Y/N’s back to gently guide her inside the house.

If anybody asks, he did it to make sure she doesn’t run off back into the pool. If anybody pressed him on the matter, it’s because he just loves being so close to her. But if he was wholly honest, his hand just ended up there without him thinking about it, like muscle memory, like he had done it a thousand times before.

Once inside she ran for the kitchen to get another drink and Stiles followed her because he didn’t want to risk green shirt guy appearing again.

He watched her pour straight vodka in her red solo cup and down it like it was nothing. Is that what she had in her cup earlier, too? And if that was the case, how was she still standing up? Two full glasses of vodka would have sent Stiles to the hospital.

The boy remembered what Scott said, that Y/N had some issues and that’s why her parents sent her away. Were her issues alcohol related? And if so then was he enabling her right now?

Stiles took the now empty cup and cleaned it a little in the sink before refilling it with water.

“Thanks me for this tomorrow,” he says while handing her the cup back.

The girl rolled her eyes a little but she took the plastic cup with her to the living room where a bunch of kids were sitting in a circle, playing truth or dare. She elbowed Stiles in the ribs and pointed in their direction with her chin. At first Stiles thought she was pointing at the circle as a whole but then he realized she was pointing at one person in particular. Lydia Martin.

“Wanna play?” she gave him a knowing grin.

How would she know about Lydia? he never said a word. Unless…

“Scott. He told you.”

Scott used to update Stiles on what was new in Y/N’s life semi-regularly. If she was dating somebody, if she made any big changes to her look, if she got in trouble, Stiles knew about it. Not that he was asking, it usually just came about.

“Hey Scott, who are you texting?”

“Just Y/N. She got a new camera, look.”

And he’d show him a picture. It was a selfie in a mirror, but her face was fully obscured by the bulky camera she was holding. He noticed a picture of the three of them when they were kids stuck in the corner of her mirror. He remember when they took that picture, they were at a public pool and Y/N was wearing a Disney princess swimsuit, which made Stiles jealous because he wanted one too but they only made them for girls.

Or.

He remembered one time he came over to Scott’s house to study together for an exam and when he got there his friend was on the phone.

“One second, Stiles is here,” he took a pause like he was listening to something on the other side. “Y/N says hi.”

“Tell her I said hi, too?”

“Stiles says he loves you and can’t stay away from you any longer. He’s moving next door to you this week–”

Then Scott got cut off by the pillow Stiles threw in his face. He laughed as he ran a hand through his hair to put it back in place, phone still glued to his ear.

“Well, your boyfriend can cry about it. I think he’s kind of a dick anyway.”

Stiles had no idea she had a boyfriend until then. And he felt stupid for assuming she’d be as chronically single as he was. With her wit and charm boys were probably standing in line waiting for a chance.

He had never stopped to ponder the idea that Scott was probably telling her things about him, too. Like how he got diagnosed with ADHD and got put on meds, or the fact that he had an unhealthy obsession with Lydia Martin, the most popular girl in school.

What does Y/N know about Stiles that he’s never shared? Scott wasn’t a gossip, he certainly hadn’t shared any gory details, right? Like Stiles knew Y/N had a boyfriend and that Scott didn’t like him, but he didn’t have any idea why. Scott never gave him a reason for why he disliked him and Stiles never asked because he assumed it would be too personal to share.

He probably had only mentioned it off-hand like:

“Oh, yeah, Stiles has a crush on this girl he has no chance with.”

Y/N had said something back like: “Yeah, he does that a lot.”

And they both laughed at him.

Stiles looked back between Lydia and Y/N wondering if he actually has a type after all, and it’s girls who wouldn’t look at him twice.

Y/N was looking at him quizzically and he remembered that she had asked him a question which he hadn’t answered because he’s been trapped by his own self-doubt and anxieties.

“Sure,” he finally murmurs. “But you gotta drink all of this first.”

He pointed at the red cup full of water in her hand, which he presumed she only took to shut him up and wasn’t planning on touching the rest of the night. But she looked at the cup and then at the circle of people that were now cheering on a guy who dropped ice down his pants, then took a few big gulps of her water, finishing it before the ice melted.

“Hey, got room for two more players?” she asked a little louder than she needed because the music wasn’t blaring as loud in the room they were in as it did outside.

Some guy whooped and patted a spot next to him on the floor. The two of them took that as an invitation and sat down. A blonde girl, Stiles was pretty sure her name was Malia, got dared to remove an item of clothing and they all watched in awe as she removed her bra from underneath her shirt, then flung it like a slingshot at the guy who dared her in the first place.

They kept going in a circle, spinning a bottle to determine who was asking or daring who. Every time somebody picked truth there was a girl who determined how honest you were, her name was Cora and everyone in the circle swore up and down that she was psychic. Now that he knew werewolves were a real thing, Stiles couldn’t really scoff at the idea of a psychic girl. And everybody kept insisting “trust me, we played a bunch of times with her and she always knows”.

So when his turn came he picked truth out of curiosity, to see if he could lie to a mind-reader. Also because most of the dares were raunchy or embarrassing and Stiles didn’t think he could take making a fool of himself in front of both Lydia and Y/N.

“What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex in?”

Fuck.

“The…” he took a second like he was remembering something. “Back of my jeep.”

Stiles hoped that telling a very mild lie that made him seem boring was probably his best bet to getting away with it. Anything bolder and even a non-psychic would be able to tell he was full of it. He felt his heart hammer in his chest as Cora’s eyes narrowed as if she were searching for something inside him.

“Bullshit,” she declared.

Double fuck.

“I’ve never…” he felt too embarrassed to finish the sentence. He looked up at the ceiling like he was annoyed at the question and not utterly humiliated.

The only way out is through, he thought.

“I’m a virgin.”

Oohs and aahs were heard from the group of kids. Stiles tried his absolute best not to look at Y/N. He was desperate to know what she thought about him in that moment. Did her opinion of him change at all? Did she think he was a loser? Did she already know? Did Scott tell her?

Lydia looked completely unbothered but that didn’t surprise Stiles. She probably didn’t even know his name until Y/N said it at some point during the night. Jackson was right next to her looking smug as always and Stiles just knew he was gonna give him grief for this later, during lacrosse practice or in the locker room.

He tried to play it cool like it was no big deal, but his face was burning hot. He knew, intellectually, that the average age of losing one’s virginity in America was 18.4, so he wasn’t falling behind by any means. Yet still, he felt like he was missing out on something. Especially since Scott started dating Allison because he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be the only virgin in his friend group. The more the clock was ticking the harder it will be for him to find someone who didn’t think it was weird. And then before he’d know it he’d be 35 having never felt the touch of a woman because his type was utterly unavailable.

“New girl, truth or dare?”

Y/N spun the bottle and it landed on the same guy who dared Malia to take off her bra. Somebody in the circle murmured ‘careful’ but Stiles couldn’t pinpoint who exactly said it. He knew exactly why they said it though. That guy had creep written all over him. Everything he said to the girls was an innuendo, he was undressing them with his eyes, unashamed of it too, he was so clearly playing this game trying to get some kind of action.

“Dare.”

The shit eating grin on that guy’s face made the hair on Stiles' arm stand up. He finally had the guts to look at Y/N again, considering enough time had passed between Cora’s question and now that it didn’t look like he desperately wanted to see her reaction. She looked fierce and determined as always. As if she wasn’t at the mercy of this guy’s perverted mind.

“Give someone in this circle a hickey.”

Stiles froze in his place. Once again he looked away from Y/N, knowing that his thoughts were written on his face and she knew him well-enough to read them.

He examined her options.

Creep? No way.

Jackson? Too douche-y for her.

Boyd? Some girl’s hand was possessively gripping his thigh as if she was thinking the same thing.

One of the girls? Maybe…

Then Y/N popped on his lap like it meant nothing, straddling him between her thighs. If Stiles' face was pink earlier, it was definitely burning red now.

“This ok?” she asked gently.

Stiles’ heart stopped in his chest. This was real. His crush was straddling his lap and was about to suck on his neck in front of a bunch of strangers, all ogling them like they were at the circus. And Stiles was beginning to feel like a clown.

He almost said no. He was terrified of what this could mean for their friendship. He knew there was no coming back from this. There was no world in which Stiles could have Y/N do this to him and then act normal in her presence ever again. This was bad bad bad. It’d be best to say no.

He opened his mouth but found himself unable to speak. He should say no but he didn’t want to.

And then he thought about Y/N and how she never backs down from a dare. How even when they were kids she and Scott made everything into a competition and she would always try to win, to her own detriment sometimes. They'd try to see who can finish their ice cream faster and she’d get a brain freeze but keep eating anyway.

If Stiles refused she would just hop in someone else’s lap and still do the dare, then he’d be forced to watch her give someone else a hickey knowing it could’ve been him the whole time. He’d die of jealousy. And Stiles was the only person she knew in this circle, the only one she trusted and felt comfortable around. If he said no, she’d have to do this very intimate act with a stranger.

So when he put it this way he was being charitable.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, afraid of what undignified noise he might make if he opened his mouth.

“Cover the little one’s eyes,” someone shouted and Malia put her hand on top of Cora’s eyes, who just laughed and let it happen. “She’s a minor, she can’t see this.”

Y/N leaned down to reach his neck. He looked up, partially to give her better access and partially to avoid looking at the gawking teenagers around them. The fact that they just found out he was a virgin right before this made things ten times worse for him.

He felt the girl’s hot breath right above the base of his neck, above the vein that leads to his heart. He took in one deep breath, then tried to hold it. She smelled like raspberry flavored vodka, like a fancy cocktail you’d get at a bar. How drunk was she, really? Should he worry? If she’s too drunk to judge what she's doing, was he taking advantage of her? He did want it to happen but not like this. Not with people watching, not when she was drunk, not on a dare.

Holy shit.

And just like that her lips were on him, like he’d dreamed of so many times. She licked the spot at the base of his neck and Stiles would be lying if he said that feeling didn’t go straight to his dick. Another gentle kiss and then– oh.

He had no idea what to expect, he’d never done anything like this, but he definitely didn’t think it was gonna hurt as much as it did. Or that he was gonna enjoy the pain to that extent. He thought she was just gonna suck on his neck but it certainly felt more like a bite, and not a gentle nibble either. Stiles hissed. Those were most certainly her teeth scraping his skin. He found himself gripping her thigh in an attempt to stifle the pain; her jeans were still wet from being in the pool.

She placed a third kiss right before sucking on the very same spot she previously bit. The whimper that escaped Stiles' lips was one of the most unbecoming sounds he could’ve made. He heard Y/N’s lips come off him with a smacking sound that was gonna get stuck in his head forever.

“Still good?” the girl asked looking straight into his eyes.

Stiles wondered what she was looking for. Signs of regret? Pain? Desire? Because in that moment he was flipping through all of them in rapid succession.

“Yeah, are you?”

She kissed her thumb and pressed it against his lips. Before he could ask what that meant she got off him and let herself fall back in her spot on the floor. Stiles' lap was still wet in every spot that had made contact with her, the cool feeling serving as proof that he didn’t hallucinate it all.

“Lydia, I believe it’s your turn.”

The redhead grabbed the bottle from the middle of the circle and spun it lazily, it landed on Y/N.

“Dare,” Lydia announced without giving the other girl the occasion to even ask.

“My first dare, fun.”

She placed a finger on her chin and acted like she was thinking really hard about something, but Stiles knew her too well to fall for it. She had been probably cooking questions and dares since before she decided to join the game. He had no doubt she’d been sitting on something juicy this whole time, waiting for her moment. He was almost scared for Lydia.

“Let someone of my choosing…” she took a pause for dramatic effect and looked at the kitchen island visible from the living room floor. “…take a body shot off of you.”

A chorus of surprised sounds erupted from the group. Lydia eyed the creepy guy who was staring at her like a lion at an antelope.

“Not him,” she declared.

It was just like Lydia to still give orders even when it was her turn to take them.

“Deal.”

Y/N led the ginger to sit on the kitchen island, muttering something about how they don’t have tequila so vodka will have to do. She touched a lemon slice to Lydia’s right thigh and stuck some salt on it, poured a shot of vodka carefully balancing it on her left leg, the lemon slice was left on the counter in between the girl’s legs.

“Stiles?” she turned around to the whole group that was still waiting in the living room. “Will you do the honors?”

The boy choked on air.

“I’m-I’m driving.”

“Scott can drive us home. You can come pick up Roscoe from Lydia tomorrow.”

She gave him a wink and finally, he understood. Not only was she trying to set him up with Lydia tonight, she was giving him an excuse to come see her the next day. Evil fucking genius.

“I guess,” Stiles shrugged.

He walked up to the counter sluggishly, everybody else behind him waiting to see what happens like vultures waiting for a wounded animal to keel over. He stopped for a second, assessing the situation. Even though everybody in the room already knew he was inexperienced he was still too embarrassed to ask what he was supposed to do. He felt Y/N’s hand press down on the back of his head with surprising force and he found himself kneeling in front of Lydia’s spread legs.

“Don’t enjoy this too much, Stilinski.”

Stiles didn’t need to turn around to know that it was Jackson who spoke.

“If you cream your pants doing this doesn’t count as losing your virginity, by the way.”

That voice belonged to Creepy Guy.

Stiles licked the salt line off the girl’s thigh then drank the shot, it tasted like disinfectant and some of it spilled down his chin, then he snatched the lemon slice without touching it with his hands. All of that with the quickness and efficiency of someone taking medicine they hate. One and done. He spat out the lemon after a second making a comically sour face. He heard someone wolf-whistle.

Emboldened by what he had done in the past few minutes, a bit high on a mix of adrenaline, euphoria, and vodka he turned around towards Y/N and grinned.

“Satisfied?”

“Very much so,” she quipped.

He looked straight into her eyes searching for something he was embarrassed to admit to. Jealousy. He had just licked Lydia Martin's thigh, the girl he's been wanting for four years, and all he could think about was did this make Y/N jealous?

If it did, she wasn't showing it. Of course, she was the one who dared him to do this. But a very selfish part of Stiles was hoping she’d regret it.

Scott and Allison stumbled into the kitchen, still laughing about something one of them said, their clothes still wet from the impromptu pool party outside.

“Are we interrupting something?” Allison giggled.

Stiles shot up from in between Lydia’s legs so fast he felt dizzy, his face flushed and he was unable to say something that would justify the situation the two teens walked in on.

“Truth or dare, wanna join?”

Surprisingly it was Lydia who spoke up and invited them.

“We were actually looking for you to tell you we were going home. Y/N?”

He didn’t need to say anything else, which Y/N must have appreciated. Having your cousin tell everybody that you have a strict bedtime because you’ve been a wild child lately is diminishing and Y/N was just starting to make some new friends.

“Yeah, we should go, too. Stiles?”

The boy slid his hand down his neck to carefully conceal the hickey that was still pulsating. Now he had to hide that from his best friend or else he’ll take a bite out of him.

Could he pull off a scarf? No, better not.

Avoiding eye contact with Scott and Y/N as if he worried the werewolf could read his mind he found himself looking around at everyone in the group. Malia and Boyd were smirking as if they knew exactly what kind of trouble Stiles had gotten himself into. Cora was staring daggers at Y/N. She patted the girl on the shoulder and asked if they can speak for a second in private before they left.

Did Stiles miss something?

Lydia got up from the kitchen island and brought a blanket for Allison so that she doesn’t catch a cold. Funny, she didn’t seem to care that Y/N was also soaked when she walked into the living room. But it made sense since Allison and Lydia made really good friends in the short time since Allison moved to Beacon Hills.

As Cora and Y/N had their little chat, which was very heated on Cora’s part, Stiles found himself lingering close to them. Partially because he wanted to be far away from Scott, partially because he just liked Y/N’s presence so much. His behavior reminded him a little too much of a kid holding onto his mother’s skirts everywhere she goes. Stiles did not have mommy issues. And he was not projecting them unto Y/N.

“It’s gonna have consequences,” the boy overheard.

He perked his ears, etching closer to Cora, still staying behind her.

“What are you talking about?”

Cora turned around as if she heard of felt Stiles despite their distance. Cora has always been quite a weird girl, maybe she really was psychic. She looked at Stiles and then back at Y/N.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Good luck.”

》 a.n. This is my first dip in Teen Wolf fic and my first post on this blog. I used to be @the-fangirl-from-hell but I couldn't interact with people due to the main blog of that account having a lot of personal information. So I just remade so I can interact with people, follow, like, reblog without fear of doxxing myself.

This is an old blog that i scrubbed clean and repurposed.

Feel free to ask to be in my tag list and interact in any way, I'm looking for reader and writer friends alike 《

no beta, feel free to point out any mistakes you see, i won't mind

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Rumor Has It

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: minor angst

Summary: Your boyfriend is a well-known street racer who will never back down from a challenge. When someone new comes to town challenging him, he’ll do anything to come out on top… and that includes giving you up.

Square Filled: street racing (2023) for @spnaubingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

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Harry straps on his racing gloves as you’re watching him from your spot on the bed. He spent the last two hours getting ready for what will be a disaster waiting to happen. Your boyfriend is known for his love of cars. There is a group of guys that pick a spot in every city and race their precious cars. It’s illegal as shit and nearly gets someone arrested every time they do it, but there is no stopping him.

He quickly climbed the ranks of being one of the fastest yet riskiest racers this town has ever known, and now there aren’t many who want to go up against him. These days, he races with friends in a friendly game rather than for money. Not this race. This race is different. Someone new came into town last week and has been passing rumors to everyone.

Rumor has it that this man is a beast. Rumor has it that no one has lost against him. Rumor has it that someone like Harry is child’s play compared to the men he’s been up against. The racers always pick a desolate part of town to race in knowing there won’t be anyone on the road to block them, but not this man. He’s known to race in the open with other cars on the road.

Not once has he crashed and not once has he been caught. His name has been filtered through every town he’s been in, and it managed to reach all the way to your small town in the middle of nowhere. Of course, as soon as Harry found out that he was coming to town, he had to challenge him to a race. There is something Harry wants, and he’s going to make sure he gets it after he wins this race.

Harry’s good but he’s not Dean Winchester good.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask. “Do you not realize who you’re going up against?”

“I’ve been preparing for this all week. I can do it.”

“You’re either going to lose or get caught. The police have been cracking down on these races lately.”

Harry turns and glares at you through his shaded glasses.

“The only one who is going to get caught is Dean. I don’t need you worrying about me. I’ll be fine.”

Normally, you never go to these races because you don’t like them. In one race, someone crashed into a pole and lost his life. It was cold outside and he slipped on a patch of black ice. Ever since that, you’ve been asking Harry not to race. Still, he won’t listen to you. Lately, he’s been dismissing your every thought. He’s been more distant since Dean got to town, and you tell yourself it’s because of the race. Dean will leave soon and he’ll go back to being yours.

Why is it that when you think about that, you become empty inside?

Harry is a good boyfriend but he’s not the best. He’d choose racing over you any day. Why do you stay with him, then? Maybe being in a relationship with him is better than being alone. If you think that, you shouldn’t be in a relationship. What else are you going to do? You moved to this town for Harry so your entire family is on the west coast.

You can’t go back to them no matter how much you’re hurting here.

The only reason you’re going to this one is because of Dean. You can’t help but be intrigued by the mystery surrounding the man. You’ve heard he’s a ladies’ man and oozes sex appeal. Guess you won’t know until you see him, huh?

You and Harry leave for the race that’s happening on the outskirts of town. There is a guy who runs in Harry’s circle whose father is the chief of police. He knows he won’t be sticking his nose in their business tonight because of some case they’ve been working on for weeks, so this race should be free of police. There is already a crowd forming when you get there, and an even bigger following since Dean is here.

Harry’s prized race car is a 1987 Chevy Monte Carlo SS that he only uses whenever he’s racing. She hasn’t let him down since, but you think that’s all going to change. Dean’s prized possession is a 1967 Chevy Impala that Harry has always wanted. It’s one of his dream cars. The fact that Dean has one and is flaunting it here pisses Harry off.

Harry leaves your side and approaches Dean with the intent to trash-talk him. The crowd forms around the two men, and you stand on a few rocks to get a better view of Dean. His back is turned to you but from what you can see, he is a beastof a man. Tall, muscular, and not at all fazed by Harry’s attempt to shake him down.

“Is this supposed to make me fear you?” Dean chuckles.

“No, but you better watch your back, Winchester,” Dean smirks but he doesn’t say anything. “Care to make this interesting?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A bet on who wins. If you’re not scared, that is.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who gets scared?”

The crowd whispers to each other at his comment, and Harry glares at him. You push past the crowd to get to the inner circle where you have a full view of Dean. Damn, he looks even better from the front. Sharp jaw, short hair, and bright green eyes. Harry might be threatening him but there is a mischievous glint in Dean’s eyes.

“Alright, Winchester. If I win,” Harry looks around the crowd and smirks, “I get your Impala.”

The crowd gasps and chatter picks up. There is no way Dean will ever give up his precious car, so most think he will back out on this deal. Dean knows he’s going to win but it’s amusing to play Harry’s game. His eyes scan the crowd and they land on you, and you freeze from the intensity of his gaze. There’s something… primal… with the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re his prey but you know he won’t hurt you if he catches you.

“Okay,” he draws his gaze back to Harry, “if you win, you get my car.” Again, the crowd gasps. “If I win,” he looks at you with a smirk, “I get your girl.”

“Fine, yes, she’s yours. Take her.”

You gasp at the audacity your boyfriend has for just giving you away like you’re property or something to own. Someone blows a whistle and the crowd disperses to the side since the race is starting. People push past you but you seem to be rooted where you stand. You can’t take your eyes off Harry.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” You look at Dean who winks. “I don’t lose.”

You find your footing and step back to the sides where everyone else is. Harry and Dean get in their cars and start them up. Harry revs his engine loudly to show off but Dean stays calm. He doesn’t win races by being cocky. The race is twenty miles long, and there are people every couple of miles to track their progress who will then report back to the announcer so he can inform the crowd what’s going on.

The person who whistled whistles again and they’re off. Dean and Harry take off down the road, the crowd cheering for both of them. Half think Dean is going to win while the other half cheers for Harry. Harry passes the fifth mile first with Dean right behind him, but Dean passes the tenth mile first. They’re neck and neck with one passing the other constantly. Once they reach ten miles, they have to turn around and come back, so that’s what they’re doing now.

You bite your thumbnail nervously as you wait for someone to come around the corner. Do you want Harry to win? Absolutely not. You can’t stand the idea of him getting his way after he pulled that shit with you. Do you want Dean to win? Maybe? Maybe he’s the reason you’re looking to end things with Harry. He’s the courage you never knew you had.

The entire crowd falls silent when they hear the rumble of an engine approaching. Five seconds later, the sleek black Impala comes racing around the corner, picking up a shit ton of dust. The crowd erupts in cheers knowing Dean is going to win this race. Harry is less than half a mile behind him but it’s too late. Dean crosses the finish line and screeches to a stop. He hops out of the car and stalks over to you.

Harry’s scar screeches to a halt right next to Dean’s car, and he gets out with an angry red face. Dean grabs your waist and pulls you in, kissing you deeply. He slides his hand into your hair and holds your head steady so he can control every aspect of the kiss. To say you’re surprised is an understatement. He’s a great kisser, better than Harry, and you’re wondering if he’s like this in the bedroom.

“Call me when you break up with him,” he says when he pulls away. “You might be my good luck charm.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

He walks toward the crowd and accepts his victory while Harry hangs behind with his close friends. You touch your lower lip and watch Dean reap the rewards. Yeah, Harry’s gone. He’s no one compared to the great Dean Winchester.

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