#I better make more of these and pause the stickers for. a while

[vampicarus]

“I've grown used to fear

But no, not to you yet, my dear.”

or, alternatively, that moment when you are so in love with your future self that it scares you but that doesn’t matter cause he’s kissing you now :p

I don’t fucking know what possessed me. one day I’m drawing stickers, the next I’m making these gayasses kiss. whatever.

anyways! Have some doodles of these two.

Aaaand the speedpaint, for those interested! This piece was very fun to work on. But! I’ve gotta get some shit done for CJ’s Be Born day, so! I better get back to cooking lol

[yukkiji]

third time's the charm

you’ve had a quiet but unwavering crush on tsukishima kei throughout high school. from his sharp rejections in first year to the subtle softening of his guarded heart by third year, your persistence slowly breaks through his walls. between harsh words, stolen glances, and small acts of kindness, you both navigate pride, vulnerability, and the slow burn of something real — making you wonder if maybe, just maybe, third time’s the charm.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. tsukishima kei x fem!reader ft. the first year gang (hinata, yachi, yamaguchi, kageyama)

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, grumpy x sunshine,

wc: 4.4k

author's note: i got bit carried away with this one with the amount of words, since this a bit inspired by me having a crush on the same person during highschool and was always rejected lol thank god he always rejected me though hahahahha

it started with a rejection.

it was not the quiet, apologetic kind. it wasn't even a vague, gentle letdown.

you had barely even finished the words "i like you" before tsukishima kei, obviously unmoved, muttered a flat, "no thanks. i'm not interested."

you blinked at him under the afternoon sun, heard thudding in your ears, too stunned to process the way he turned and walked away. no sugarcoating. it was just typical tsukishima. just cold, brutal honesty.

and yet—somehow—you didn't give up.

you first met tsukishima kei through yachi hitoka.

you were from a different class, but the two of you had been friends for a while—neighbors in the same apartment building, often walking home together or sharing snacks after school.

one afternoon, yachi had roped you into helping her carry boxes of water and first aid supplies to the gym. she had just been recruited as karasuno’s new volleyball manager and was still fumbling her way through the responsibilities.

you didn’t have any real reason to say yes—you weren’t particularly into volleyball, and you weren’t especially interested in sports. but you owed yachi a favor, and her pleading eyes were hard to resist.

that’s when you saw him.

tall, aloof, and sharp-tongued, tsukishima wasn't exactly what you'd call approachable. but something about him fascinated you. maybe it was the quiet fire behind his eyes, or how he seemed to carry the weight of ambition without ever admitting he cared.

you didn't know what possessed you to like him.

maybe it was the way his eyes narrowed in concentration or how he always looked vaguely annoyed with the world, yet never missed a block. maybe it was how he ignored the chaos around him, but occasionally paused to push his glasses up in a way that made your chest flutter.

whatever it was, it rooted itself in your chest.

you started showing up to their practices more often, usually using yachi as an excuse. “just helping her out,” you’d say, even though at this point, everyone knew better. you never minded being there, quick to lend a hand with anything yachi needed—water bottles, towels, stats, errands. you blended in so easily that before long, you became the team’s unofficial third manager.

kiyoko even offered you the position formally once, but you gently turned it down with a smile. helping out was enough. you didn’t need a title.

you started small—an energy drink with a bright post-it that said “good luck!” (delivered by yachi, of course). then a neatly wrapped onigiri for one of their practice matches. a chocolate bar with a tiny sticker that simply read “for #11.”

yachi always handed them off with a knowing grin, and though tsukishima never said much, you noticed he never refused them either.

a few weeks later you confessed.

he didn't even blink. "no thanks, i'm not interested"

it stung.

you should've stop.

but you didn't.

"it's okay!" you smiled. "i'll still cheer for you."

tsukishima scoffs, before walking away.

you kept your promise. when it was the final match of the miyagi prefectural spring qualifiers against shiratorizawa, you were there—cheering him on from the stands, sitting beside yachi, nerves buzzing through your fingertips.

tsukishima glanced your way from time to time. every time he did, he'd scoff and look away like he hadn't been caught. like the flush at the tips of his ears didn’t give him away.

“tsukki’s blocks are on point today,” yachi said, eyes wide in awe.

“i’ve noticed that too,” you murmured, leaning forward in your seat. “maybe it’s because this is the finals. if they win, they’re going to tokyo.”

“or maybe it’s because you’re here,” she added, nudging your side.

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

before you could respond, the whistle blew—sharp and sudden. your gaze snapped to the court just in time to see kiyoko hurrying over, and tsukishima walking off, cradling his hand. from where you sat, you could just barely make out the smear of blood trickling down his pinky.

your stomach sank.

“he’s okay,” yachi said quickly, catching your expression. “probably just a jam. he’s had worse.”

you nodded slowly, though the worry didn’t ease. you weren’t their manager, and you couldn’t exactly follow him to the infirmary. all you could do was wait.

a few minutes later, he was back on the court—bandages wrapped neatly around his hand. he didn’t look at you this time, but you let out a quiet sigh of relief.

they won.

karasuno won.

the gym erupted in cheers and celebration. you followed yachi down from the stands to meet the team. the air was thick with sweat and adrenaline and the sweet buzz of victory.

amid the noise, you caught sight of tsukishima, slipping away toward the changing rooms. the bandage around his hand had started to unravel, the makeshift tape peeling from the corners.

“wait, kei,” you called softly.

he paused mid-step, turning with that familiar tired glance. you held up a small first-aid kit you’d snagged from yachi’s stash.

“let me help,” you said, voice low. “your pinky—it’s not taped properly.”

he hesitated, clearly reluctant. then, with a resigned sigh, he muttered, “fine. just be quick.”

you sat with him just outside the infirmary, the sounds of celebration still echoing faintly behind you. gently, you took his hand, cleaning the scrape with practiced ease.

“you’re not a medic,” he mumbled, eyes narrowed as he watched your hands.

“no,” you said, focusing on the wrap, “but i’ve had practice with sprains. and you’re not exactly gentle with yourself.”

he scoffed under his breath but didn’t pull away.

you worked in silence for a moment, your fingers brushing against his in quiet concentration.

“you didn’t have to do this,” he said after a beat.

“i wanted to,” you replied, eyes lifting to meet his. “you were amazing tonight.”

he looked at you—really looked at you—and for a second, something passed between you. unspoken. uncertain. not ready to be said out loud.

you tied the final bit of tape and gave his hand a soft pat. “there. try not to break more fingers next time, yeah?”

he clicked his tongue, eyes flicking away. “you’re annoying.”

you stood with a light laugh, brushing your hands on your skirt. “yeah. but i show up.”

you turned to leave, walking back into the noise and warmth of celebration, hoping he felt the meaning behind those words.

because you always had.

and when you didn’t go to see them off when they left for tokyo for nationals. and you couldn’t watch in person either—there was just no way you could skip your classes.

yachi, currently standing at your apartment door with her usual concerned pout, was pleading for you to come with them.

"please? just this once?"

you sighed. "i really can’t skip, yacchan. i’ll get in trouble if i do.”

she muttered under her breath, “tsukki’s gonna be in a foul mood if you don’t come.”

"what?"

"nothing," she said quickly, avoiding your eyes and pouting harder.

you handed her a small omamori and smiled. “give this to kei. tell him good luck.”

yachi gave you a look—half teasing, half fond—before carefully tucking the charm into her bag. “don’t you ever want to give up?”

you shook your head, firm. “nope.”

“well, who am i to stop you anyway.”

she delivered your apology and your good lucks to the team like she promised. and when she handed the charm to tsukishima, she couldn’t help but grin at him, smug and knowing, before walking off to join kiyoko.

back at practice in tokyo, hinata pouted, “it’s weird not having her around, isn’t it?”

yamaguchi grinned. “tsukki’s been extra grumpy. coincidence?”

“i am not,” tsukishima snapped, shooting them a glare.

yachi giggled nervously. “you do seem… quieter than usual.”

he shoved his glasses up. “don’t be ridiculous.”

but he didn’t deny it.

when second year rolled around, your feelings didn’t fade. if anything, they deepened. you still showed up to every game and practice matches and even made special chocolate for valentine's (you also made for the rest of the team since you've gotten close to them at this point). sometimes, even protein bars or sports drink after practice which is of course, delivered by yachi.

your persistence has become a running joke among the team.

yamaguchi once asked you with a laugh, "are you planning on confessing again today, or are you giving him a snack break first?"

you just grinned. "depends on his mood."

but underneath the teasing was a fondness—a recognition of how constant you were.

"he pretends he doesn’t care," yachi whispered during lunch, poking at her food, "but i saw him keep the wrapper from the chocolate you gave him."

you paused. "really?"

she nodded quickly. "he doesn’t throw your stuff out anymore. i think that’s progress."

you had no illusions. tsukishima wasn’t the type to fall headfirst into anything, let alone a high school crush. he was cold, calculating, and painfully aware of how others perceived him. but still, you kept showing up. and something began to shift.

you noticed it in little things.

he’d stop walking away so quickly when you talked to him.

he’d take the snacks directly from your hand instead of through yachi.

he’d grumble, "tch, unnecessary," but still pocket the sweets.

and when a third-year on the basketball team tried to flirt with you behind the gym one day, tsukishima appeared like a shadow.

"she’s busy," he said, stepping in just slightly in front of you.

"didn’t think you cared, tsukishima."

"i don’t. but she has bad taste, so someone has to keep her alive."

you were too stunned to respond.

but later that day, you gave him a lemon soda. he didn’t say thank you, but he drank it in front of you this time.

there was a time when you were helping yamaguchi and yachi pin up the last batch of sponsorship posters for the upcoming spring tournament when he said something that lingered longer than it should’ve.

“he gets grumpy when you’re not at games,” yamaguchi said casually, smoothing the corner of a poster against the wall.

you paused mid-staple. “what?”

he glanced at you, lips tugging into a grin that was far too knowing. “he’ll never say it out loud, but if you’re not there cheering, he’s just… off. his blocks aren’t as sharp. he gets snappy. i think he’s gotten used to having you around.”

you looked away, biting back a smile. the flutter in your chest was immediate—warm and foolish.

but then you remembered the way kei always scoffed when you stood too close. the way he rolled his eyes when yachi teased him. the way he’d say “you’re annoying” like it was a reflex.

you knew better than to read too much into it.

still—you showed up.

you always did.

your second confession came during the school festival.

the night air was cool against your skin, carrying the faint scent of grilled food and melted candy. the laughter and chatter of your classmates echoed in the distance, muffled by the steady beat of your heart as you walked toward the back of the school building.

fireworks lit up the sky above, loud and brilliant—explosions of crimson, blue, and gold that danced across the clouds and cast flickering shadows against the rooftop. the world felt briefly suspended in light.

and there he was.

tsukishima kei stood near the railing, just out of view from the main festivities, bathed in the soft glow of firework shimmer. his arms were loosely crossed, posture relaxed but solitary, as if the weight of the night pressed too closely in crowded spaces.

you hesitated at first, your fingers tightening around the hem of your sleeves. but you took a step forward anyway.

“kei.” you called out, gently.

he didn’t look surprised.

his eyes flicked toward you, half-lidded, unbothered. the familiar indifference was there in the slight tilt of his chin, the unimpressed slant of his brow.

“let me guess,” he drawled, his voice a little more subdued than usual, “another confession?”

you smiled, small. not embarrassed, not hopeful. just honest.

“yeah.”

a beat of silence followed. he didn’t scoff this time. didn’t shake his head or turn away. he just… looked up. toward the sky. toward the bursts of light painting the clouds.

“you’re wasting your time,” he said at last, tone flat, like he was stating a fact more than trying to hurt you.

you nodded slowly, the corners of your lips dipping in acceptance. “probably. but i still like you.”

another silence stretched between you. but it wasn’t heavy.

it felt like the space after a long breath. like neither of you needed to say anything else to fill it.

kei didn’t walk away this time.

he stayed there, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes on the horizon as the last few fireworks painted gold into his blond hair and soft shadows under his eyes.

he didn’t say thank you. or i’m sorry. or don’t.

but he didn’t push you away either.

his shoulders had relaxed slightly. the usual edge in his stance—the one that screamed don’t get close—had dulled. and though he didn’t look at you, he didn’t seem to mind your presence.

so you stood beside him, close enough to hear the way his breath caught with each firework burst.

the world was quiet in that little space you shared. no declarations. no grand romantic gestures. just the sound of distant music, the echo of fireworks, and the stubborn truth you carried in your chest.

you took his silence as progress.

because sometimes staying said more than any rejection ever could.

by the third year, something between you had changed.

you weren’t just a background character in his day anymore. you were there—persistent, present, and impossible to ignore.

you weren’t loud about it. never demanding, never clingy. but your presence threaded itself into his routine like a habit he didn’t remember forming.

you learned the rhythms of his life: when he had exams and needed space to study, when his knees hurt after long practices and he walked with just the slightest wince. you started carrying an extra pain patch in your bag without saying why. you knew when he wanted silence—those days when the weight of everything made him sharper-tongued than usual—and when he needed a distraction, even if he never asked for one.

he learned things, too. things you hadn’t meant for him to notice.

that you liked melon bread more than any other snack, even though you pretended not to be picky. that you always hummed softly under your breath when you were nervous—little melodies that stopped just short of forming actual songs. that your smile was always a little brighter, a little fuller, whenever you handed him something: a drink, a small note, chocolates during valentine’s—even when you knew he wouldn’t react the way you hoped.

he caught himself watching you more often than he liked to admit.

once, during a water break at practice, you were talking to yachi near the gym doors. your laughter filtered in easily, soft and light. tsukishima glanced your way—just a glance—and lingered too long.

yamaguchi caught him.

“you like her, don’t you?” tadashi asked later, a little too casually.

“shut up,” kei muttered, not looking up from the sports drink he was pretending to be way too interested in.

tadashi grinned. “you literally growled at that guy from nekoma for asking her where she bought her jacket.”

“he was being weird.”

“jealousy looks weird on you, kei.”

“i will end you.”

but even that was different. because he didn’t deny it.

and maybe that meant something.

still, it wasn’t all teasing and harmless glances. there were moments where something heavier settled between you—where kei seemed at war with himself, tugged between pride and something softer he didn’t quite know how to carry.

after a tough loss at an practice match—one that hit harder because it was close—he sat outside the gym alone. the sky was already going gray, the air damp with oncoming rain. everyone else had filed into the bus, too tired to say much.

you didn’t ask for permission. you just stepped off the bus, walked quietly over, and sat beside him.

you didn’t say anything. just handed him a canned coffee—his favorite kind, the bitter one you personally thought tasted like disappointment—and let the silence breathe.

ten minutes passed. long and quiet and a little raw.

finally, he spoke.

“you don’t have to keep trying.”

his voice was low. tired. defeated in a way you rarely saw from him.

“i’m not worth it.”

you turned to look at him, blinking slowly, your heart pulling tight.

“you don’t get to decide what’s worth it for me.”

his shoulders tensed, jaw clenching briefly. he didn’t look at you. but he didn’t move away either.

he didn’t say anything after that.

you stayed until he finished the coffee.

then nationals came around. when you heard karasuno had advanced to the semi-finals and made it back to center court, you were determined to be there. you were ready to pull some strings if you had to—but luckily, the vice principal was kind enough to approve a school trip for students to support the volleyball team in tokyo.

the nationals were everything.

for karasuno, it was the culmination of years of growth, grit, and stubborn perseverance. for you, it was watching him—the boy who once scoffed at your feelings—rise higher than anyone expected, one perfectly timed block at a time.

you cheered until your throat was raw. you clutched your chest with every rally. and when they secured third place, you stood in the stands, tears in your eyes and pride blooming so fiercely in your chest it almost hurt.

you were proud of all of them—of kageyama’s precision, of hinata’s impossible speed, of yamaguchi’s quiet bravery—but mostly, you were proud of him.

tsukishima kei.

he had changed. not loudly, not in some grand sweeping arc. but little by little, he had let himself care. you saw it in the way he threw himself into every play, in the way he smirked after a well-timed block, in the way he started calling his teammates by name.

but still, you didn’t confess that day. not yet.

because this time, you needed it to be real. not a question, not a whim, not a gamble.

late that night, when the stadium had emptied and the streets had quieted, you found him.

the gym was dim and nearly silent, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the distant clatter of janitorial carts somewhere down the hall. he stood near center court, his jersey still clinging to him with sweat and exhaustion. his head was tilted back, eyes tracing the ceiling as though he were still replaying the match in his mind.

you stopped in the doorway, watching him quietly for a moment.

“karasuno did amazing,” you whispered, the words reverent. like praise. like prayer.

he didn’t look at you, but his voice came low. “could’ve done better.”

you stepped closer, your footsteps echoing softly on the polished gym floor. “tsukki…”

he turned, eyes meeting yours finally.

“…this is the last time.”

his brows drew together, faintly. he said nothing, but you could feel the tension in the air tighten, like the pause before a serve.

“i like you,” you said, voice shaking but certain. “i’ve liked you for three years. but this is the last time i’ll say it. if you reject me now, i’ll stop.”

the silence stretched, taut as a string pulled too tight.

then he sighed. looked away.

“you’re so stupid,” he muttered, the words quiet but harsh. “wasting your time on someone like me.”

you bit your lip, but still smiled through the sting. “probably.”

something shifted. his shoulders, usually squared and defensive, lowered a fraction. and then—he stepped closer.

“you never left,” he said, softer now. “even when i was an ass. even when i pretended not to care.”

your breath caught. he wasn’t looking at you directly, but his hands were fidgeting at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“i noticed,” he admitted. “everything. the snacks. the cheering. the stupid little notes you kept sneaking into my locker. i noticed all of it.”

his voice cracked slightly, like the admission cost him something.

“i just… i didn’t know how to deal with someone who actually gave a damn.”

you didn’t move. you didn’t speak.

then his hand lifted—hesitant, trembling just barely—and his fingers brushed against your cheek. awkward. gentle. like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face.

“i don’t want you to stop,” he whispered.

you let out a shaky laugh, relief bubbling up in your chest like the end of a long, aching winter. “took you long enough.”

and finally—finally—he leaned in.

you met him halfway.

the kiss wasn’t perfect. it was hesitant and slightly off-center, and you could feel the tremor in his fingers where they now cupped your jaw. but it was soft and real and so full of everything unsaid over three long years. years of cold shoulders, soft glances, unnoticed favors, and a hundred quiet hopes.

when you pulled away, breath mingling, your forehead rested against his, and for a moment, everything was still.

and then—

“tsukki kissed her!!”

hinata’s voice echoed across the gym like a fire alarm.

you both froze.

tsukishima turned slowly, murder in his eyes.

yachi stumbled into view, wide-eyed with panic. “we weren’t spying!”

“you were literally hiding behind the curtain,” you deadpanned, not even bothering to sound surprised.

“i tried to stop them!” yachi insisted, flapping her arms like a terrified bird. “they dragged me into it!”

yamaguchi emerged next, dragging a snickering hinata by the collar while kageyama followed, red-faced and visibly trying not to make eye contact.

“i swear to god,” tsukishima muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “i will kill all of you.”

“totally worth it,” hinata whispered loudly to yamaguchi, who was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“told you she’d get you eventually,” yamaguchi added, clearly far too smug for his own good.

you glanced at tsukishima. he was glaring, his cheeks faintly pink, jaw clenched like he was weighing the pros and cons of turning around and walking into traffic.

but his hand was still resting lightly against your back.

so maybe, you thought, as you looked at him—just maybe—he didn’t mind being caught after all.

graduation day arrived too soon.

the campus buzzed with a bittersweet energy—laughter ringing out over caps and gowns, tearful hugs exchanged in hallways, and the steady click of camera shutters capturing fleeting moments. you held your diploma in one hand and your future in the other, but your eyes searched for him.

and there he was.

standing beneath the arching cherry blossoms, hands in his pockets, tassel swinging lazily from his cap. the same spot where you’d confessed to him just a year ago. the same courtyard where everything had changed.

you walked over, heels crunching lightly on fallen petals, nerves fluttering even now—because even after everything, this still felt surreal.

"still not tired of me?" you asked, voice light, teasing—just enough to cover the emotion behind it.

tsukishima glanced your way, and for a moment, the world hushed.

he rolled his eyes, but the edge that used to come with it was gone—softened into something warm, familiar. he was smiling now. that small, rare smile he saved just for you.

"not even close," he murmured.

and then he leaned in, fingers brushing your jaw with quiet certainty, and kissed you. there was no hesitation this time. no guarded edges. just the press of his lips against yours, firm and steady and full of promise.

because you waited.

because you stayed.

because you never gave up on him—not even when he pushed you away, not even when he said nothing at all.

and against all odds, tsukishima kei had fallen in love.

with you.

and in that moment, with cherry blossoms drifting like confetti around you, you knew:

it had been worth every awkward silence.

every rejection.

every year of trying.

because this—this—was everything.

bonus scene.

years passed.

the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood floors was replaced with roaring crowds, giant jumbotrons, and professional-level pressure. but some things hadn’t changed.

you still sat in the stands, heart in your throat, cheering louder than anyone else. you still kept your eyes on him—watching every block, every play, every subtle tilt of his head. the arenas were bigger now, the spotlight brighter. but to you, he was still kei. still the boy who used to hide behind sarcasm and side comments. still the boy who kissed you under cherry blossoms.

that night, his team had clawed their way to victory in a five-set thriller. the final point had the crowd erupting. you stood in the stands, clapping until your hands stung, pride burning in your chest like a second heartbeat.

afterward, you made your way to the side entrance—where the press couldn’t follow. you waited behind the barricades, bundled in your coat as the late winter air nipped at your cheeks. the cold settled in your bones, but you didn’t mind.

you always waited.

eventually, he appeared. his warm-up jacket was unzipped halfway, hair still damp from a quick rinse, duffel bag slung casually over his shoulder. he looked tired—but content. the kind of tired that came from giving everything he had.

his eyes scanned the crowd, ignoring reporters and staff—until they landed on you.

and softened.

"you always wait," he said, stepping closer until he stood on the other side of the gate.

"and you always win," you replied, smiling despite the chill.

he chuckled—low, breathy. real. he stepped past the barrier with ease, his hand catching yours before pulling you into his arms. his embrace was firm, grounding, like coming home.

his chin rested atop your head, and for a while, neither of you said anything. just the quiet thrum of distant cheers and the beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

then, softly, almost like a secret:

“remember when you said you’d stop confessing if i rejected you again?”

you smiled into his chest. “yeah. i meant it, too.”

a beat of silence. then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze steady.

“i’m glad i didn’t.”

and then he kissed you—without restraint, without fear. it was deeper now. certain. the kind of kiss that didn’t ask questions anymore—it just knew.

you kissed him back with every piece of your heart.

because time had passed, but love had only deepened.

because he had chosen you—again and again and again.

and somewhere deep in your soul, you understood:

this was still only the beginning.

[lilliezzzzz-fics]

Dead-bird

pairing: max verstappen x male!reader w/ chronic pain author's note: a fair warning here, i do not have crutches nor chronic pain, so i am terribly sorry if it's wrong or worded weirdly! feedback is heavily appreciated! reader has specifically forearm crutches btw. also also! requested by anon (i lost it im so sorry lol), no use of y/n warnings: ableism, angst, motorsport is not accessible, hurt/comfort word count: 3.1k

Max was unsure when you first suggested that you'd attend a Grand Prix.

Of course, he was thrilled you wanted to be there to support him; he loves you—why wouldn't he be? But he knows how inaccessible places could and would be, and while he'd fight tooth and nail for you to have a good time, he just didn't want you to over-exert yourself.

Yet here you were, on his private jet, sitting right beside him, on the way to Zandvoort for his home Grand Prix. Max’s nerves seemed unusually high, his knee bouncing and his head leaning on his palm. Eyebrows wrinkled in just the way that you could tell he was deep in thought. 

You laid your hand over his thigh, giving it a soft squeeze, and the bouncing stopped. “You look more stressed than you do in your actual car, Max—you doing okay?”

He turned to you and blinked, almost as if he forgot you were there entirely. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it contemplatively. It took him a while to figure out what to say, but after a moment—maybe two—he opened his mouth again.

“Just… Thinking,” he murmured, shifting in his seat to better look at you, his entire body moving to face you.

“About?”

“This. You, going to a Grand Prix,” he paused, mulling over his words, unsure of them, “I don’t want it to be… Difficult. The media is shit, the fans are overwhelming, and it’s just—”

He stopped, sighing—exasperated, then moved his hand to sit atop yours. Giving it a soft, gentle squeeze, almost trying to comfort himself more than you. Like you’re fragile glass that he’s too afraid to tap.

“The teams don’t care. They never care about accessibility or making it easier for people with disabilities—it’s fucked.”

A short silence fell between the two of you. The humming whirr from the plane suddenly overbearingly loud, and the light from the window blaring at the two of you almost felt like a spotlight. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable per se—just heavy, like it carried all the words he hadn’t said yet, because you could feel Max’s worry pulsate through his veins as his thumb caressed the back of your hand.

You glance over to your crutches, lying in the two seats in front of you. They’re still, both of them pridefully decorated with some of Max’s stickers that he’d jokingly put on a few months ago that you’d never taken off. The tension in your shoulders you didn’t know you had dissipated, and you let out a sigh, turning to meet his gaze.

“I know,” you pause, smiling a bit solemnly at him, “but I want to do this. This is your home race, Max—and I can handle it. In the worst case, I can always go to the hotel, right?”

His eyes searched yours, flickering from your face to your form. A wide blue gaze that scanned over your features just to make sure you weren’t feeling as uncertain as he was. 

“Besides, I don’t wanna miss this just because the world’s shit at being accessible.”

Max let out a quiet laugh, huffing out through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

“If I fall, though, I fully expect you to carry me bridal style.”

Max rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was already giving him away. “Sure,” he said sing-songingly, “whatever you say.”

And maybe he meant it more than you thought.

Then, you pause. A short-lived breath of silence before you two break out into a fit of laughter, smiling at each other with wide, toothy grins. And in the end, the wrinkle in his brow was gone. 

With a delighted, breathy laugh, you let your head fall onto his shoulder. Still grinning like an idiot, you whisper, “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The paddock was louder than you expected—engines whining in the distance, overlapping chatter, the occasional sharp bark of a laugh cutting through the crowd. It was a hive, constantly moving, never quiet—TV really downplays it. Even as Max stood beside you, you couldn’t help the shudder of nervousness jolt through you. There were so many people. It smelled of blistering heat, sunscreen, and the sterile tang of metal baking in the sun. A bit unconsciously, you adjusted the cuffs on your forearm crutches. A habit you were too tired to fix; one you never cared to, anyway.

“You good?” Max asked, and you hummed.

“Didn’t expect there to be so much happening,” you murmur, eyebrows knitting together as you squint, “TV doesn’t do it justice, I suppose.”

He just hummed in reply. Eyes glancing over the ever-moving crowd of people, busy chatting with friends and family, cameras clicking as soon as they lay eyes on the pair of you. Max took half a step closer, subtly shifting to block the line of sight from a nearby camera crew. He turned to you, quickly nodding his head forward and lifting a brow.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” you say, steadying yourself, lifting your gaze forward.

You shifted your grip on the handles, the rubber tips of the crutches tapping gently as you moved at your own rhythm beside Max. However, the sound of the taps against the pavement was drowned out by the crunching of rocks beneath the crowd's soles. Your movement was practiced—walking with ease, but moving with the flow of the crowd was something you weren’t used to. Subtly moving out of the way so no one bumped into you, or into your crutch for that matter.

“Are—god, are there usually this many people?” you mutter, groaning a little as someone brushes past, jostling you just enough to make you shift your weight onto one crutch for balance.

“Just here,” Max replies, glancing over his shoulder. His tone is calm and reassuring. “A little further and they’ll be gone. You alright?”

You make a noise of acknowledgement. A subtle ache creeps through you, one that wasn’t there, or at the very least not this noticeable a few seconds ago. That recognisable burning feeling digging deep under your skin, into your muscles. You felt your entire body tense up, and you scrunched up your nose. Why now? You weren’t even in the Team Hospitality yet—why was it hurting more now? Why couldn’t you get a chance to just fucking breathe?

The plastic on your crutches’ handles almost squealed as your grip tightened, and you prayed that Max didn’t notice. Your steps grew more unsteady, rhythm falling apart as your movement forward grew uncoordinated. 

Luckily, the Red Bull hospitality shortly reached your sight—and you felt how you exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding in; relieved at the mere sight of a place to rest.

“...I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Max murmurs under his breath, quiet enough that only you can hear it, “but you seem off. Is something going on?”

Damnit. You debate lying to him for a second, just so you don’t have to see him worry, but that’d only make you feel worse.

“Just some pain,” like usual, “I’ll be fine,” You reply, voice unsteady. Then, you pause, quiet—your voice wavering just a tad, “Is it that easy to notice?”

“Only to me. Don’t worry.”

Relief once again settles in your stomach, and you give him a nod. Hospitality was only a few metres away, and the thought of getting to sit down finally felt within reach.

The entrance to hospitality was just ahead, the Red Bull logo catching in the sun. Your arms were starting to shake—just a little—but enough that you knew they’d feel worse later. You adjusted your grip on the crutches again, your hand cramping slightly. You wince.

You felt a little silly walking up the stairs. Maybe it’s because of the fact that people are here and watching. But you heave yourself upwards, muttering curses under your breath, barely audible. He waits for you by the stairs, even if there are few. It was different. Having a crowd observing your every move, your every step, how you carry yourself, how you express yourself. 

Max holds the door open for you, and the cooling air from the AC hits the moment you step through the frame. Thank god, you think, if you had to stay out there for a mere beat longer, you think you’d boil alive. You feel how Max’s hand hovers over your back, and he leads you to his driver's room—it’s fairly tiny in your opinion. Walls bare with nothing on them, it’s dull, but it wasn’t like you were gonna stay there for long anyway.

You plop down on the couch stationed in his room, and Max throws you a water bottle as he begins changing into his fireproofs. The bottle is cold in your hand, and as you press it against your neck, you let out a pleased sigh. It stays there for a moment, and you let the chill thrum through your body. Refreshing.

“You gonna be in the garage?” Max’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, casting a look from over his shoulder as he drags the white fireproof over his head, “Just wondering, I guess. It’s gonna be a bit crowded, but I did manage to convince Horner to get you a chair to sit on.”

“Right, okay. Thank you.” You nod, eyes glued to his back as he pulls the white shirt overhead.

He only hums, tying the race suit around his waist and then turning to face you, tilting his head to the door as if beckoning you to follow him out. You nod back, grabbing your crutches and following him with ease. 

The garage is filled with people, and while not in the same way as the paddock, it still seems to make your ears ring with discomfort. Max kisses you on your temple, just murmuring an I’ll see you later, liefje, before scurrying away to his engineers. 

You find the chair he promised wedged between some tyres and spare parts—barely there, not even cared for, yet you still feel some semblance of gratitude just for its existence. Especially since there’s an ache in your legs from the earlier walk. It’s one of those cheap chairs you’d find at the dollar store—foldable, metal legs that screech as you sit down, one you would hate to sit on if you had a choice.

But let’s be real here, you didn’t. If you wanted to sit, that is.

Even if the noise in the garage is overwhelming, it’s somewhat nice. Seeing Max in his element up close. Not on TV, and you can actually reach out—talk to him, if you want to.

You shift in the chair, letting the metal squeak as it scrapes against the floor, searching for a position that doesn’t make your back scream. It doesn’t exist. You settle for “least awful,” crutches resting against your leg, one hand curled around the handle like muscle memory. The air smells of fuel and rubber, and the sound of electric drills and team radios keeps twitching in your ears. You try to focus on Max—his back turned, talking with his race engineer, hands moving like they always do when he’s focused. It's grounding, in a way.

You don’t realise someone’s looking at you until you feel it. That sticky kind of attention. Not curious. Not kind. You glance toward the edge of the garage where some fans crowd the rope barrier, hoping to catch a glimpse of Max.

People with their phones out, shuttering as they take pictures, the flash of their cameras making you wince just a little. 

“Holy shit,” you murmur, sighing.

You fish your phone out of your pocket, sliding it open with practiced ease. You open Twitter, like that’s a good idea. Then, you see something that you really don’t want to.

A tweet. A thread. You shouldn’t read it—but you do.

It hurt more than you thought it would—more than it probably should, really. But you can’t stop reading. Can’t stop scrolling. Can’t stop looking, even as a different kind of pain blooms in your chest—tight, hot, the kind that makes your throat ache and your eyes sting.

“Liefje?”

 Max’s voice cuts through the haze, soft but startling. You blink, pulling your gaze away from your screen as he approaches with a pair of headphones in hand.

“Oh—uh, yeah?” you answer quickly, forcing your voice to steady as your eyes meet his.

There’s a flicker in his expression. A furrow of concern that flashes across his face so fast you almost miss it. Your heart skips, tightens—but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push. Just holds out the headphones.

“Here,” he says, gentle. “The race is about to start.”

The headphones rattle lightly in his grasp, and you take them with a small smile you hope looks more real than it feels. “Thanks.”

“Mmm,” he murmurs, leaning down a little closer. “Love you. Give me a good luck kiss?”

You chuckle, nodding, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his lip. He lets out a grunt, instead firmly pressing his lips against yours. Real. Warm—intimate in a way you feel like you shouldn’t do in public.

You pull away, chest rising and sinking steadily, “Good luck out there.”

The race is a blur.

You remember the roar of the engines, the static in your ears from the team radio, the way the garage erupted on the final lap—but everything else melted into noise.

Max won. Of course he did. His home race, his crowd, his fucking dominance.

He came back beaming, flushed and giddy with adrenaline, grabbing you in a sweaty hug you almost laughed at—almost. You kissed his cheek, told him he did amazing, and he just smiled into your neck.

Once the two of you got to the hotel, he immediately went to go shower—ridding himself of the sticky champagne stuck to his skin. In the meanwhile, you were sitting on the bed, crutches propped up on a chair placed in the corner, your phone in your hand, your grasp tight—hands trembling—even if just a little. 

The comments are still there, hells, of course they are. You knew that people would be relentless. It was inevitable, really. You just didn’t expect it to be on this level.

He can’t even stand on his own two feet. Why would he even go if he can’t celebrate the win with Max? Such an attention seeker.

You shouldn’t have looked. You knew better.

But the silence was loud and your chest felt too tight and you thought—just for a second—that maybe someone had defended you. Even if you couldn’t find them.

Your eyes burn with regret, it was stupid—but maybe you shouldn’t have come at all.

The bathroom door creaks open. You don’t look up.

Max steps out in a towel, hair dripping and sticking to his forehead, face flushed from the heat. He’s humming something under his breath, light and content, completely missing the way you wipe at your face too fast.

He slides in under the covers right next to you, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. And then, slowly, he stills. He feels it—your uneven breath, the way your shoulders flinch away, the tension in your spine.

His hold loosens.

“…Are you okay?”

You try to swallow the lump formed in your throat, try to shoo away the tears in the corners of your eyes, “I’m fine— just tired.” Your words come out too fast, too tight. And you know he can see right through you.

“No, you’re crying, you’re clearly not okay,” he states, and the gentle way he holds you feels like he’s breaking you. “Please, liefje. Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Just— fucking hell, it’s the fans.” 

“If they’re hating on you, they are certainly not my fans,” he says without hesitation. His hand moves to wipe your cheek. “What did they say?”

“Nothing new.” 

“Then they don’t matter.”

His voice stays soft, steady. “What they think will never matter. They’re just assholes who think they know you. Liefje, they don’t know you. And they’re just… privileged idiots who’ve never struggled a day in their lives.”

You sniff, eyes drifting to the side. Away from Max. “I know, it just—it felt like I shouldn’t be there. Like I ruined it.”

Max is silent for a moment. Then he shifts closer, wraps both arms around you like he’s anchoring you in place. Like you’re the most important thing in the world.

And maybe, right now—you are.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs. “If anything, you made it better. I saw you in the garage and I drove better because of you. You being there didn’t ruin it, liefje.”

A pause, his lips brushing your hair.

“It meant everything.”

You don’t fight it this time. You let yourself cry. Quiet and shaking, face tucked against his shoulder, and Max just holds you through it all—steadfast and soothing, like he always is.

And for the first time all day, you feel like you can breathe again.

The morning hits you like a crashing wave of stiffness and exhaustion. The sun gleams just slightly in between the curtains, and you let out a quiet groan, opening your phone to check the time. Only 8 am.

Your body aches, your eyes feel sore, and the weight of last night clings to you in invisible threads. Max’s arm is still loosely draped over your waist, his breathing even and slow. Peaceful.

You should put your phone down. Try to go back to sleep. But instead, instinct wins—you tap open Instagram.

The first thing you see is a photo Max posted just a few minutes ago.

liked by lando, danielricciardo and 732K others

maxverstappen1 Thank you Zandvoort, what an amazing race! Nothing I love more than winning in front of the man I love most. ❤️

comments on this post has been limited.

You blink. Once. Twice. Your breath catches, and suddenly the noise from last night feels a little more distant. A little less sharp.

Max stirs beside you, mumbling sleepily as he shifts closer. His arm finds your waist automatically, chin nuzzling into your shoulder.

“You saw it?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, I did.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, gentle. “Let them talk. I’ll keep loving you louder.”

You smile, eyes stinging in that way they do when you're not quite crying but feel full to the brim anyway. Maybe today will still be hard. Maybe tomorrow too. But right now, in this bed, wrapped in his arms and his words—you feel okay.

©lilliezzzzz-fics: please don't copy or distribute my work on any platform

credits: @/cafekitsune for the dividers <3

taglist: @toodeepintofandoms

[insomniac4000]

Cold Brew and Hot Takes

An enemies to lovers WillNE fic. 3077 words.

The bell above the coffee shop door jingled, almost too cheerful for the energy that followed it. As usual, he walked in like he owned the place.

“Morning,” he said, dragging out the word in that deep Geordie accent that had somehow become synonymous with smugness to everyone behind the counter.

She didn’t look up. Not yet. She needed a second to prepare herself, and then;

“I’ll have an iced coffee,” WillNE announced, already taking out his card before she could even blink.

“No please? Shocking,” she muttered under her breath, glancing at the screen as she punched it in.

He heard it. He always did.

“I’d say sorry, but it wouldn’t be very me, would it?” he said, flashing a grin that made two of her colleagues giggle behind the pastry case. Traitors she thought as she tried to avoid eye contact with him at all costs and set about to make his drink.

Undeterred Will leaned casually against the counter, watching as she filled a cup with ice and coffee. “Y’know, if I weren’t loyal to this place, I’d start my own chain. Probably call it, like, Will’s Brews or something. I’d make a fortune. Could probably do it better.”

She shot him a look. “You said that yesterday.”

“I say a lot of things,” he shrugged. “Like how I could make a viral video out of just walking in here and annoying you.”

She handed over the iced coffee without a word, but with the kind of passive-aggressive smile that could kill a man if it came with a straw. He took the drink and sauntered to a corner table, pulling out a laptop covered in Quadrant and YouTube stickers. Always on brand. Always visible.

“Is that him again?” Lia whispered to her once he was out of earshot.

“Of course it is,” she muttered. “Mr. I-Invented-Caffeine. If he says ‘I could do it better’ one more time, I’m going to tip espresso over his MacBook.”

“Careful,” their manager joked. “He’s technically a loyal customer. Comes in almost every day.”

“Yeah, like a cocky ghost that just haunts me at this point.”

Despite herself, she glanced over. Will was already sipping the iced coffee like it had wronged him. He pulled a face.

“Needs more syrup!” he shouted across the room.

“Make your own!” she snapped, and heard Lia try (and fail) to suppress a laugh.

The weirdest part wasn’t how often he came in; it was how often he stayed.

Sometimes, Will would grab the iced coffee and vanish within minutes, probably off to shoot a video or go shout at someone on a podcast. Sometimes he came in with his friend “Jim” she had heard him be called but often he was alone. But more and more lately, he lingered. Laptop open, AirPods in, tapping away at some document or spreadsheet that screamed fake productivity.

And on those days, when the shop was slow, she ended up talking to her co-workers about things. Life. Her friends. Her ridiculous family. And sometimes… her ex.

“I just let it go on for too long,” she’d said one afternoon, while frothing milk. “He’d nitpick everything. Who I texted, what I wore, if I wanted to go out with friends. And the worst part is, I knew. I knew he was controlling. I just… I let it happen.”

Will didn’t look up from his laptop, but he had paused typing.

“And then one day, I just snapped. Threw his crap out, blocked his number. Never felt lighter.”

Lia had said something supportive, and they moved on. But Will didn’t type again for a good ten minutes after that, when she glanced over it his table was sitting there staring out the window while stirring his drink.

It was another Tuesday same as any other really, the group of old women had came in at opening for their tea and cake before their community centre exercise lesson, older kids had come in for their sugar syrup concoctions or hot chocolates and the commuter rush had them off their feet for a while but that was over now it was nine thirty.

Will walked in, sunglasses on indoors like the walking red flag she insisted he was. She braced herself.

“Iced coffee,” he said. “And tell Lia she still makes it better than you.”

“She’s off today,” she replied, already grinding beans. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Shame. Guess I’ll just power through.”

He stayed again that day. Stayed and listened to her talk to the manager about how she’d gone on a Hinge date that was “so catastrophically bad it almost made her miss her ex.”

“Not quite,” she’d added. “But close.”

It was a grey Thursday, drizzly and dull. Will was there typing something or pretending to, when the front door opened and he walked in.

Her stomach dropped.

Tall, broad, leather jacket. That same patronizing smirk that had made her skin crawl in the final months. Her ex. How did he even find out she was working here?

He looked around the shop until he spotted her, then strode up to the counter.

“Didn’t answer my texts,” he said. No hello no pleasantries.

Her spine straightened. “That’s because I blocked you.”

“Then unblock me. We need to talk.”

“I don’t think we do.”

He leaned closer, voice lower now, sharper. “Don’t be like this. You know this thing between us; it’s not over. You’re just in a phase.”

A phase. Like she was a teenage rebellion, like she didn’t know her own mind. She knew the signs now he was trying to get under her skin, trying to manipulate her.

“Back off,” she said, louder than she meant to.

Customers were starting to look. Will had stood up.

“I don’t want to cause a scene,” her ex said, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I just think you’re making a mistake. We both know you can’t cope without me.”

“And I think you should leave,” she said, her voice shaking now, but not with fear. With anger.

“Or what?” he challenged.

Then Will was there. She hadn’t even seen him move. One second he was at the back, the next he was between her and the ex.

“She said to back off,” Will said, arms folded, voice calm but firm.

Her ex sized him up. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone with ears. And zero tolerance for creeps who don’t understand boundaries.”

“Mate, this is none of your business—”

Will stepped forward. “It is when you walk in here and start harassing someone. She doesn’t owe you a conversation. She doesn’t owe you anything. You lost your chance. So maybe walk away before you embarrass yourself further.”

A tense pause.

Her ex scoffed, but the bravado cracked just slightly. “Whatever,” he muttered. “I was just trying to be civil.”

And then he left, the door slamming behind him hard enough to make the bell clang.

Silence fell.

Will turned to her. “You okay?”

She nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. I… thanks.”

“No worries,” he said, scratching the back of his neck like it had just hit him that everyone was watching.

She blinked. “I mean it. That could’ve gone badly.”

“Well,” Will smirked, “what can I say? I might be a pain in the arse, but I don’t like bullies.”

She let out a small laugh, the tension finally beginning to melt from her shoulders.

“Maybe you’re not a complete egomaniac.”

“Careful,” he said, stepping back with a grin. “You say enough nice things, I might think we’re friends.”

She rolled her eyes, but something in her chest had shifted. For the first time, she wasn’t looking at WillNE and seeing arrogance or antics or an overconfident YouTuber with a caffeine problem.

She saw someone who’d actually heard her. Someone who’d stepped up.

And that was new.

It was later on in that day and the adrenaline had long worn off, replaced with a bone-deep tiredness as the sky outside slipped from grey to black. The afternoon rush had died down, and it was closing time, the bell dinged again

“Sorry we’re just about to clo…” she started but smiled a little on seeing Will.

“I know, I was just about to go home but wanted to check in and see how you were doing?”. That was how it started, we watched her clean initially as she tried to convince him she was fine Will then ended up drying mugs, of all things.

“Y’know,” he said, holding one up to the light like it was a precious artifact, “this is dangerously close to real work.”

She raised a brow, sweeping crumbs from the counter. “Didn’t think you were the type to help close up.”

“I’m not,” he admitted, “but figured since I stepped into someone else’s argument like some low-rent superhero, I might as well follow through.”

She gave him a smirk. “Low-rent’s accurate.”

He let out a laugh—loud, genuine, startled. It was the kind of laugh that made her feel slightly proud for pulling it out of him.

They cleaned in a quiet rhythm for a few minutes, the silence companionable for the first time.

Then, Will glanced over. “Can I ask you something, though? Not like... nosey. Proper question.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve been thinking about starting a coffee brand. Been talking with James, you know the massive tall guy I’m sometimes with about it for months. No name yet we’re currently in the research phase.”

She shook her head, amused. “So… what’s the plan? Just slap your face on a bag of beans and go?”

“That was option one, yeah,” he deadpanned. “It’s going to be iced coffee of course but more coffee shop standard but at home. I started thinking, I come in here nearly every day. I see people’s orders, see how they act. There’s patterns. And I thought… you probably know all that stuff better than I ever could. The psychology of coffee drinkers or whatever.”

She gave him a long, slightly surprised look.

“That’s… actually kind of thoughtful.”

He put a hand to his chest. “Please don’t ruin my reputation.”

She laughed. “Alright, well—okay. There are patterns. Not wanting to stereotype at all but some things are mostly true, younger people love their syrups and flavours. Out of the alternatives oat makes the best coffee. Tea people are tea people and can never be converted,”

Will cracked up again.

“And,” she continued, now warming to it, “Americano drinkers are either in finance, in therapy, or need to be. You can tell a lot from someone’s drink. Especially how they treat you while ordering it.”

Will looked oddly thoughtful. “That's… kinda brilliant.”

She shrugged, a little bashful. “It’s just stuff you notice when you make a thousand drinks a week.”

“No, seriously,” he said. “You talk about it like an actual craft. Like it’s not just... pouring things into cups.”

“Well,” she said, quieter now, “it’s kind of the only thing I had to rebuild with.”

He looked at her then—not with that cocky spark he usually had, but with genuine interest.

“I was doing art full-time,” she explained. “Illustration. Freelance gigs, murals. But my ex didn’t exactly encourage that. Said it wasn’t stable, and we couldn’t have two people with unstable careers. So I gave it up.”

Will was silent.

“And when I left him, I had nothing. No savings, no place to live. Started over. Took the first job I could get. It was this place.”

“Damn,” Will said softly. “That’s heavy.”

She gave a small smile. “It’s better now. Slowly getting back into it. Sketched a bit again last month. Felt like remembering a part of me I forgot.”

He paused. “Would you ever want to do something with it again? Like, fully?”

“God, yeah,” she admitted, laughing. “If I could afford it. If I had the time. If I had the confidence again.”

He nodded slowly, then, in a voice that surprised her with its seriousness: “What if you did something for me?”

She blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” he said, setting a mug down carefully. “We need a logo, a website. Something bold and weird. But like… cool weird. Not too weird and off the wall.”

She snorted. “You’re terrible at selling yourself.”

“Yeah, but I’m great at selling other people,” he said, grinning. “I’ll pay you properly, obviously. Could even plug your work in the promo. Get you commissions again.”

She was quiet for a long beat. “…That’s actually really kind of you.”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “You’re talented. And you haven’t called me a ‘walking ego problem’ once tonight. Growth.”

She laughed, warm and surprised. “Give it time.”

The next morning, he came in like always.

But instead of barking “iced coffee” like it was a military command, he gave her a lopsided smile and said, “Morning. I’ll get the usual, please.”

She blinked.

“Wow. A please? Did you hit your head on the way in?”

“Shh,” Will whispered. “Don’t let the others know. They expect a certain level of cheek.”

She handed him the iced coffee. “You’re evolving. Like a caffeinated Pokémon.”

He chuckled, stepping aside. “Also, I’ve got a mood board I wanna show you. For the coffee packaging.”

Her eyes widened. “Already?”

“What can I say? I’m a man of impulsive brilliance.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips.

Over the next few weeks, the vibe between them changed.

He’d bring her snacks sometimes. They’d swap memes and jokes and she made his drink. She started showing him sketches during her breaks, and he’d give brutally honest but helpful feedback. (“This one’s sick.” “That one looks great but not really what we’re looking for.”) She appreciated his honesty.

And one quiet afternoon, she caught herself watching him laugh with Lia and thought: Maybe he’s not so bad.

Maybe, in fact, he was something else entirely.

It had rained that morning London rain, soft and annoying and everywhere, the fine rain that soaked you through. She was wiping off the counter near the window when Will came in. Hood up, trainers soaked, coffee order already on his lips.

But instead of the usual cheeky grin, he looked… drained.

“Morning,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “Can I just… get something warm today?”

She blinked. “What, no iced coffee? Who are you and what’ve you done with my most irritating regular?”

That earned the faintest smirk. “I know. The drama.”

She started on a flat white. “You alright?”

He scratched the back of his neck, still dripping a bit. “Didn’t sleep.”

She paused, glanced at him. Something wasn’t right.

He slid onto the stool at the end of the counter as she passed him the coffee.

“I had this shoot last night,” he started, “for some mates content. Long, late, lots of lights, mates kept talking about how I’ve changed.”

She furrowed her brow. “What does that even mean?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. But it got in my head.”

A quiet settled between them, the usual noise of the shop feeling distant.

“I think,” he said slowly, fingers tracing the rim of the cup, “I’ve been a bit depressed lately, I was seeing this girl for five years we broke up, no big drama just grew apart and I think I isolated myself a little. My mates kept banging on about how I kept bringing the mood down all the time, I don’t think I realised just how sad and lonely I became.

She stayed silent. Let him talk.

“And lately… I dunno. I’ve been wondering if I actually like who I am off camera. Or if I’ve spent so long turning everything into a bit that I forgot how to just… exist. Be normal. Whatever that is. Maybe just a bit of an indentity crisis I guess, happens to content creators a lot.”

He laughed, bitterly. “Listen to me. Getting all weirdly philosophical in a coffee shop like some divorced poet.”

She gave him a soft look. “You’re not weird. You’re just being honest.”

“Dangerous game,” he muttered, looking out the rain-smeared window. “Especially in front of you. You used to want to poison my coffee.”

“Still do sometimes,” she teased, and he laughed, more genuinely this time.

“I think…” she said after a moment, “you’re allowed to outgrow who people think you are. Especially if that person was always performing for someone else’s expectations.”

He looked over at her, something softer in his eyes now. “That your therapist voice?”

“No,” she said, suddenly bashful. “That’s just… me. Trying to make sense of stuff too.”

They stayed there for a while.

Later that week, he came in after closing.

“Got you a thank-you gift,” he announced, holding up a bottle of wine and a bag of tortilla chips.

“Classy,” she said, amused.

“I contain multitudes,” he replied, grinning.

They sat on the counter, lights dimmed, wine in mismatched mugs. She kicked off her shoes. He shed his coat.

They talked. Really talked.

About pressure, about art, about how her ex once threw out a sketchbook because he said it was “a waste of energy.” Will swore under his breath and handed her the chips like they were a prize for surviving it.

About Will’s first viral video and how for years, he wondered if that version of him—the loud, sarcastic, shouty guy—was the only thing people wanted.

“You’re different when it’s just us,” she said, eyes on the way he swirled his wine without realizing.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Better or worse?”

“Real,” she said simply. “I like it.”

He looked at her then, eyes steady and searching.

“You know,” he murmured, “you’ve got this way of seeing straight through people. Kind of terrifying.”

“You hide it well. Most people don’t notice.”

“I do,” he said. Quiet. Almost reverent.

The silence bloomed between them again—but this time, it wasn’t awkward.

It was electric.

When he kissed her, it was hesitant at first. Like he was checking she wouldn’t flinch or bolt or make a joke. But she didn’t. She leaned in, let it happen. Let it deepen.

When they pulled away, neither of them said anything for a few seconds.

Then Will whispered, “You still gonna call me a walking ego tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Oh, absolutely. Maybe more now.”

He laughed and rested his forehead against hers.

Outside, the city moved. Inside, for once, they didn’t.

[jinxthequeergirl]

The Ol switcharoo (pt3)

Stan pines x reader/ ford pines x reader

Summary: 30 years pass and you meet stanfords family.

Warning: NONE

Sorry for another short chapter. Consider this a filler episode. Chapter four should be better.

~~~~~~~~☆~~~~~~

30 years is a long time.

You can do a lot in that time.

You can live a lot of different lives in 30 years.

You started cutting your hair in that time, Stanford taught you to box, You'd gone on many different adventures. Most of which you often questioned the legality of, but they still made you laugh.

Now you mainly tended to the Mystery shack no more adventures, you wondered as you sat on the couch next to Stanford when you'd gotten so old. And when your life had changed so much.

You had almost forgotten all about anything before your family vacation. you and Stanford had grown into a pretty comfortable life together. You wouldn't lie you'd come to love the life you've grown into with him.

But you've also missed the adventures you used to go on, finding monsters , exploring the unknown.

But you were only met with gluing eyeballs to pieces of plastic halloween decorations and making up stories to make out of towns folk get a good laugh in.

You had tried to find Stanfords journals just to "relive the glory days" but with no luck.

You were never sure what happened to them, if he had accidentally tossed them out, if he had lost them himself or if that was part of what happened while you where away. Either way you stopped looking. You never asked about them either.

Stanford seemed to really enjoy his life with you too, you never got the idea he wanted to turn back or like he was waiting for some big adventure.

"This may sound corny but you and the mystery shack are my big adventure...I wouldn't trade you or the old shack for anything y/n. Not. For. ANYTHING."

So you stopped worrying yourself with the journals or the old research, let alone the real monsters that lurked in the woods.

You hunkered down, sold stories and bumper stickers in your matching suits and watched night time television before falling asleep on top of eachother every night.

This was the routine you'd fallen into. You found it odd if you had to sleep without Stanfords shoulder as your pillow or his jolt of laughter before he realized you fell asleep. It was odd for both of you to not debate who got giftshop duity over tour duties. (You always got gift shop.)

It was odd when a pair of twins arrived on your front lawn.

"You never talk about your family." You said following Stanford down the stairs to meet them. "Sure I do." He said clearly a little nervous.

"Mmm no...I didn't know you had a sister! Let alone great neices and nephews!..excuse us, Soos." You say almost chasing him through the gift shop almost knocking soos over.

He paused as both of you looked out the little door window at them. "Listen...I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my family... to be fair... we aren't really close..but somethings came up and-" You could see his stress building up as he tried to piece together something that made you understand how important it was to make a good impression on those kids.

You placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm here with you... you can explain it all later, but right now, I'm right by your side, like always." He smiled and placed a hand on top of yours.

Before heading outside to me, you are in tow.

"I DIDN'T KNOW I HAD A GREAT AUNT! A GRANT!? A GRRR...GRAUNT!?" The girl in the pair shouted excitedly after stan had introduced you to them.

"That's cause you don't. We aren't married y/ns a friend."

You laughed at the girl who energetically and enthusiastically introduced herself as Mable. The introduction was followed by several need to know now questions, all of which would later be scribbled onto a paper for you to fill out and return to her.

☆what's your favorite color

☆ do you like my grunkle stan?

☆if you were a magical creature, what would you be? Why? WHAT WOULD I BE? why?

☆do you LOOOOVEEE grunkle stan?

☆opinion on stickers?

"Alright, you two leys get you up to your room for the summer." Stan said, pulling Mable away from you and grabbing her bags.

You grabbed the second set of bags and followed stan and the two kids.

"Dipper, right?" You asked the boy who fell in line with you "oh yea! Yep that's me!" He laughed nervously.

"Very cool name,I like your hat by the way." You prayed you didn't seem like you were trying too hard to get them to like you.

"So you and grunkle stan run this place?" Dipper asked, looking at all your hot glue collages as Stanford decided to give them the grand tour before their room.

"Yup." You nodded.

"What's the point? Isn't this all fake? I mean... I can see the string on the invisible man's glasses." He said pointing out the attraction as you passed.

"Oh c'mon Dipper, how could you not love the jackalope!? Is he a deer? Is he a rabbit? I can't tell!" Mable said, carrying the creature in her arms like a teddy bear.

"I just don't get it? Why lie to people when I'm sure there has to be something real out there!"

You smiled at him. He sounded like you when you were a kid...he sounded more like Stanford before the shack. "You like the supernatural?" You asked.

"Oh yea, dippers a huge nerd he loves all that junk!" Mable said punching her brother in the shoulder.

"Oh, here we go! Don't get this one started on mystery and supernatural boogie men!" Stanford said, stopping to join your conversation.

"Y/n used to be big on hunting and looking for stuff like this." He said, wrapping his arm around you. "Used too...I haven't in over 30 years...it got too complicated." You opted to give them a simple answer as to why you stopped.

"Really!? That's so cool!" Dipper exclaimed. "If you ever need someone to go on adventures with, you can trust me."

Over the upcoming weeks, it was slightly rocky with the kids getting settled in, but eventually, they started warming up to the shack as well as yourself and Stanford.

You were quite pleased to have their company, actually. You felt something change in your everyday lives when they entered the shack.

"Depending on who you ask." You said continuing your story as you placed plates in front of the kids. "Your grunkle and I are married." The kids gasped. "Only through some silly machine in Vegas it wasn't real there was this one time -"

Stan chuckled to himself as you told the story of your fake marriage in Vegas as he watched the three of you laugh in the kitchen.

He smiled. Watching you frantically move your arms to further dramatice the story, a certain shine he'd noticed had been missing from your eyes for a few years now. You had it when he'd met you.

The same day, he knew things would be different for him. They HAD been different. You accepted him for everything he was. You went along with his crazy shenanigans. You gave up a whole life for him.

He remembered the birthday parties you had thrown for him. Even if you were the only person to be there for him.

He knew after a few years of you doing so that you would always be the only one there. He had the strangest feeling the night of his 35 birthday when he realized this.

He lied awake in bed, staring at the ceiling when it occurred to him what the feeling was.

"Oh no."

He quietly snuck away from you and the kids, still hearing your laughter erupt through the house behind him. He made his way into the darkened gift shop and punched a code into the vending machine, and went down to the basement he swore to you he'd destroyed.

30 years, and all he had offered you was lies. After all you'd done for him after all the care you'd shown him after all you had sacrificed. He just wanted you to have a normal life. A good life.

Not something he had fabricated.

He spent most of his time thinking about the large machine that still sat in his basement, the other half worrying about you. If he was giving a good life if he was soing as good a job being in your life as you had done for him.

He worried about what might happen when, IF he was able to pull of bringing his brother back.

How would you react to being lied to for 30 years. Maybe you did really feel the same way he had felt about you for years and you would forgive him.

In order for that to work, he'd have to actually admit his feelings to you.

He wanted to, he also wanted do a lot more for you in the 30 years you'd been together but always failed before he could make a move or do anything really. He pushed aside a notepad filled with ideas of kind gestures he could do for you (most of which were crossed out) and replaced the space with the journal Ford had left him.

He would get it right.

All of it.

Eventually.

Then again.

He could always ask Mable.

While you laughed with two kids at a dinner table and Stanley beat himself up about lying and tried to rebuild his life.

The real Stanford pines sat out there amongst the stars with nothing but a creased photo of the two of you and wondered why it was taking you so long to find him.

~~~~~~~☆~~~~~

Taglist:

@muffin1304

@katharine3000

@leo4242564

@space1crow

@steveharringtongf

@mckennaishere07

@nothingbutcloud

@anicega

@i-am-tiredd

@babydoll-143

@fanficcrow

@slay-thou-pookie

@bandaids-n-porceline

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Ten

Series Masterlist This chapter had a lot of mistakes when I pulled it up, so forgive me (or better yet, shoot me an ask) if you see any editing issues I might have missed! I just need to get it out and I can look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow. Also! Do y'all think this story needs a signature cover pic or is posting it without media okay?

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The sound reaches Kelly before anything else does- low, repetitive, clinical.

Not music. Not voices. Just engines. Tires over rumble strips. A gearbox caught mid-shift.

It’ wasn’t unusual, at first. Racing is their whole life. Their apartment is crowned with race memorabilia and sim rig parts and limited edition stickers tucked neatly into drawers. But something about the loop- the steadiness of it, the fact that it hasn’t changed since she left him this morning- makes her stomach tighten.

She walks quietly through the entryway, coat still on, bag slung over one shoulder. The lights are dim. It’s late. And Max is exactly where she figured he’d be. On the couch. Elbows braced on his knees. One hand thumbing through a frame-by-frame replay on his phone while the big screen mirrors the onboard feed from Zandvoort. Not his.

Hers.

Again.

Kelly doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches as Max gives P a half-armed hug and lets her scurry off to her room without so much as looking away from the screen. The ghost-blue glow of the television flickers across his face as he rewinds the same three seconds for the fifth time- brake, shift, turn-in, throttle. Brake. Shift. Turn-in. Throttle.

The footage is raw. No commentary. No overlay. Just the cockpit camera, the static of the engine, and the sound of her breathing through the corners. Kelly quietly sets her bag on the chair by the door. “You’ve watched that one before,” she says, lightly, not accusing. Just… noticing.

Max doesn’t glance up. “It’s clean.”

She crosses the room slowly, unzipping her coat. “Is that why you’re watching it on loop at 10 PM?”

His eyes stay on the screen. “It’s clean,” he repeats.

There’s a pause. The footage stutters and restarts. Her lap at Spa. That final sector, again. Kelly doesn’t sit. She just stands near the edge of the kitchen island, watching him the way someone watches a rabid dog. With caution. She tries again, gentler this time. “Do you need something to eat? You didn’t touch dinner.”

Max shakes his head once, barely a motion. “I’m not hungry.”

Kelly swallows the sigh threatening to rise in her chest. Not because she’s angry. Not even because she’s jealous. But because something is wrong, and he won’t say what it is. She waits for him to explain. He doesn’t.

“It’s just…” she gestures vaguely toward the screen. “That’s the only thing you’ve been watching lately. Not your races. Not your onboard. Not the other teams.”

Max finally looks over at her, but it’s more of a glance than a connection. “I’m just trying to understand something. Understand what eve-” He stops, like he realizes he was dangerously close to saying something real. 

“Understand what?”

Deflection. “Her line through Pouhon.”

That’s it. No elaboration. No analysis. No curiosity. Just her line. The way she takes a corner. Like it’s that fucking simple.

Kelly walks around to face him fully now. Her voice is calm but razor-thin. “You’ve won two races since Zandvoort. Two. And you didn’t even fucking smile on either podium.”

He still doesn’t look at her. That’s what breaks her. 

Kelly wraps her arms around herself. She suddenly feels cold, like the air in the room has shifted without her permission. “You’ve been off lately,” she says, carefully. “Not just here. Everywhere. After the race… the podium… it’s like you’re not even there.”

Max doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even blink. His jaw flexes once. That’s all.

Kelly presses her lips together. “Did something happen?”

He hits rewind. The footage stutters again. She watches him watch her- slow motion this time. The car rotates through Eau Rouge, and he’s studying her steering input like a man dissecting scripture.

“Max.”

He exhales through his nose. Not a sigh. Not frustration. Just… breathing. “Nothing happened,” he says.

She nods once. It’s not confirmation. Not really. The room is silent again, except for the sound of the car. Her car. Her lap. Kelly runs a hand through her hair, a quiet fidget. “Okay.”

She doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t push. She just turns, heads toward the hallway, leaving Max in the half-light, the onboard footage playing on a loop behind her.

He doesn’t notice her leave. He’s already rewinding again.

It starts happening at night.

Max disappears after dinner- doesn’t say where, doesn’t say why. Just vanishes down the hallway and shuts the office door behind him.

The first few nights, she pretends not to care. Watches a show by herself. Answers emails. Does a skincare routine she’s too tired to enjoy. By the fifth night, it’s not just a habit- it’s a pattern. The door locks at 9:37 PM, give or take a minute. Doesn’t open again until after midnight.

Kelly hears it click every time. 

She checks before she goes to bed, like she always does now. Just to be sure. Just to feel the cold insult of the handle not turning. She waits until almost midnight before knocking. She knows what’s on the other side of it.

It’s not porn. She almost wishes it were. Porn would make more sense. Porn is human.

This isn’t that. It’s LeChriste. Her voice. Her radio calls. Her data sheets. Her footage. Max hunched over two monitors, running laps she drove like he’s trying to solve a fucking murder. No change in tone. No interest in the noise of the outside world. Just… her.

When he opens the door, Max looks like he hasn’t blinked in hours. His hair is messy. His jaw tense. The backlight of the monitors still flickering across the room. One of them is paused on a sector-three throttle trace- hers, of course. The numbers glow like static.

The apartment is cold. Her fingers are cold. She’s standing in the hallway of her own home like a stranger. Watching her partner obsess over a girl who has no idea what she’s doing to him. What he’s letting her do. 

And somewhere beneath the quiet worry, beneath the sad, tired ache of a life being consumed by someone who’s never even set foot in your house- there’s fear.

Because it’s not admiration in Max’s eyes. It’s something darker.

Two days later, when Kelly brings it up, she’s not even trying to sound gentle anymore.

“You’re obsessed.”

Max doesn’t look up from his dinner plate. “I’m not.”

She laughs- just once. It’s bitter. “Your office is locked most nights. You watch her laps on loop. You read every article with her name in it, even the ones in fucking French. You don’t talk to me, you don’t touch me, and you haven’t looked at me like I’m a person in four weeks. But sure. You’re not obsessed.”

He sets his fork down with a little too much force. “You think I’m cheating? With her?”

“No,” Kelly says, too fast. “I think if you were cheating I’d at least understand it.”

That makes him pause. She watches the flicker in his posture- not guilt. Offense. “I don’t even follow her on Instagram,” he mutters, like it proves something. “Go through my phone if you want. There’s nothing there. We don’t talk. She’s not- she’s not in my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Kelly says.

Max turns, finally, face drawn tight. “What, you think I’m into her or something?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“No, Max. I’m saying it doesn’t matter what kind of obsession it is. Love, hate, whatever the fuck this is- she’s in here.” Kelly taps her temple once, sharp. “And there’s no room for anyone else.”

Max glares. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m lonely.” Her voice cracks. “There’s a difference.” He doesn’t answer. He moves to walk past her- dismissive, ready to lock himself in again- but she stops him with a final word. 

“It’s sad.”

Max stops, barely glancing her way.

“That you can’t enjoy any of it,” she says softly. “Your wins. Your life. Me. Because you’re too busy trying to find a flaw in someone who doesn’t even think about you.”

This time, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend. He just disappears back into his office and locks the door.

It clicks at 9:38 PM.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You don’t get why people complain about England so much.

Milton Keynes isn’t bad. A little flat, sure. Everything closes too early, and the roundabouts are borderline sadistic. But the tail end of summer is hanging on, and the air outside the back plaza smells like grass and warm tarmac, and sometimes you think that’s enough.

Maybe you only feel this way because you’re not completely broke anymore. That helps. You’ve been able to make one or two fair payments on the debt your parents took for the Dale Coyne stint. 

You can comfortably keep enough, enough for your meals, your subscriptions, a splurge on a new pair of Levi’s and some skincare- and still send home more than you ever could at Dale Coyne. That part probably has more to do with them allowing you to stay in a windowless driver’s room above the factory and being too busy to actually do much beyond work and eat, but still. For once it’s not hanging over your head like a guillotine.

Maybe it’s because your mom says that offers are flying into the email inbox you share- not that you can open them, not that any of the subject lines have been titled with an F1 team, but there’s time yet before your November deadline draws up. (31 days, but who’s counting?)

Or maybe it’s because you’re respected here. As a person. As a contributor.

You’re not a wildcard here. Not a one-off. Not a name they trot out when they want a media boost or a miracle in sector three. They parked you here after Zandvoort- quietly, without much ceremony- and you’ve made yourself so useful they’d be stupid to let you go.

Sim work happens in the early mornings and after hours, when the building hums and nobody’s watching. That’s when you go deep- when the static clears and you can disappear into the numbers without someone asking if you’re sure you’re supposed to be here.

You code your own plug-ins. Build your own test stints. Optimize long runs with a spreadsheet no one else knows how to read. Gavin says it’s freakish, the way you love it.

He’s taken to staying late, playing engineer.

He’s not great at it. Not yet. He doesn’t have the practiced timing of a true race engineer- the split-second instinct to give you what you need before you ask for it, the sharpness under pressure. His delivery’s a little clunky, and sometimes he gets flustered when he has to shout over the engine sim. But he tries. Hard. And he doesn’t seem to mind that you don’t always wait for him to finish his sentences before you act on what he’s saying.

He’s got ambition. Heart. A notebook full of color-coded tabs and a voice that cracks when he’s tired. And you like that about him. You like the way he’s game for anything, even if he’s unsure, even if he’s guessing.

He doesn’t mind staying late or getting up early. Sometimes you’re elbow-deep in sector analysis at midnight, and he’s in the next seat with a half-eaten protein bar and one sock missing, running lap deltas until his laptop dies.

You’re forgiving with each other. You stumble. He fumbles. You laugh. It’s kind of fun.

Sometimes, when the runs go long and the lights dim overhead, it feels like you’re kids again- just two overachievers playing house in a Formula 1 sandbox. There’s no championship on the line. No press conferences. No goddamn legacy dragging behind you like a chain. Just work. Pure, addictive, gratifying work.

But the real magic still happens during the day.

That’s when the factory’s full- engineers, developers, race staff, logistics. People who are designing next year’s car, refining this year’s package, tightening every variable until it's all down to fractions of fractions. That’s your window. You slip into places you don’t belong- not really- but you pretend that you do.

You poke around. You ask questions. You offer insight where you have it. Soak up knowledge where you don’t. You pressure the dev team to sign off on more test drives, and when they do, you deliver. You give feedback so meticulous it borders on obsessive, and instead of brushing you off, they thank you for it.

And they listen.

They care.

They pull you into conversations, ask your opinion, remember how you take your coffee. They tell you when something’s going to break your heart, and when something might break records. You still don’t have a race seat. You still are greeted by a factory when you open your bedroom door. But for the first time in a long time, you feel like you belong.

You’re not in exile anymore.

You belong. At least, it feels like it.

It’s a good rhythm. Hard, grueling, nonstop- but it’s good. It’s yours.

So when they schedule a braking test and mention Max is flying in to run some laps too, you don’t think anything of it.

If anything, you think it might be kind of nice.

You haven’t seen an active driver since your last race. A few hours of track time- even just for feedback- will be good for everyone. You miss the rhythm of it. The language of it. The quiet competitiveness of being in the garage with someone who knows exactly what it feels like to thread a car through chaos and call it control.

Max is smart. He’s sharp. You’re not friends, but you’re not enemies either. He’s always been professional. Maybe a little short, maybe a little distant, but he’s under pressure too. Everyone is. You figure working with him might even be refreshing- he's good at what he does, and if nothing else, you respect that.

You’re still a little annoyed this braking package is even being tested. You flagged it as a waste of time two weeks ago when they booked the track- said as much to the room, in fact- but enough people had wanted to see it through for the show to go on. They’re paying you either way. If they want to spend money proving you right, so be it.

You sip your coffee. Re-check the model. Write down three things you’re planning to say during testing tomorrow.

You get to drive a real car tomorrow. At the actual track. With some of your favorite development staff, who’ve promised to bring snacks and sarcasm and a full day’s worth of dumb jokes. You’ll trade notes with an active driver, talk shop, dig into the nuance of things you only get to simulate most days of the week.

It’s not a race weekend. But it’s close enough to feel like home.

You’re optimistic. Excited, even.

Which is probably why you’re so surprised by how it all unfolds.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The jet engines are still ticking warm as Max climbs into Christian Horner’s car outside the private airstrip at Luton. The clouds are low and colorless, the kind of overcast that feels like it’s pressing down on the world, but Max doesn’t mind. He likes when things are quiet.

Christian insisted on picking him up personally. A little odd, maybe, but not enough to question. People do weird things when championships are within reach.

They ease onto the narrow country roads, flanked by stone walls and wet hedges, and the mood in the car is light- Christian half-chatting about simulator feedback and upcoming upgrades. He’s got that particular brightness he saves for when he thinks something might actually work.

“You’ll feel it most through the exits,” he says, hands easy on the wheel. “Not a full overhaul, but it could smooth things out around the corners. We think. If it goes well, we can throw it on your car after the championship is locked, but we’re really looking to next year.”

Max shrugs, eyes on the road. “We’ll see.”

Christian grins. “I like it. Cautious optimism. That’s a good look on you.”

Max doesn’t answer, but his mouth tugs into the ghost of a smirk. The car hums beneath them, quiet and well-insulated, the rain misting against the windshield like static. Christian taps the steering wheel with the flat of his fingers, like he’s holding back from saying something heavier. Then he lets it go.

“You know we’re basically there, right?” he says, voice low and easy. “This weekend or the next. It’s yours.”

Max leans his head back against the seat, lets his eyes drift toward the slate-gray sky. “Feels different this time.”

Christian nods. “Because it is.”

They don’t say last year was chaos. They don’t say people still think it was rigged. They don’t say you’ve spent twelve months proving it wasn’t a fluke. But it’s all there, suspended in the air between them.

“Second title’s the real one,” Christian says. “First is luck. Second’s proof.”

Max doesn’t disagree. He can feel it in his bones- that slow, steady certainty that they’ve built something real. The kind of domination that doesn’t happen by accident. The kind that settles deep into your name and never leaves.

“Feels like we’ve stopped surviving and started building,” Christian adds, a little quieter.

Max lifts a brow. “You getting sentimental?”

Christian grins. “Maybe. A little. But come on- you feel it too. This year’s been clean. Sharp. Every piece falling into place. It’s not just you winning- it’s us executing.”

Max lets that settle. It’s true. It’s been efficient. Ruthless. He’s not just faster- he’s smarter. The team’s smarter. The machine runs, and he’s the sharpest gear inside it. He knows exactly what it takes now. There’s no flailing, no desperation. Just precision.

“Two more races, maybe three,” Christian says. “Then champagne and history books.”

Max’s lips press together, but there’s a flicker in his chest. A spark of pride. Of clarity.

It’s his.

He glances out the window again, watches a raindrop streak sideways across the glass. They pass a field full of soggy sheep and a weather-worn house with flower boxes under the windows opn the open stretch between Luton and Silverstone. It’s almost peaceful.

“You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?” Christian asks.

Max tilts his head. “Since I was a teenager.”

Christian snorts. “You were a nightmare.”

“You still hired me.”

“Regretted it every day until about two years ago.”

Max laughs under his breath, just once. It’s easy. Familiar. They’ve fought tooth and nail to get here- together. For all the tension, the chaos, the headlines, this moment is smooth. Settled. Two men in a car on a gray English road, talking about the title like it’s already theirs.

And for a moment, it feels like nothing could touch that.

Until the Bluetooth chimes. The screen lights up with a contact he doesn’t recognize- just a number: 66.

Christian taps the console screen.

“Christian,” comes a voice, syrupy-smooth and unmistakably American, “I still think it’s a mistake bringin’ Max in to test this setup.”

Max’s brow furrows.

The voice continues, polite but pointed, every syllable wrapped in sugar and laced with heat. “I told y’all it wasn’t gonna land. The sim was already screaming at us. Max is gonna hate it, and I hate wasting good tires for undercooked ideas.”

Christian huffs a laugh, shooting Max a glance like this is some inside joke. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, not quite charmed, but not hostile either. “Don’t ‘good morning’ me. I already gave you feedback. I just don’t see why we gotta drag Max out of bed and across the continent just to come to the same conclusion.”

There’s a beat of silence in the car. Max goes still. The air shifts. That voice- it cuts through him like piano wire. Christian keeps it light. “Maybe he’ll surprise you. He’s in the car with me now.”

“Oh, is he?” Your tone changes, softens just a little. “Well. You go on and tell him good luck from me.”

Christian chuckles. “Will do. See you at the track.” The line disconnects with a soft beep. The silence that follows is heavy, but Christian doesn’t seem to notice. He taps the screen off and returns his hand to the wheel, casual as ever.

Max is frozen. 

His hands, warm moments ago, now feel clammy against the fabric of his joggers. The sensation of the seat under him sharpens- too rough, too real. A prickling discomfort creeps up the back of his neck.

He feels it in his teeth before he fully accepts it.

That was you. And you’re here.

His stomach tightens, and his thoughts immediately skate to Kelly.  She is going to lose her shit if she finds out he was in the same place as you- let alone unannounced. The thought sends a cold wave of anxiety washing over him. Christian breaks the silence without turning his head, completely oblivious to the nuclear fallout settling behind Max’s eyes. “She’s been helping us out since the Dutch Grand Prix.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “Helping how?”

Christian glances at him. “Dev driver. Sim work. Data prep. She’s been living at the factory, basically.”

Max stares straight ahead. “You never told me that.”

“Wasn’t important.” Christian’s tone is neutral, but not apologetic. “And,” he adds, almost amused, “after the press stunt at Zandvoort… well, she needs to keep her head down. Helmut wasn’t impressed. Figured we’d tuck her away for a bit and let everyone cool off.”

Max doesn’t reply. He’s trying to process, to rewind the last two races in his mind- every debrief, every feedback report, every flawless sim overlay he’d praised without thinking.

“She’s the reason your data prep has been better,” Christian says, almost smug now. “You even said it yourself- clean readouts, tighter strat margins. That’s some of hers.”

Max’s heart stutters. He remembers the comments. Remembers reading notes, your notes, smart and surgical, concise in a way that made him feel sharper just reading them. He’d leaned on them. Let them shape his choices- in Italy, in Japan. Trusted them without question.

And he hadn’t even known. How hadn’t he known? He should’ve seen it- the parallels between the meticulous work he’d seen on the plane, at the house- taped to the fucking walls like a goddamn psycopath- and the psychotically perfect debrief packages he’d been spoiled with for five weeks.

The car pulls through the quick stretch of asphalt that gives way to the track, but even as Christian decellerates, Max’s heart only pounds faster. 

Kelly is going to lose her fucking mind.

They’ve been circling this for days- no, weeks- dragging it through phone calls, between long-haul flights and cold hotel rooms, through quiet dinners that turned into arguments and arguments that turned into silence. Not because she thinks he’s going to cheat. That was never it.

She’s not jealous.

She’s exhausted.

Exhausted of the way his mood changes when your name is mentioned. Exhausted of waking up to engine audio and old race footage. Exhausted of being in a room with him and still feeling like someone else is taking up all the space.

She can’t stand the way he talks about you- or more often, the way he doesn’t. The way he seethes in silence after watching your laps on repeat, or how his mood darkens at the mention of your name on the feed. She’s said as much. She sees it. She sees him, and whatever sickness has taken root under his skin, it repulses her.

Max knows this. He knows it.

And this- you being here- is going to set it over the edge. Whatever tentative ceasefire he and Kelly have been holding together with fraying thread? It won’t survive this.

Not when she finds out he’s sharing a workspace with you.

And still, somehow, the thought that drills itself deepest into his chest isn’t that he’s wrong. It’s not that this obsession- because that’s what it is- has warped him. He doesn’t think about the way he’s been staying up at night with your sector data open on a second monitor.

No.

He thinks only about how this- you being here, you being part of his team- is going to cause a problem for him. It’s going to make things harder.It’s going to turn the tension in his apartment into something he can’t put off anymore. Something that demands a response.

And all of that would be frustrating enough if there were even the smallest part of him that felt anything tender toward you. But there isn’t. There never has been.

There is only hate.

Pure, compulsive, clawing hatred for the way you walked into Spa and looked like you belonged. For the way Jos has seemed taken with you from the start. For the way no one can stop praising your work. For the way Max watched that race footage on loop and still couldn’t find what he was looking for- a fatal flaw. A misstep. A single crack to prove you didn’t deserve any of it. Something that would condemn you to a life of anything-fucking-else.

And now?

Now you’re here. Embedded. Integrated. Inside the walls of his house. And he didn’t even know. 

Christian keeps talking. Something about the dev team. Something about how hard you’ve been working. How seamlessly you’ve integrated- God, Max can’t hear it anymore.

“She never went back to America,” Christian continues. “She’s been here, putting in hours at the factory, in the simulator. Seems like she’s doing well.”

It’s all just you.

You, you, you.

It’s like you’ve wrapped your hands around the throat of everything that used to belong to him- his career, his team, his family- and now you’re just squeezing.

His ears are buzzing. His chest feels too small, his seat too tight, the collar of his jacket suffocating. There's something crawling beneath his skin, pressing against his ribs, scratching at his throat.

You’ve been feeding him data via the team, via GP, via the neatly formatted debrief packages that always were laid out in front of his seat well before the meeting ever began. Without his knowledge. Without his permission.

You’ve been in his lap breakdowns, in his race strat, in his mid-stint timing sheets. Every time he praised a clean debrief package, every time he told the engineers that the sim rigs have been impressively sharp right on startup, no extra tuning needed- it was you. You were there. Inside his performance. Wrapped in the very thing he takes the most pride in. His driving.

And it had all gotten better.

He wants to scream. Wants to claw the seat apart beneath him. Because you haven’t just infected the margins- you’ve made yourself integral. He can’t escape it now. You’ve touched everything.

The team. The data. The fucking car.

Jos.

Kelly.

Every corner of his life that was already cracked- you’ve wormed into it like rot. You’ve tainted everything.

And worst of all, no one else sees it. They think you’re helpful. Impressive. Charming, even. They think you’re brilliant. They’re wrong.

They have to be.

Christian pulls into the side gate at Silverstone, flashing his credentials at the guard before easing the car into a private lot just outside the test pits. The tires crunch on gravel as he parks.

Max doesn’t move. Christian opens his door, throws him a look. “Alright?” Max doesn’t answer. Christian doesn’t question it. He lingers a second longer, then pulls the door handle and steps out with a nod. “We’ll see you inside.”

The door shuts with a soft thunk, and Max is alone. He exhales like he’s been underwater. Then he pulls out his phone. It rings twice before Kelly answers. Her voice is sharp, already on edge- like she’s bracing for something she already knows she’s not going to like. “What?”

“She’s here.” Silence. He swallows. “I didn’t know. I just found out.”

Another pause. It stretches, tight as piano wire. Then: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He shifts in his seat. “It’s not like that. I didn’t ask for this.”

“That’s not the point,” she says, voice low and tight. “It’s never been about her being here. I don’t think you’re sleeping with her. I never have.”

“Then what is this?”

She pauses, and when she speaks again, it’s quieter. A little shakier.

“It’s that everything- everything- gets to come before me.”

Max frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Racing. Your father. This- this sick little loop you’ve been stuck in since Spa. The constant fixation. Like if you stare at her long enough, she’ll crack and you can prove something to yourself.”

He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.

“I can’t compete with that. I shouldn’t have to.”

Max sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Kelly, I’m telling you-I didn’t even know she was-“

“It’s not about knowing,” she snaps. Her voice catches, not with tears, but restraint. “I’ve tried,” she says. “I’ve tried to understand Jos, the team, the way you shut down and disappear when things get hard. But it’s not just one thing anymore. It’s everything. And I’m always the one waiting for your attention to come back around.”

Max’s chest pulls tight. “Don’t do this now.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she says. “That’s the problem.”

He stares out the windshield. You’re there- just barely visible through the parked trailers. Laughing at something someone says. At ease.

Max leans back into the headrest, staring out at the track beyond the gate, barely blinking. “Kel, I’m telling you, I didn’t know.”

“I don’t care!” she shouts, voice cracking. “I don’t care if you knew. I can’t do this anymore, Max. I can’t deal with your weird fucking hatred or your fucked-up family or Jos or her or whatever the hell it is that’s broken inside you. I just… it’s too much.”

“I’m packing a bag,” Kelly says. “P and I will be in Paris for a while. Please don’t call. I don’t want an apology. I don’t want promises you’re not going to keep.”

“Kelly-“

She exhales again, long and hollow. “I can’t be second to your father. I can’t be second to racing. And I sure as hell can’t be second to some fucked-up obsession you won’t even admit you have.” 

The call ends without ceremony. He stares at the blank screen. Then at the world beyond the windshield. You’re still there.

Across the lot, standing half-shielded behind a transport truck, laughing at something an engineer says. You’ve got one hand on your hip, a clipboard tucked beneath your arm, and that easy, unfazed expression you wear like armor. You’re not just here. You’re comfortable. Settled. Liked.

Max watches you like a predator watches movement through tall grass. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. His blood is molten. It was you.

You.

You set this fire. You brought this shit into his house. Into his team. Into his life.

Everything unraveling- Kelly, his father, the team, his fucking brain- it all circles back to you. To the way you wormed your way into their trust. Into their affection. Into his results. Without his permission. Without even trying.

And you haven’t paid for it. 

Not yet. But you will.

Goddamn it, you will.

Max opens the car door, grabs his few things, and starts walking towards the pit. He offers a few small waves, a head nod to the right people, but doesn’t stop to talk on his way to the locker room. 

The garage is already humming- light flooding in from the , tools clicking, radios murmuring. It’s all sharp-edged and sterile. Familiar. He keeps his head down, jaw wired tight, and makes a sharp turn into the locker room.

The door smacks shut behind him, and for a moment, it’s quiet. Still. But it doesn’t feel right.

Max has spent more time in the Silverstone testing garage than any other locker room at any other track. Even Zandvoort. Even Spa. He can close his eyes on any given day and tell you exactly where everything is- which corners the cleaners skip, which outlet holds a phone charger the most securely. He knows something is different.

It smells different.

Not just the usual cocktail of oil, rubber, and deodorant that clings to these places like a second skin- no. There’s a sweeter note in the mix now, faint but undeniable. A soft scent tucked into the corners like it’s trying to blend in. Like it’s pretending it’s earned a place here.

He drops his duffel on the bench with more force than necessary. His eyes flick to the wall of race suits. There’s a new one on the rack.

Cut narrower. Smaller. Slimmer through the shoulders. The sleeves hang like they were sewn with secrets. It's hung right beside his- like you belong next to him. Like the team thought nothing of putting you there.

His teeth grind.

A sports bra looped lazily over a folded hoodie. A scrunchie pulled tight around the latch on locker 14. Fireproofs folded neatly over the top of the duffel in front of it. Your helmet on the wall hook- gleaming, smug, perched like a crown.

Max's fists curl tight before he even realizes it.

This was supposed to be his sanctuary. A space untouched by anything soft, or sentimental, or feminine. It was where he went to be only a driver- where nothing existed except the weight of the suit on his back and the war waiting at the end of pit lane. Where being exactly who he was raised to be makes him a master, not a monster.

But now?

Now there’s a pink fucking beauty blender by the sink.

There’s you.

And you're everywhere, yet you don't even take up much space. That’s what pisses him off most. You haven’t overstepped, haven't flooded the locker room with your things. You’re just... here. Undeniably.

He walks to the sink, slower now. Grips the edge of the counter and leans forward until he can see himself in the mirror- sharp under the fluorescent lights. Too pale. Shadowed. Something about his reflection looks... unfinished. Like he’s missing skin. Like something inside him has been scraped raw and left to blister.

Kelly’s gone. Packed up and left without crying. Left without begging. He told himself she wouldn’t leave. She always said she wouldn’t. Who would leave this?

Max hadn’t said much to convince her not to go. But what was there to say? He knows what she thinks of him. That he’s poisoned. That he’s sick in the head. That he’s been rotting from the inside out, a rabid dog chewing on a bone he refuses to let go of.

His gaze drops to the makeup bag. Then to the helmet. Then to the suit.

You didn’t ask permission to be here. Didn’t earn your way in. You walked in with soft edges and good timing and everyone opened their fucking arms. And now?

Now they talk about you like you matter. Like your voice means something. Like you help. Like you contribute. You’re not just tolerated- you’re welcomed.

Max’s throat tightens. His jaw pulses. And worst of all? You’ve been touching his work. His craft. The one thing he’s built his entire goddamn life around.n You’ve been touching it without him even knowing.

Helping.

Helping him.

And now Kelly is gone, and Jos keeps looking at him like he’s waiting for something, and the team is humming better than ever and you’ve been here behind the curtain the whole time, pulling strings with your clipboard and your Southern drawl and your clean, pretty hands.

It makes him want to wreck something. To burn something to the ground.

He grips the edge of the counter and stares at his reflection. The overhead light cuts sharp lines down his face. He looks tired. Stretched thin. Like a man whose world has shifted ten degrees off center and no one around him seems to fucking notice.

He yanks open his locker. The door bangs louder than it should, metal slamming metal, the sound echoing in his skull. He pulls on his gear mechanically, dresses with sharp, brutal efficiency. Each motion is exact. Angry. Controlled. Suit zipped. Boots on. Balaclava shoved down and hanging around his neck like a noose.

He has no plan.

Not yet.

But he knows one thing: you’re going to regret ever stepping foot in this garage.

You’re going to feel him at your back every second of this day.

He’s going to dismantle you- piece by piece, inch by inch- until you’re begging to go back to America. Back to IndyCar. Back to whatever cousin-fucking farm town let you believe for even a second that you could survive here.

He’ll be patient.

He’ll smile, if he has to.

But he’s going to make you suffer.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re mid-sentence with Gavin when the garage doors groan open and Christian steps inside, clipboard under one arm and coffee in hand. “Morning,” you call, light and easy.

Christian eyes the data printouts still clutched in Gavin’s hands, then the half-drunk coffee beside your laptop. “How long have you been here?”

You smile sweetly. “What time did the gates open?”

It’s almost amused, the way he chuckles and taps the top of your clipboard as he passes. “Tell me you didn’t print more for me.”

“Two full stints and a run breakdown,” you say, offering a proud little shrug. “Nothing crazy.”

Christian shakes his head, muttering something about overachievers as he disappears toward the telemetry station. You hadn’t expected to like him. He wasn’t particularly warm during your brief stints in Spa or Zandvoort. Efficient. Cold, even. He’d barely looked up from the boardroom table during your first contract discussion.

But the longer you’ve been here- filling his inbox with run logs and leaving stacks of annotated telemetry on his desk like a one-woman crusade against inefficiency- something shifted. The occasional conversation. A dry comment. The way he pretends to be annoyed when you fudge your time card and don’t bill him for the overtime he knows you’re putting in.

It’s subtle. But you can feel it.

He’s not as brutal as he seems. Just exacting. And mostly left to run his own little kingdom off to the side of whatever chaos Helmut’s orchestrating.

“So,” Gavin says, nudging the edge of your clipboard with his knuckle. “Still think this whole setup’s half-baked?”

“I didn’t say half-baked,” you counter. “I said… unpolished.”

Gavin grins.

You glance over the sheet again- dragging the opposite rear slightly under braking. The idea isn’t terrible. A little more rotation into the corners. More rear stability under stress, offset the rotational drift a bit, give more grip into corners, especially in changeable conditions.You get what they’re trying to do. You’re not against it. You just… don’t think they’ve nailed the implementation yet. Too many assumptions built into the mapping. Sloppy on paper, sloppy in the sim. You can’t imagine it will translate to the car as anything but… sloppy.

Still, if you can feel where it wants to go, maybe you can help get it there. Track’s already paid for. Might as well make the most of it. 

GP wanders into your periphery, and you give him a smile and a quick nod. Familiar, but not close. Max’s race engineer is sharp- maybe the sharpest in the paddock- but he tends to keep his cards close. You can respect that.

“Hey,” he says, in that calm, understated way. Always neutral. Always listening. “You ready to jump in first?”

“Sure am.”

And then- he walks in. You don’t hear the locker room door, just the shift in the air. The crew seems to pull tighter around his presence, instinctively, like they’re anticipating the weather to change. You glance over automatically, and there he is.

Max Verstappen.

It’s been weeks since you last saw him. Not since Zandvoort. Not in person, anyway.

He looks the same- jumpsuit half-zipped, balaclava slung around his neck like a scarf, expression unreadable.

You offer him a small, polite smile. “Morning,” you say. “Good to see you.”

Max doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t even nod. “I’m driving first,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, like he’s not really speaking to you, just announcing something inevitable. The words hang in the air like a dropped wrench. You blink.

The clipboard in your hand shifts slightly, but your smile doesn’t move. “Oh,” you start, keeping your tone light, neutral. “I thought the plan was-” 

“She’s had the package on the sim for weeks, it sounds like,” Max cuts in, sharp but calm. Talking to Christian, not to you. “She can send her notes if she wants. I want to see how it runs without the preamble.” He still hasn’t looked at you. You feel something sink low in your stomach. You’re not even in the conversation anymore. You’re around it. Present, but no longer acknowledged.

There’s a split second where you’re trying to catch up- trying to figure out if you misheard something. If maybe this is just Max being weird and Dutch and blunt and driven. You know how Jos is. Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s hereditary. Maybe it’s nothing.

You don’t agree. You don’t argue. You want to. Your gut reaction is to open your mouth- to gently, confidently remind him how the session’s been laid out for two weeks, how the engineers asked for your warm-up feedback specifically, how you were supposed to help optimize the later runs for him.

But you don’t.

It’s not your place. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not with him.

You pause for a beat, unsure whether to speak again- but it’s already out of your hands. Christian gives a small, tight nod. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll get the seat swapped.” That’s it. No question. No redirection. No eye contact. Not a hill Christian’s going to die on. Not with Max.

You process it quickly- no time to let it land wrong. No time to show anything other than flexibility. You adjust your grip on the clipboard and give a polite, easy smile. “Of course,” you say. “Happy to work from the pit wall until someone needs me.” Your tone is warm. Helpful. Undemanding. And it’s true. You’ll help however you’re needed. You always do.

But still… something tugs low in your chest. A dull, familiar ache. You haven’t been in a real car in weeks. Not since Zandvoort. Sim sessions are fine- they serve a purpose- but they don’t breathe. They don’t push back. They don’t talk to you the way a real car does when the weight shifts under braking or the tires start to chatter against the limit.

You miss it. Not in a dramatic way, not in a desperate way. Just... like missing a limb. No big deal.

You step back from the car as Max steps up, careful not to let your gaze linger when the pit crew pulls your seat and installs his. You don’t look at Max or GP or Christian. You keep your smile. You center yourself in your role.

You’re here to be useful. That’s enough.

Gavin shoots you a side glance, but you don’t look at him, either. You're too busy straightening your posture, smoothing down the front of your jacket like that’ll make it sting less, collecting your laptop and your headset and wandering over to the temporary pit wall. 

Max climbs into the car like he owns it. Not just the machine- but the moment.

You stay off to the side of the pit wall, arms crossed loosely, clipboard pressed against your ribs. The headset sits snug over your ears, filtering in telemetry, tire temps, radio chatter. You’re not sulking. Not even disappointed. You’re observing.

That’s what you said you’d do.

Max launches cleanly out of the garage. No hesitation. Smooth in the pit lane, sharp into the out lap. Everything looks fine, at first. Clean throttle pickup. Controlled steering. You let yourself settle into the rhythm of it, eyes flicking across the numbers on the monitor.

Then the first braking zone hits.

The front end wobbles. The rear steps just half a beat too late. It’s not huge- barely noticeable on the external feed- but you’ve felt this setup a dozen times in the sim. That was the drag pulling unevenly. Just enough to throw the balance.

He adjusts, but you see it again. Lap two. Same issue. The car skips like it wants to pivot too early under load.

“Bit twitchy,” GP says lightly into the comms.

“Feels great,” Max responds. His voice is tight. Quick. “No notes.”

Your brows draw together. The laps keep coming, and the issues start compounding. He’s fighting the car. Overshooting entries. Missing apexes. Going off line. He’s driving the hell out of it. That much is clear. But it’s brute force, not balance.

You glance at Christian. He’s standing with his arms crossed, jaw set, not saying anything. But he’s watching Max a little too closely. You tug at his sleeve. He tilts his head, just slightly, and you lean in to speak under the comms.

“I know it’s not my turn,” you say quietly, “but I’ve been in this setup more than anyone. There are a few tricks to stabilizing the rear under heavy braking. If you want, I can talk him through it.”

Christian eyes you for half a second- measuring, maybe- but then nods. “Give it a shot.”

You flip your mic on. “Hey, Max,” you say gently, keying your mic with the same calm tone you’d use during a debrief. “Try braking a little earlier into Turn 9, then dragging about half-pedal to rotate the car. The pull settles better that way, keeps the rear where it should be. Might give you a cleaner line.”

There’s a beat of silence- long enough to make you wonder if he’s thinking it over. Adjusting. Trying it.

Then-

“Don’t need coaching,” Max says, his voice hard-edged and clipped. “Got it.” The comm cuts out with a decisive click. You blink, startled- but not bruised.

It’s not what you expected. You were careful with your tone, kept it light, supportive. Non-confrontational. The advice wasn’t even complex- just a tweak, a trick that helped you tame the same twitchiness during sim work last week. You glance toward Christian, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at you. Just stares straight ahead at the live feed, his jaw set, arms folded tighter across his chest than they were five minutes ago.

You shift back in your seat, smoothing a crease in your jeans out of habit. The headset hums soft with tire data and GP’s quiet pacing in Max’s ear. You focus on the numbers, on the lines. On the job.

Let him work it out. Let him feel it.

He’s Max Verstappen. World champion. Hell of a driver. If anyone can take a twitchy, half-baked braking system and drag something clean out of it, it’s him. You didn’t mean to imply otherwise. You don’t think otherwise.

So you sit back. Let the moment pass. Watch the delta clock tick. You expect to see improvement- not instant brilliance, but maybe a cleaner sector. A smoother trail into Turn 9.

But the next lap comes and goes. And the data says otherwise. The car still fights on entry. The rear still snaps wide at the apex. He’s still overcorrecting. Still off-line. You tilt your head slightly, frowning at the monitor.

You weren’t trying to take anything from him. Not control. Not authority. Just... offering the knowledge you’ve earned the hard way. A few more laps go by. More missed corners. More resistance from the car. The brake temps are running high. The split across the rear bias is getting messy. His lines look aggressive, not efficient.

You say nothing, quiet, until it feels cruel, inefficient, wasteful not to try. God knows what kind of tab today is going to run up for RedBull. It’s wrong to just sit on knowledge that you know can clean this up, even just a fraction. “Try adjusting your entry into Turn 12,” you offer again, voice smooth as glass. “Just a little more-”

This time, there’s no voice. Just the soft, deliberate click of a mic button being held down long enough to cut you off. Your audio drops out mid-sentence. You exhale, slow. Not upset. Not yet. Just... calculating.

That wasn’t an accident. He’s held his mic button. Deliberate. Dismissive. Your hand tightens around your clipboard. The pressure blooms hot in your chest, but you push it down. He’s making it clear- he doesn’t want your help. Not in front of the team. Not in front of Christian. Not ever.

And the worst part?

It’s not just hurting the session. It’s killing the data.

He’s not learning anything. He’s not adjusting. He’s pretending the system works because he’s refusing to let it fail. He’s trying to drive around physics, and no one’s getting clean feedback out of it- not the devs, not the engineers, not you. This isn’t just a bad test session. It’s unusable. 

The system was always going to be a little unrefined, a little more than unrefined, in your opinion. That’s what these days are for. But this? This is sabotage. Max isn’t driving to improve the package. He’s driving to prove you wrong.

And maybe it’s not personal. Maybe it’s just ego. Maybe he doesn’t like your suggestions. Maybe he doesn’t trust a dev driver to advise a driver that’s approaching two-time world champion.

Maybe.

But something about the way he’s doing it- the performative dismissal, the passive silences, the outright cut-off- It doesn’t sit right. You press your lips together and tuck your clipboard tighter to your chest. You’re not wrong. You know that.

But suddenly, it feels like being right isn’t going to matter. Not in this garage. Not today.

When they call Max in, there’s no explanation. No argument. Just a dry instruction from GP to box this lap, delivered without inflection. Max doesn’t push back.

The engine cuts and it’s almost a relief. The tension that's been laced into every radio call, every lap, every breath- it doesn't vanish. But at least it stops compounding.

You pull your headset off and make your way toward the huddle already forming around the screen. GP’s in the center, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Gavin’s got a pen behind one ear and a thousand-yard stare. Alessandro, the lead on the braking prototype, is scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically wipe the data away.

You glance at the screens. It’s a mess.

He never settled the car. Never found a consistent input rhythm. Lap one looked nothing like lap three, which looked nothing like lap six. Braking variance, throttle delay, tire wear pattern- all of it compromised. He didn’t test the system. He tested his ego.

“Jesus,” Alessandro mutters. “He forced it the whole time.”

“Every lap,” Gavin adds. “No clean delta. No lift-brake comparisons. It’s worthless.”

Not entirely. You’ve done this enough times to recognize usable slivers buried beneath the chaos. But to anyone else it looks like dogshit. Totally unworkable. You glance down at your own clipboard. Your notes are meticulous. You’ve been shaping this system in the sim for weeks. You know what it needs- what it responds to.

You don’t make a show of it. You slip them to GP under the screen, out of sight.

“Here,” you say. “Maybe these will help.” He takes them, scans the handwriting, then flicks his eyes up to yours.

“They’re pulled from your data,” you say quietly. “Your analysis. Got it?”

GP blinks at you. His brow furrows, just slightly. He nods. Folds the papers. Doesn’t ask again.

You don’t elaborate. Just step back as the group crowds around the tablet, trying to stitch something together from the mess.

The headache building behind your eyes lifts miraculously when Christian turns to you and says, “Let’s get you in for a couple laps. Just to stabilize the baseline.”

And just like that? It’s gone. The tension, the frustration, the weird sick pit in your stomach.

Gone.

Your whole body lifts at once, like someone pulled a string in your chest. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he says, already turning toward the engineers. “Give her a baseline and send her out. We need something usable.” You don’t wait for anyone else to speak.

You practically skip to the locker room, the clipboard swinging in your hand, the weight of the last thirty minutes falling off your shoulders like water. You haven’t driven a real car in weeks. Not since Zandvoort. And sim hours can’t replicate the sound, the vibration, the way the tires talk back to you at the edge of grip.

A real car.

You could cry.

You swing open the locker room door, still smiling. And then you stop. Your boots are there. Your gloves. Your helmet- just gleaming on the shelf, visor slightly cracked open like it’s waiting for you. Your suit, hanging neatly just as you left it. But your fireproofs?

Gone.

Not folded over your bag where you always keep them. Not tucked in your locker. Not crumpled on the bench or dropped behind the door. You freeze for half a second, scanning everything twice, then again.

No. No fucking way. You know you brought them. You folded them this morning. Laid them out just so- sleeves crossed, neckline folded down, because you like being able to get dressed in exactly ten seconds flat. And now? Nothing.

You stare at the spot where they should be. Okay. Okay. Maybe you moved them. Maybe you set them somewhere and forgot. Maybe someone tossed them in a pile without thinking.

But the locker room is too clean. Too intact. Everything else is untouched. Just the one thing missing. You bite the inside of your cheek, the nerves starting to flicker under your skin. It’s stupid. Paranoid. Insane, even. This is a professional garage. People don’t just… hide each other’s fireproofs.

But you can’t ask.

You can’t let anyone know you don’t have them. Because if someone finds out, they won’t let you drive- not without the full kit. Safety regs. Liability. Some poor OSHA nerd, or whatever the insufferable Euro equivalent is, would throw themselves in front of the car.

And you are not missing your shot today. Not over this. Not when you’ve been starving for the vibration of some real power through your bones.

There’s no time. No one saw anything. No one’s asking questions. No one knows. You can’t wear jeans and a sweater under your suit- they’ll bunch and pinch. And if anyone sees the fabric lines, they’ll know. So you strip.

Down to your bra and underwear.

You step into the suit carefully, like someone might walk in any second. Tug the zipper up to your throat. Adjust the collar. Make sure every inch is covered.

It’s fine.

No one needs to know.

It’s just a few laps.

You walk back into the garage with your helmet under one arm and your gloves clenched in your hand, the weight of your suit suddenly heavier than you remember it being. It clings differently now, soft and close over skin, and the air inside the building feels sharper, thinner, colder through the bretahable panels. But your stride is steady. Even. Measured.

No one says anything. No one looks twice.

That’s… good.

Your gear is zipped to your throat, cinched at the wrists and ankles. Velcro checked. Checked again. Every inch of you is covered. And still, you feel bare in a way you can’t explain. Not vulnerable, not exactly. Just… aware.

The pit crew is moving like clockwork. Christian and Alessandro are already at the screens. Gavin sees you coming and gives a sharp little nod, stepping in to take your phone. You murmur a thank-you as you pass it off and start toward the car.

You don’t see Max until you’re practically alongside him. He’s just standing there, arms folded, posture easy, like he hasn’t spent the last hour driving that setup into the ground. You glance his way, ready to be professional- polite, even. Maybe offer a small smile if it feels appropriate. But something in his expression doesn’t match the moment.

His gaze flicks toward you. Not dramatic. Not lingering. Just a pass over. And in that second- barely longer than a breath- you catch it. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A shift in his eyes.

Like he’s… surprised.

You wouldn’t have noticed it if you hadn’t looked. You weren’t looking for it. But now that you’ve seen it, it sticks in your mind- not because it makes sense, but because it doesn’t. Surprised?

You don’t dwell on it.You’re not here to dissect his mood. You climb into the car, careful with your motions, hyper-conscious of how the suit moves against you- how much thinner it feels without your fireproofs underneath. You grip the edge of the cockpit to lower yourself in, careful not to let the fabric shift too far up your arms or legs.

Gavin helps you buckle in, clips your HANS anchors over the posts of your helmet. The harness pulls tight over your chest, pressing your heart into your ribs. Your breathing slows. You exhale once. Then again. Visor down. Radio check. Systems go.

Series Masterlist Another super chapter- 25 pages for your patience over the weekend <3

Sorry, Kel 💔

[chamomiletealeaf]

Olderbf!/kinda Sugardaddy!Price brainrot

Thinking about olderbf!/kinda sugardaddy!Price who buys you anything you could ever want. You grew up in a pretty money-tight household, feeling guilty when anyone spent money on you because you were so aware of how much things cost at such a young age.

But if you look at those shoes on sale you thought were cute for a little too long? It's wrapped up all nice for you by your door the next day when you get home from work with a cute lil note on the box.

"Saw you looking at these <3"

You mention craving your favorite food? He's taking you out immediately.

"Ugh __ sounds really good right now." You say as you walk into the kitchen to try and find food already in your fridge.

"Take out or dine in?" Price asks.

"What?"

"Do you want me to order it as takeout or do you want to eat there?"

You pause and look at him hand still on the open fridge door, taken a bit off guard. "I-"

He's already picking up his phone and wallet waiting for your answer. And when you don't answer, he does for you.

"Put some shoes on, let's go out hm?"

You try to hide your smile and blush as you make your way to the door where your shoes are, and where your boyfriend stands too, helping you put your jacket on.

Or when you two go shopping together and you get distracted by a section with CDs and vinyls as you see a deluxe vinyl of an album you've been wanting to get for your record player.

"Oh John look! Wow I didn't think they'd have this here! I've been meaning to try and get around to buying this!"

You pick up the deluxe album and turn it over to check the price, and your giddy smile fades a bit seeing it. You put it back, visibly a little upset as you furrow your brows a little and go for the regular album that's a little bit cheaper, which you note as you turn that one over and see the price.

"Hm. This one's a little cheaper." You say to yourself quietly, not thinking Price can hear as you go to put it into the cart, but he stops you.

"No." He grabs the album from your hands before you can place it in and you look up at him wide eyed. He doesn't make eye contact with you as he swaps the regular album for the deluxe one you wanted and replaces the empty spot in your hands with it.

He looks down at you and sees you cutely staring at him with wide curious eyes.

"I'm getting you the one you want bunny." He says with a smile. "Plus the deluxe version has more songs that I can watch you dance to in the kitchen so it's a win win." He says with a wink and your wide eyes fail to conceal the love for your boyfriend in that moment as it lights them ablaze.

Or on one particular bad day when you come home and do some online window shopping on your couch in your cart on Etsy to make yourself feel better. Your cart is filled with cute stickers, jewelry, fanmade merch for your interests, and cute trinkets to decorate your house with that you look at hoping one day you'll be able to afford to get them all. You definitely had money, but it was just enough to get you by with little left over. As you log into your account, you realize that your whole cart is empty.

"What?" You try and refresh the page, panicking a bit as you had so many things in your cart that you don't really want to go searching for again. It took a while for you to find them after all.

ding!

your laptop makes a noise as an email notification comes up

"Thanks for your order!"

You panic, thinking maybe you bought everything by accident, which you can't exactly afford right now, until Price comes up from behind you, leaning over the couch to nuzzle his face into your neck.

"Surprise bunny." he whispers into your neck smiling.

"John, what? what did you do?"

"You're always on that website looking at those things. Got tired of seeing you not have them. Plus, I'm always looking for a way to spoil my little bunny hm?" He smirks into your neck, bringing his hands around to grasp yours.

"How did you-"

"Shhh don't worry about it. I got you express shipping too. You'll get everything this week." He places a hand on your chin and gently turns your face to him and he kisses you, making you feel a warmth that no fire could ever provide nor compare to.

You're not selfish, both you and John know that. You don't need the little or big things he buys you, but boy does he love spoiling you with them, as it helps to heal the part of you that always felt guilty as a child when it came to spending and saving money on you, as your family never had much.

And there's nothing else John would rather do than spoil his pretty girl rotten just to see her smile.

[downwiththemutantnjnjaturtles]

Hi! Love your posts. Can you write crush headcanons for each of the turtles, like how they develop it, how they may act around them, and maybe ask them out? Thank you! Hope you have a great day!

TMNT crush headcanons:

Leonardo:

• Leo developes slow but meaningful crushes! He's very careful, and guarded of his feelings similar to Raph, but in his own way. His crush starts with feeling inspired by his person of interest, someone who makes him want to better himself in any way by either observing their passions, talents, and skills, or who encourages his limits to discover his own.

• He's thoughtful but very subtle about his affections towards someone, he doesn't exactly want them to know

• Observant, attentive, and a classic romantic is how he is—that last part, in his fantasies, at least. He dreams about being able to provide everything his crush could want or need, even though he can't always do so due to how they live

• Leo asks his crush out after a series of escalating gestures of love so it doesn't really catch them off guard. Asks them to meet him alone to talk because he has something important to say, and then makes the confession.

• "I know you have to know what I'm going to say, you're nervous, I can tell...I probably shouldn't have been so cryptic when I asked you to meet me in the dojo by yourself." He softens his posture a bit, to seem less tense. He'd lit several dozen candles scattered all over the room, partially for himself while he meditated to calm his mind a little, mostly to create an atmosphere. "You've become a close friend of mine despite everything, you know you're always welcome in our home, right? And you can come whenever." There's an awkward pause—he doesn't know how to continue with what he's saying. "Ah, anyways—I was saying...I enjoy your company, I would be honored to show you some stuff I know, in exchange for some of your time. Only if you'd like." God, he hoped that you would.

Michelangelo:

• Mikey couldn't hide his growing feelings, even if he wanted to. And it didn't take much for him to fall fast and hard for his crush; the attention he got was addictive and he wanted to give it back tenfold! He always wanted to feel wanted and accepted by others, so even though he couldn't have that from the rest of the human world, the fact that he had that from you was more than enough for him. He was grateful.

• He's his crush's biggest fan!! If there were merch, he'd wear it proudly even if it embarrassed you

• Creative and artistic; he painted and redesigned one of his old longboards just for you. It had some of his old pop-art on it, graffiti style, random sketches and doodles, and every sticker he could find. He tried to remember everything you liked to put it on the things he gave you, whether it were poster collages he made for his wall art or putting love onto the bottom of a skateboard. Big gift giver, so expect to get a LOT of stuff from him—even sentimental items he's nostalgic over, even if you feel bad to receive those things from him. He has a lot to give. 😌

• Mikey confesses by accident one day when he doesn't even mean to—he's playing around with you as usual and gets talkative when he's feeling excited, so it just slips out. Mid-play.

• "Ha-hah! That's what I'm taking about, I love you, Y/N!" There's a pause where it has to compute for a second. "Wait, did I just say that out loud?" He's serious for a moment—he can't believe he actually said that. But the next beat, he's back to smiling at you, laughing, maybe trying to deflect the hint of embarrassment he felt (which was rare for Mikey). "Yeah, I did say that out loud, I guess. Whoops...oh—now, tag, you're it!"

Donatello:

• Despite his brains and his intellectual nature, Donnie is an emotional person and actually falls in love almost immediately when he encounters that perfect person. He gets stars in his eyes and runs his own compatibility tests through his mind as he learns more about them, and annoyingly, they're stuck on his mind even when he's trying to work on his experiments and projects.

• Helpful, playful, a little stingy with your time lol—when he wants to spend time with his crush, he wants his brothers away because they take the limelight without thinking sometimes. Always offering to help you with homework or if you need anything fixed around the house, he's volunteering for that. Broken cabinet? Fixed. Wifi isn't working? No problem. Pipes under your sink leaking? He's been fixing up the Lair for years!

• Donnie is not shy. Let's say that rn. He's 👏 confident 👏. He's a little bit of a showoff competing with his brothers to snatch your attention, even if it's just games.

• He asks you if you'll have him on a date one night on your way out of the sewers. He'd been looking for the prime time to hit you with the question and was a little nervous to do it with his peers around, so he dropped the question when you went to leave for the night. "I know you're leaving—and this will only take a minute! But I had something to ask you." He lets you get curious. He holds up the keys to his prized possession, the Shellraiser, that he dreamed about driving you around in. "Ever gone on a joyride through New York in a souped-up garbage truck? No?...do you, maybe, want to do it with me? As a friend thing? Or maybe as more than just...friends?"

Raphael:

• Raph was completely UNready to admit he was getting soft for you. Or ready to commit to feeling the uncomfortable—but tantalizing��feelings you gave him. In honesty, for a good long while, Raph didn't let you know in the slightest he was getting his heart stolen over the course of the months he knew you.

• Very much puts off his crush with his prickly demeanor. But underneath that tough exterior, he's secretly taking every chance he can get to try to impress you in the ways he knows how; if there's any heavy lifting to be done, you bet he's volunteering himself out for that before anyone else can.

• Acts too good for sappy things until the moment his crush is being vulnerable—it disarms him, he's a protector at heart. He wants to be your shield from everything bad in the world, which is a lot.

• Raph plays the long game with his crush hinting over and over again he's in love, with no luck at times. It frustrates him but it's a challenge. He won't be outright and say it; everything he does is subtle, but the second your back is turned, he's making it known he's got your attention just to pull one over on his brothers (in good humor!)

• Makes his crush work with him to get the confession out, low-key. He makes you guess until you finally start to piece everything together. He will not be saying it with his words, but he'll definitely show it.

• "Y/N. C'mere," he says. "What're you still doing here this late, dummy? Already said it's not safe to walk home alone." Silence. "Agh, I did it again. Ignore my crap. But I mean it, stop goin' home alone, you know I told you I'd come too. And if I ain't available then I'm making Mikey go. Hear me? Stop acting like it's a burden or whatever..." He's kicking himself mentally for being unable to say what he actually wants to say. He ruffles your hair roughly to deflect. "See, now ya look silly like you act. Come on, let's go. I like you better safe in one piece than ending up in the back of some guy's van."

I lost all of my TMNT gifs from my old phone 😭 The post feels bare without it, but anyways, this is my first post in over a year so i hope it's good! 🐢🐢🐢🐢

[gaybirdnerd]

How to Take Care of Your Local Hot Shot

Part 1/6 in a 5+1 series.

The Red Notebook

There was a notebook in Goose's locker.

There was a notebook in Goose's locker and it was covered in motorcycle and plane stickers, big bubbly writing titling it How to Take Care of Your Local Hot Shot.

Ice had found it when retrieving Goose's locker things for Mrs. Bradshaw while Maverick went to Goose's living space to torture himself about the accident.

It was a pretty red notebook once upon a time, now nearly unidentifyable covered in stickers and marker and pen, blue flames racing up its sides and a little stick figure labelled "Maverick" in the bottom right corner.

The more he looked, the more he identified what was put there by 3 year old hands and what was put there by two men in their 20s.

Against his better judgement, he followed the writing inside to the front page, closing it violently before he could get a look at one word there and placing it at the top of the box.

When he arrives at the resting room holding the Bradshaw family, he finds Mrs. Bradshaw watching her son morosely, slumped on one of the seats as silent tears create tracks down her face.

Ice feels a pang of grief shoot through him, guilt creeping in as he moves slowly towards the woman and her son, the box infinitely heavier the more steps he takes.

Mrs. Bradshaw-Carole- looks up at him as he reaches the seats, a small smile lighting up her face as she gestures for him to either sit or set the box on the seat next to her.

He chooses to sit and watch the child at the front of the room, who is pretending he's flying.

"Thank you," comes a soft whisper next to him, startling him all the same.

He turns to the woman next to him, watching him with soft eyes and reaching for the box, which he hands over without pause. "For what?"

"Being his friend. He told me about you. Told me about everything that's been going on as is. He was never happier than being able to see those he cared about living their lives to the fullest."

Grief pangs through him again. He looks away from her earnest face and finds his eyes attracted to the ridiculous book on top of the items in the box.

Carole looks into the box with him, chuckling softly and sniffling at the book. She moves the box to the other side of her and gently takes the book out of it, fingers tracing the letters.

"He loved Maverick."

This statement makes Ice pause and look back at her face. "I know."

"Do you?" The question forms a pit in his stomach as she opens the book and gazes longingly at the smaller bubble-like writing on the inside.

"Mav was his everything. Aside from us, I mean. He was his brother in everything but blood, and they were closer than any blood family I've ever seen."

The statement causes Ice to look down at his lap, remembering the glimpses of this he saw when Goose was still alive.

A small laugh, followed by a sob next to him, catches his attention and brings it back to the woman. She's looking at the book, obviously reading.

Before he can open his mouth to ask if she's ok, he hears her mumble to herself, obviously not meant for him. "Who's going to take care of him now?"

Ice thinks she's talking about her son until she closes the book and strokes the stick figure of Maverick, then he understands.

Ever since the Hop, Maverick hasn't so much as smirked, he doesn't look anyone in the eyes, and he sure as hell doesn't seem like he's been eating or sleeping. Ice's concern for Carole and her son suddenly extends rather violently to Maverick, leaving him almost dizzy at the realization that Maverick needs someone and has had next to no one since the accident.

Carole is looking at Ice when he comes back to himself, a small smile gracing her lips as she watches him realize certain things about Maverick and Goose.

Carole holds out the book to Ice, sad smile growing bigger as he furrows his brows at her, confusion etched in every inch of his being as he reaches out for it slowly.

When he takes it, she turns to look at her son, shaking her head as he runs around a chair, making plane noises.

Ice doesn't know what to say, looking closely at the book and taking in the details once again as Carole chuckles at her son's imagination.

"Why?"

She looks towards him. "What?"

"Why did they make this?" Ice's eyes find hers, confusion and guilt warring in his expression.

"As a joke, at first. They were bored one day, and Goose started joking about it in his notebook, asking Mav for his opinion on it. They made the most ridiculous entries, and then Mav got sick and it became serious."

"He got sick?"

"Forgot to eat because Goose was gone and Mav got busy, it happens all the time. That combined with a flu that had been raging through the base had brought him down pretty well."

Ice's curiosity gets the best of him at that, opening to the first page and being met with big red letters at the top and little black letters indicating explanations of some sort.

"Please," Ice is startled from his reverie at Goose's detailed writing about his best friend, glancing at Carole as tears once again slip out of her eyes.

"What?"

"Please look after him. I won't be here to do it, not with Bradley to be taken care of, and he doesn't trust anyone easily. Please, look after him for me. For Goose."

Ice has no choice but to look away and nod, tears springing to his own eyes at the heavy feelings once again involving Goose. "I'll try my best, ma'am."

"No ma'am, for me, thank you. Just take care of our Maverick, keep him safe, please. That's all I ask."

With a nod and a hug, Ice leaves. He's not keen on taking care of the younger pilot, but he'll do his best. For Goose.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[krispdreemurr]

You don't remember the conversation for a long time. It was one of hundreds of late-night discussions, mumbled across the space of the carpet (or, on the bad nights, across the gap between two pillows). It had blended in with everything else they said, all the beautiful and horrible and frightening and wonderful thoughts.

When it comes back, it comes back all at once.

"What if..." Their voice was loud and clear in the day, but reduced to a hoarse whisper after the lights were out. As if they were scared of being heard. You strained to catch their words, but for a little while there was just silence.

"What if... it all stopped?" they said at last.

"All what?" you replied, shifting to sit up a bit in bed.

"All... everything." A gesture in the dark, indicating the glow in the dark stickers high overhead. "Everything hit a maximum and just never went anywhere again. Clock stopped at 99:99--" A pause. You could almost see the face they were making. "99:59. Whatever. No more change, no more--anything."

"That'd be terrible," you protested, the way you so often did. "So like, we'd just be here forever like this? It'd never be morning? What about breakfast?"

"We wouldn't know about it," they answered, shrugging. "We wouldn't know anything. Or think anything. Or feel anything. It'd just be... quiet. Forever."

"But I like things happening," you said. "If that happens, we'll never get to make up new games together, or film new videos, or try new recipes..."

"But you'll never get new injuries. You'll never face new dangers. You'll never--get hurt, period." A tiny catch in their voice. "If--if you were in a situation where it was never, ever going to get better. If everything was stacked up so that no matter how many new days came everything would only get worse. Wouldn't it be better if it just stopped instead?"

You wished, as you so often did, that you knew the right words. That you understood truly what was hurting them so badly, so you could remove that pain from them and ease it. But you didn't know. You just had them in the dark.

"There's always something new," you said at last. "There's always some new thing to do. Some new chance to take. It... If it all goes on to infinity, then everything good will happen eventually."

"Everything bad, too," they mumbled.

"Yeah, but I think there's more good things."

A long silence, and then--

"That's because you're a dweeb," they retorted.

And even as you protested, and their laugh rose in response, you knew that at least this moment had passed.

You let yourself hope for the one after, and the one after that, on until infinity.

[agendabymooner]

about names: the show and tell || cl16 scenario (3)

dad!charles leclerc x mom!ofc (hearth sister!ofc)

EXTENSION OF OF LONG LINES AND NAMES AND THE LECLERC DAYCARE

Summary: The Leclerc boys and their names go hand in hand. OR times when Charles and his wife Aimee had to explain that their children’s names are meaningful. 

Scenario summary: PJ Leclerc’s kindergarten class calls for a family name show and tell — and who would make better presenters than his Uncle Pierre? OR the middle Leclerc child learns more about his namesakes as he and his parents continue to develop his school project. 

Content warning: Uncle Pierre Gasly, storyteller!Pierre, a very cooperative child (?), kids being kids, wholesome content, using a no-no word once, PJ Leclerc (OC) centred, appearances of Alain and Anthoine Leclerc (OC), brief appeaarance of Toto Wolff and Tilly Wolff (OFC), dad!Charles 🔛🔝

Note: I'm sorry I dipped y'all 😩 it's been hard- I've been trying to write but for some reason everything's going bad. In the meantime, enjoy this scenario xx

a - n masterlist // o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

With his nose scrunched up in concentration, his hand gripped the jumbo-sized pencil and traced over the dotted letters shakily. Close. He was so close. 

He squinted slightly before pausing, looking around for a moment before he continued to pursue his goal— get this over with. And with a dot, he grinned at himself before turning to see Mademoiselle Julie approaching his table. His peers continued to work on their take-home handbooks, while he was the first to finish his writing. 

Mademoiselle Julie, the young homeroom teacher of his kindergarten class, wordlessly peered at his handiwork— shaky writing traced over the dotted lines — and beamed at him proudly as she complimented, “Bonne écriture, PJ!” Good writing, PJ! 

“Merci, Mademoiselle Julie!” PJ Leclerc continued to show his set of teeth, proud of himself for being complimented by his teacher. 

Mademoiselle Julie spread out the sheets of stickers that she held, showing the various kinds of colourful stickers as she asked, “What would you like for your handbook today?” 

The boy hummed quietly, his hazel eyes skimming through the sheets on her hands as they gleamed in joy. “McQueen, please!” 

“Oh? Cars?” Mademoiselle Julie chuckled before peeling the glossy sticker off its sheet, sticking it on the reminder writing that he wrote down today. “Your papa will like that, don’t you think so?” 

It was no surprise that everyone knew who PJ’s father was. Charles Leclerc continued to be a household name— one that was born and raised in the principality of Monaco that later on became Monaco’s pride. You weren’t from Monaco if you didn’t know who he is— and you were a disgrace if you didn’t understand his legacy and you live in Monaco. So for Mademoiselle Julie to mention PJ’s father wasn’t anything new. 

They treated the Leclerc children as generational royalties but respected them as kids in the same community as others. Charles got himself as involved as he could with his children’s education even if there was an ongoing season he needed to attend and participate. 

Normalcy was what he lacked in other parts of the world, being a Formula One driver and all, whereas he was nothing but a son of his mother, a father of five kids and a husband of his children’s mother in the principality.

His career was often mentioned in conversations, but that was only because his children were some of the proudest kids to have existed. They’d tell others that their father would take them driving and that their father was a driver — and they had every right to say so. It was a discussion that was welcomed but never encouraged to rub in the faces of the children. 

“No!” PJ giggled. “Da loves Lotso!” 

“I thought you liked Lotso?” Mademoiselle Julie brought up. 

“Yeah, but Da loves Lotso too! Me and Da loves Lotso!” 

“Well, maybe you can get him and your Maman to love McQueen too, PJ. Tell them you got a Cars sticker. It’s red like your Da’s car, no?” 

“Mon amour,” Charles called from the children’s study room, his face showing curiosity while he carried his youngest son, little Alain, in his arm while the other held an opened handbook. “Aimee?” 

One of their eldest kids, Jules, tugged on Aimee’s trousers lightly, “Maman. Da is calling you,” he announced quietly, turning back to his homework as Aimee looked up from the screen of her laptop. The Leclerc matriarch smiled gratefully at Jules before standing on her feet, departing from the family room across the hall to meet Charles halfway through. 

“Charles? What’s happening?” She asked, only for the aforementioned man to raise the handbook slightly. “That’s PJ’s handbook.”

“Yeah, and it says that there’s an email being sent today about an event,” Charles furrowed his brow. “Did you receive anything?” 

“I did, actually— I was going to mention it after dinner but it must’ve slipped off my mind,” Aimee watched her words carefully — not wanting Alain to hear her words, “fuc— silly Lando.” 

“Siwy Wando!” Alain mimicked.

“Exactly, darling. Silly Uncle Lando,” the parents laughed. 

“Work again?” Charles chuckled as Aimee rolled her eyes at the comment. 

“Try working behind the scenes and have drivers that refuse to be trained in the media,” Aimee responded with a huff, “not that you’d understand— you’re just as dense as Lando and Oscar at times.” 

Charles only laughed and shook his head. “Seriously, you were saying something about the email?” 

“Right,” Aimee nodded. “Julie sent an email today to the guardians about a presentation project for PJ’s class. It’s a show and tell.” 

“Oh,” Charles uttered, “that should be easy. We did that with Hervé and Jules before.” 

“It’s not even just that,” Aimee added, “Julie’s a new teacher and Herb and J’s teacher did a show and tell about careers right? She wants a presentation about family.” 

“Huh,” Charles said quietly. What did that even mean? 

“She said it could be anything,” Aimee continued, “I tried asking PJ if he had anything in mind— but what does a child know about complex factors of families?” 

“Amour,” Charles laughed. “He’s five. Did you maybe ask if he wants to talk about his uncles or aunts? Or even his grandparents?” 

They both stood there, silence comfortably setting the atmosphere between the two of them before Aimee came up with something. 

“What if—“ Aimee paused and pursed her lips, “both Jules and H asked about their names before. What if we talk about PJ’s name?” 

Charles looked at his wife in confusion, little Alain stared at his father before he babbled. Charles glanced at his son for a moment before looking at Aimee once more. 

“It only makes sense,” Aimee shrugged. “Since either of us are presenting to his peers and their other guardians— why don’t we talk about his names?” 

The Ferrari driver thought about it for a moment. His sons and their names meant a lot for the couple, with them being named after people that meant so much — people that both Charles and Aimee looked up to. 

Sacha ‘PJ’ Leclerc, much like his brothers, was named after the people that gave meaning to Charles and Aimee’s relationship and their lives way before the kids came along. It only makes sense that the couple answer the questions of who were the kids named after. 

Especially when PJ’s teacher, Julie, grew curious about the boy’s nickname. His name was Sacha yet the adults called him PJ— why? 

“Okay,” Charles nodded, “we can do that.” 

“One condition,” Charles continued, making Aimee nod. 

His slight scowl was mimicked by little Alain as Charles spoke, “I’m not messing with the glitter glues.” 

“No gwue!” Alain exclaimed as if he struggled with the glittery sticky material before.

“Whaaat~” Aimee giggled before rolling her eyes playfully. “So dramatic, you two are. And I thought you'd be like your Maman, Alan.” 

“Maman just called us dramatic, Alain,” Charles gasped playfully. “Silly Maman. We’re no drama queens! We just don’t like glitter glues!” 

“Bleh!” Alain stuck his tongue out. 

“Nuh uh, we don’t stick our tongue out to Maman, Alan bebe! Just say no glue, hm?” 

“No gwue, Maman.” 

The very first step of the project was to get PJ to cooperate and help his parents build the presentation. After all, it was his class’ show and tell— it was his project. 

The five-year-old was fast to agree. He was a saint of some sort, that little man. In comparison to his older brothers, Charles and Aimee never struggled to get him to listen and his calm demeanour was what made him distinct from the Leclerc boys. 

They always said that the middle children were the menaces to society. PJ’s cousin Tia Wolff was evidence of that. His aunt, Aimee’s sister Sylvie, was also a prime example of a middle-child menace. But PJ was nothing of the sort. He behaved whenever he was asked to behave. He did everything he was asked. 

So getting him to cooperate wasn’t all bad. He did need to stop making fun of his father for disliking the glitter glues though. 

Charles still remembered how he came to his driver's briefing a few races ago after making crafts with his kids at his motorhome. He also remembered how everyone laughed at the never-ending shimmering effect on his skin as he kept rubbing on them. Glitters were something that Charles swore he’d never touch ever again. 

Anyway.

As the deadline and the day of the presentation approached, everyone seemed to be invested in helping out with the project as well. Pascale and her other sons Arthur and Lorenzo visited almost every day and whenever they could, they’d drop some feedback.

Arthur was a useless piece of shit, as always. Charles wanted to be the best role model for his kids but if his younger brother kept saying that PJ’s first name Sacha came from Sriracha he wouldn’t be able to help himself and eventually set Arthur straight. 

When Charles returned from his meeting in Maranello, though, he was more than surprised to see his niece and nephews in his family room as they helped PJ set up the pictures on the trifold board. 

“Da!” Jules said, making the kids look up from the entryway as their eyes glimmered. 

“Oncle Shal!” His youngest nephew from Toto, Adelmo, exclaimed as he waved the glitter glue around. 

“Oh hi, Elmo and Tia,” Charles shot Jules a confused look as if to ask ‘Shouldn’t these kids be in England?’, only for the boy to shrug.

“Maman est dans la cuisine avec l'oncle Toto et la tante Tilly,” Maman is in the kitchen with Uncle Toto and Aunt Tilly. Jules told his father as Charles smiled gratefully. 

“And your brothers? Herb and the younger ones?” Charles asked.

PJ, still looking down at the board with his cousins Tia and Adelmo, replied aloud, “Hervé est en train de lire un livre. Alain et Anthoine sont avec Maman dans la cuisine. « Snacking », c'est ce que maman a dit.” Hervé is reading a book. Alain and Anthoine are with Maman in the kitchen. “Snacking” is what I think Maman said. 

“Ah, oui, merci Sacha,” Charles told his middle child before ruffling Jules’ curly hair before he walked off to find the adults in the kitchen. 

Charles then found his wife with her sister, Tilly, and her brother-in-law, Toto by the kitchen island. There on the counters sat Anthoine and Alain, munching on some crackers as they tried to keep up with the conversation they knew nothing of. 

Anthoine saw Charles immediately and exclaimed, “Maman! ‘s Da!” 

“Da!” Alain grinned. 

“Hallo, bébés,” Charles grinned before he reached out to peck them in the cheeks. He then kissed Aimee on the forehead, turning to look at his in-laws in the process as he nodded, “Tilly, Toto— I didn’t expect you guys to head to Monaco this early.”

Tilly chuckled, “Early vacation for all of us. We’re staying in the holiday home for a month, at least.”

“Ah! C'est très agréable,” that’s very nice. Charles nodded with a smile. “Are the kids okay with that?” 

Toto snorted, “They have to be.”

“Tia’s next races are taking place in France,” Tilly added. “Nice, actually. So it’s quite near if we just stayed here in the principality for the next few weekends.” 

“I honestly did not expect to have a full workshop in the family room,” Charles joked. “I was expecting to maybe have PJ working on his project but they just doubled in the room— none of them were even my twins.”

“We came over when Aimee mentioned the project,” Toto laughed. “I’m surprised you went ahead with the idea.”

“You know how much it means for us to talk about the kids’ names,” Charles shrugged.

“Well, pray tell,” Tilly gave them a puzzled look, “who’s going to present it? I assume you two would want to do it but—“

“Oh no, not us,” Charles and Aimee shook their heads as the Monegasque continued, “We have someone do it for us.”

Toto’s brows furrowed, “I don’t recall you guys asking me.” 

Aimee chuckled, “Not you. Silly Toto.”

“Siwwy Toto!” The adults turned at the twin toddlers as Alain and Anthoine synchronously mimicked Aimee.

But the Leclerc parents were right, they wanted the presentation to be perfect and they had the right man for the audience.

After all, the Alpine driver had always bragged about being the reason why Charles’ middle child got the nickname ‘PJ’.

“Hello, hello! Dear friends of PJ Leclerc and the parents of the friends of PJ Leclerc!”

Charles and Aimee sighed, hiding their faces in embarrassment as they stood at the back of the classroom with the rest of the parents and the homeroom teacher, Mademoiselle Julie. 

Charles and Aimee looked at each other, unsure if they should laugh or pity themselves as Pierre Gasly sat on the tiny chair at the front. 

The kids were sitting on the floor, facing the Alpine driver as the finished product — the trifold board — was displayed next to him to show the kids.

Pierre introduced himself, “I am Pierre Gasly. I am this boy’s,” he gestured to PJ who sat on the floor right in front of him, “godfather. And today—“

“But Monsieur,” a little girl piped up, raising her hand politely as Pierre paused and nodded for her to continue, “I thought you were a driver?” 

“He is, Claudia!” PJ exclaimed with a wide grin, making the parents at the back laugh. PJ then continued, “He drives for Alpine!”

“Alright, little P, let’s calm down,” Pierre giggled quietly. Then he answered the girl, Claudia as PJ called her, with, “Yes I am a driver like PJ’s dad, but right now I am here for PJ as his godfather.”

“Now, who here knows PJ as Sacha?” Most people, hell even the adults at the back, raised their hands as Pierre nodded, “Okay. Well, you see— PJ’s Maman and Papa gave him a reallyyyy reallyyyy long name that the hospital can’t even fit the whole thing in.”

Charles, who stood amongst the giggling parents, leaned over to his wife and whispered in her ear, “I told you that having Pierre do this is a poor idea, Ami.” 

“Shh,” Aimee laughed quietly, nudging Charles a little.

“But! They gave those names to PJ because they mean a lot,” Pierre pointed at the full name displayed as a header. “Now, Sacha- it means defender. PJ’s Papa said that PJ, when he was in his Maman’s little tummy, was quiet and a good boy. But he kicks hard like he could play football.” 

The kids giggled, PJ laughing along. 

“So, his Papa and Maman said that he is a gentle one, but he can be fierce- like a defending warrior!” Pierre told the class and showed emotions for the dramatic effect. The kids looked up at him in awe. “So they said that his name will be Sacha!” 

“But wait…” Pierre paused dramatically and looked around, “There is another name.” 

“Niki,” Pierre pointed at the middle name. “Who here has watched Formula One?” Everyone raised their hands. “Of course you have- this is Monaco! Anyway, Niki Lauda was a very good driver. He was one of the greatest Formula One drivers— PJ’s Maman and Papa looked up to Niki as he drove for both Scuderia Ferrari and McLaren.”

“Do you wanna know something?” Pierre leaned over as if he was going to whisper a secret, “PJ’s Maman is the goddaughter of Niki Lauda.” 

Meanwhile, at the back, Aimee was laughing quietly at Pierre’s dramatic presentation.

Charles gave her a puzzled look as Aimee looked up and murmured, “He can be a good preschool teacher if he has the patience for kids.” 

Charles snickered, “Good luck with that.”

“So of course… Sacha Niki… Oh, what’s that?” Pierre pointed at his own name. “Pierre.”

“That’s your name!” The boy next to PJ gasped and turned to look at the aforementioned boy, “PJ, your name is like his!” 

PJ eagerly nodded but didn’t say anymore as Pierre continued. “I have been his Papa’s very best friend since we were kids! That’s why I am PJ’s godfather and that is why they named him Pierre.”

“That’s so cool, PJ,” the other kids told the child, who blushed slightly at the attention given to him.

Pierre chuckled at this before he moved the children’s attention towards the last name. “Philippe,” he said, now watching the kids pay attention.

“PJ’s Maman had a grandfather that she loved the most,” Pierre explained to the kids. “PJ’s aunts and Maman love him so much and his name is Philip Hearth.” He pointed at the picture at the bottom of the  ‘Philippe’ header. 

There, a photo of a baby Aimee being held by her grandfather was displayed. At the bottom of it showed a portrait photo of Philip and his time at the F1 tracks and other factories of his company. 

“Philip owned Ferrari and McLaren,” Pierre nodded, “he was good friends with Enzo Ferrari and many famous drivers- in fact, he made some drivers’ careers possible by putting money into the teams and providing resources. He made dreams come true!” 

“PJ’s Maman loved her grandfather so much that she named PJ after him,” Pierre grinned. The way Pierre’s storytelling was heartwarming for both Charles and Aimee, as he had been enthusiastic about this whole ordeal— it showed them that their children meant a lot to Pierre. 

“And that’s it,” Pierre concluded. “That’s the story of the name of Sacha Niki Pierre Philippe. Now— who has some questions?” 

The question portion started there. And the Alpine driver was ready to conclude the presentation when Claudia raised her hand as Pierre nodded at her.

“If his name is Sacha…” Pierre nodded, encouraging the little girl to nod, “Then why is he called PJ?” 

Everyone seemed curious too. But Aimee and Charles both knew why he was called PJ rather than Sacha. 

It was at Pierre’s insistence that Sacha Leclerc was destined to be Pierre Junior. He had established this as soon as Aimee and Charles arrived from the hospital the day after Sacha was born. 

But Pierre’s answer was partially different from what had happened, “His Maman and Papa said that he is Pierre Junior! Like me!” 

Pierre grinned at Aimee and Charles’ baffled looks.

“The audacity,” Aimee scoffed.

Charles chuckled, “Oh, Mon Dieu.” 

They’d have to talk to Pierre about changing certain narratives. It was okay to lie to be a wingman for your best friend, but lying to the kids about what happened with PJ’s nickname? 

Yeah, he needed some talking to.

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @hiireadstuff @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen @happy-nico @architect-2015 @scorpiomindfuck

[pumpkins-journal]

✮ When He Smiles ✮

gn!reader x choso (can be platonic or pre-relationship)

You're curious about how the man could be so expressive, and yet... (Pure fluff n vibes)

inspired by that one panel of embarrassed choso and the thought of him sending dog stickers w a straight face just tickles me

also posting this on mobile bc im impatient so sorry its a bit ugly looking aUGH i might fix it when i get home (update i fixed it a lil)

Choso was an enigma to you. When you talk to him he'd have an aura of indifference about everything around him. He always seemed so… detached. Even with pestering his dear half-brother to call him big brother, the only semblance of excitement he'd show was a slight pitch in tone laced with a firm insistence.

Which is why you'd be caught off guard when you’d start communicating via text. You’d double-take at the cute emojis attached to his messages, the occasional puppy stickers meeting your gaze. 

you: choso is that a dog choso: Yes. Yuji taught me how to send these stickers. Do you like them? you: yea i do! choso: I'm glad. I'll be sure to keep using them then. 😄 choso: He also taught me how emojis work.

It was especially curious when you’d find yourself looking over his shoulder, watching him respond to his little brother in the same manner- emojis, stickers and all- and your eyes would trail up to see that same deadpanned look on his face. Once he returned your gaze, you leaned back, face warm with embarrassment.

“Ah, sorry. Was I too close?” you asked. 

“No, you’re fine.” Choso shook his head before showing his screen. “Yuji was showing me a trailer for a movie he'd like to see. It's supposed to be about the lives of people, their relationship with the creatures in their world and teamwork.” You looked down at the screen, watching a scene of a young boy with a small yellow mouse-like creature.

“I think I may like this one. He reminds me of Yuji.”

You couldn't help but smile at this.

“You really love your brother, huh?”

“I do.” he lowered the phone as the video played. “I love all of my brothers equally and as deeply. As the oldest, it's my duty to protect them and care for them.”

“Hmm.” you mused as you sat next to him while he replied to the messages. You stared out into the fields before you and leaned back, the silence keeping you company.

“Hey, Choso?”

“Hm?”

You tapped your finger against the bench, trying to form the question in your head.

“I've noticed that you don't… really emote much? Not outside of fighting, I mean. Not that that's a bad thing! I was just curious.”

“Hm.”

The silence made you acutely aware of an uncomfortable pit in your stomach, already regretting asking a question that probably drew more attention to how different he was.

Something you already know he struggles with.

“Hey, uh, you don't have to answer–”

“I'm not the best at expressing myself.”

You paused, tilting your head at him in surprise. His face was still focused on the screen.

“Emotions are draining. It takes so much energy to smile, to cry, to laugh. I can feel it all, and I embrace it– it helps me feel the slightest bit human, but it's hard to convey that. I'm aware oftentimes it makes me come across as uncaring, so I'm thankful for learning about emojis and stickers. Hopefully they can get across my feelings better when I talk to others.”

He turned to you, head tilted ever so slightly.

“Sorry if you’ve been uncomfortable all this time.”

“What- no!” You waved a hand. “It’s not a big deal, I was just curious! It kinda makes sense in a way, lots of people are like that.”

“..Are they?” You didn't miss how his eyes widened just a touch at this. You nodded with a smile.

“Yeah, some people can speak their mind, while others struggle. It's just a part of being human, I think. It doesn't make you weird or anything like that! Y'know, Nanami also tends to be straight faced, it adds to his vibe.”

“Yes, but I'm also aware that his 'vibes' make him incompatible outside of sorcery work. He doesn't seem to like to entertain Yuji or the other children when they're having fun, unlike Gojo.”

“What, do you wanna be like Gojo then?”

You watched as his face scrunched up in response, the line across his nose becoming uneven.

“I would rather be exorcised, actually.”

You paused at this before breaking out in a fit of laughter. Choso watched as joyful tears rolled down your cheeks, grin stretching from ear to ear. The mark on his nose settled into a warmer, more bubby form as a gentle smile appeared on his face.

A smile that you caught as you opened your eyes, your heart skipping a beat.

“..Hey, Choso?”

“Mh-hm?”

Your smile softened as well, cheeks tingling from your earlier outburst.

“You have a very handsome smile.”

The male tensed at this, covering his face as he turned away. You grinned at his bashfulness, nudging him slightly.

“Oh, c'mon! Can't take a compliment?” you teased, watching his ears turn a few shades darker. He tried to shoo you away with his free hand, only succeeding in making your playful bullying more insistent.

Expressionless or not, you knew that when Choso felt things, he felt them with everything he had.

That being said, you made sure to treasure the memory of his smile for the rest of your days, a rare treat for you and you only.

[mirrortouchedsea]

This was written for @fluff-e-boy for the @esrarepairweek gift exchange! The prompts were firsts, flowers and angst so I tried to include all of those for some MidoYuzu <3 Hope you enjoy it!

---

It’s raining, how poignant. Yuzuru stares down at his phone, message typed, his thumb hovers over the Send button, but he can’t bear to press it. I’m sorry, Takamine-sama, it starts. I can’t continue our relationship like this. It would compromise my position as a butler for the Himemiya family. I hope you understand. 

---

The first time Yuzuru noticed Takamine was after a long student council meeting. Takamine had been waiting for Sengoku to leave so they could walk home together and he had dozed off in the hallway instead. Sengoku gently shook Takamine awake and Yuzuru walked over to make sure that he was okay and didn’t need anything. Are you okay, I can get you some water, he offered. Takamine shook his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. I’m okay, but thank you for asking, Fushimi. Sengoku helped Takamine stand up and the two of them left Yumenosaki together. 

--- 

Not long after that, Yuzuru had been absentmindedly doodling in his notebook while waiting for class to start (because of course, he was a very attentive student who didn’t doodle during the lecture itself). When the teacher walked in, Yuzuru tore the sheet out and folded it under his textbook, not thinking anything of it until the class ended an hour later. His class was packing up as the next one filtered in and Takamine stopped by Yuzuru’s desk. Did you draw this, Fushimi? He asked, cautiously picking up the paper. Yes, though I can’t say I’m artistically inclined. He reached out to take the paper back, but Takamine held firm. It’s… amazing! Can I keep it?! Yuzuru was shocked. Nobody had ever asked to keep his artwork away, rather they were polite about asking it to be thrown in the trash so nobody would have to see it again. Sure, if you’d like. Takamine’s face lit up and he hugged the paper to his chest. Thank you so much Fushimi-senpai! Yuzuru smiled and quickly left the classroom. He would be late to his next class if he lingered any longer. He smiled for the rest of the day, pencil scratching away on another piece of paper. 

--- 

In the days and weeks that followed, Takamine would come up and ask for art from Yuzuru, doodles he had drawn between classes mostly, but sometimes he’d ask for specific characters during their lunch period and marvel at Yuzuru’s pencil strokes on the page. The young master would tease him about these “lunch dates” as he called them, but Yuzuru was just glad to be doing something other than his butler and idol activities. His art often scared people away, but Takamine was enraptured with it. Yuzuru had seen several of his drawings in Takamine’s study binder, covered in colorful stickers and washi tape, but very clearly his art. His heart swelled at the thought that someone actually liked his drawings that much to display them in that manner. Though when they sat down for lunch together and talked, Takamine was always a little quieter, watching intently as Yuzuru talked and drew something new. Takamine-sama, you don’t have to be so quiet, I don’t mind talking to you. Yuzuru paused and looked up as he said that. I just don’t want to distract you, Master Artist Fushimi! Takamine’s face flushed a bright red and Yuzuru chuckled. You don’t have to worry about that, I’m used to multi-tasking. I know, but… my life is just so boring compared to yours. I like boring things. Takamine started talking more after that. 

--- 

After another StarPro meeting concluded and as members were filtering out of the conference room, Morisawa from Ryuseitai pulled Yuzuru aside. I just wanted to say thank you, Takamine has been smiling a lot more recently and he talks about you a lot. Yuzuru could feel his cheeks heat up a little. Ah, I’m glad he’s feeling better. Takamine… talks about him? And enough for his unit leader to notice and want to thank him? Yeah, he says he’s always excited to get lunch with you and talk, just thought I’d pass that along! It’s much appreciated, Morisawa. 

--- 

Their meetings became more and more frequent, Takamine always made sure to have his lunch free to meet up with Yuzuru so they could talk and Yuzuru could draw on some scrap paper for him. Yuzuru’s skills had not improved one bit but Takamine still ate up everything he drew, always finding something to compliment about Yuzuru’s art. Eventually, the two of them would meet up after the workday had ended as well, much to the Young Master’s chagrin. You’re going out with that guy again? Tori asked. Who will read my bedtime story tonight? Yuzuru chuckled. You outgrew those when you were still in primary school, Young Master, but if you insist, I’ll be home in time. I was going to look for new ingredients for your lunches this week. Maybe I’ll try cooking with some asparagus this week. The Young Master blanched. Whatever, not like I care anyway! I’ll be home before dinner, don’t worry; I’m just running errands. The Young Master huffed but agreed. He had plans anyway with Pretty 5, so Yuzuru didn’t have to worry about being back on time at all. Yuzuru chuckled as he walked down to the lobby of their apartment and caught Takamine pacing back and forth muttering to himself. Yuzuru, not being one to waste an opportunity, snuck up behind Takamine just before he turned around. Takamine all but jumped out of his skin when he bumped into a smiling Yuzuru, who thankfully reached out to steady him before he could fall and make even more of a fool of himself. 

Are you feeling alright, Takamine-sama? Yuzuru asked, hand reluctantly letting go as soon as Takamine steadied himself. Y-yeah, I was just nervous… he trailed off under his breath, but since you’re here, we can go on our uhm, our… Yuzuru chuckles and offers an arm to the other teenager. We should leave before it gets too late. Takamine nodded and took Yuzuru’s arm, hand trembling where it rested. Yuzuru smiled to himself and led the two of them out towards their destination. 

He hadn’t wanted to scare Takamine with an over the top restaurant for their first official date, so he asked some other members of StarPro for recommendations. Eventually he settled on a hole-in-the-wall cafe not too far from the apartments, but one that shouldn’t be busy enough to attract attention to the two of them just trying to enjoy an evening out. Takamine was flustered when they started their walk, stuttering when he spoke (Morisawa ma-made us stay late for practice today and I d-didn’t want to smell all gross and sweaty for our d-d-date.) but he had calmed down by the time they sat down in a small, tucked away part of the cafe. The speaker played some of their new releases, and Takamine had a lot to say about how much he hated live rehearsals and recording sessions, which Yuzuru chuckled along to. I’m amazed how someone who hates being an idol so much has stayed in the business for so long. Takamine flushed as it set in just how much he was complaining about work. I-it’s not all bad, I like meeting my fans and knowing I’ve made an impact on their lives, but…I don’t know, I just don’t feel the same way that Morisawa or Shinobu-kun do about it. Yuzuru is familiar with the feeling. I was the same way when the Young Master insisted on attending Yumenosaki, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoy the process. They ordered their food and continued chatting long after their plates were finished, only standing up when the waitress politely asked them to leave so they could close up. Takamine got flustered but Yuzuru suggested they take the long way back to Seisoukan, which Takamine agreed to. 

The night was chilly, Yuzuru can still feel the light but bitter wind that cut through their clothing. Yuzuru offered his jacket to Takamine, who rejected it, saying they should instead focus on getting back to the apartments as quickly as possible. I had fun tonight, though. Likewise; are you free next week? Ah, no, Morisawa scheduled us for some hero shows and we have really intense practices for those, but we can still get lunch…? Yuzuru smiles. Lunch sounds great. 

---

As the weeks went by, Yuzuru was spending more and more time with Takamine, while still fulfilling his butler duties to the Young Master, meeting up mostly for lunches after he ensured the Young Master was indeed going to eat the lunch that Yuzuru had packed for him or at least get something healthy at the staff cafeteria and on their days off when the Young Master was off with his own friends, time that Yuzuru could generally guarantee he had to himself. He was smiling more, as Tenshouin and Hibiki pointed out during their dance rehearsals, but that wasn’t a bad thing. They were glad he had found something outside of being the stoic Mr. Butler to do in his spare time. 

But all good things must come to an end. Somehow the word got around to Yuzuru’s parents and they called him just a few days ago. We’re…happy that you’ve found someone you like, but you have to think about how your relationship will impact the Masters’ reputation. A common boy involved with a butler of the Himemiya family could be disastrous if anything were to leak about it. We don’t want you getting too distracted from your duties either, son. Of course, Mother, Father, I apologize for not thinking this through. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to his parents as he hung up the phone. He had another date with Takamine scheduled for the weekend and he didn’t want to have to wait that long to break the news, not that he particularly wanted to break it at all, but if his parents found out, it was only a matter of time before the Young Master’s parents did as well. It was better to take care of the relationship himself, nip it in the bud before it blossomed too much. 

The day after that phone call, Yuzuru was distracted, enough that Tenshouin said they should take an Eichi day since he wasn’t feeling that well anymore and needed to calm down, though Yuzuru didn’t detect anything wrong with the man. Yuzuru, something’s bothering you, Tenshouin said, pulling Yuzuru aside after Hibiki and the Young Master left. It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with, Tenshouin. The other man puts his hand on Yuzuru’s shoulder. I hope you consider me a friend, Yuzuru, and know that I’m here if you need someone to talk to. I appreciate it, but it’s something I need to figure out for myself. Tenshouin squeezed his shoulder and offered a sad smile. Alright, I understand, just try to have it figured out before our next show, alright? Yuzuru nodded and after Tenshouin took his bag and walked out, Yuzuru slumped to the floor, cradling his head in his hands. He was supposed to meet with Takamine tomorrow, but he would have to cancel. He pulled his phone out and began typing, back spaced, typed again, rinse and repeat for at least fifteen minutes before shoving his phone back into his pocket. He needed a walk to clear his head before he said something stupid. 

---

It’s been getting colder out as fall turns to winter. Yuzuru’s breath lingers in the air like the early morning fog. He pulls his jacket closer and starts walking away from ES, no destination in mind. Logistically he understands his parents demands, Yuzuru doesn’t want to drag Takamine into the Himemiya family even as a servant and he doubts Takamine would want that either. And the last time Yuzuru tried to disobey orders didn’t go well to say the least. Short of abandoning his entire life and running away with Takamine, it just wasn’t going to work with how things were now. Yuzuru stops at a crosswalk, checking for oncoming traffic when he spots a flower shop across the street. Maybe some flowers will help to soften the blow… He checks traffic again and hurries across the road to the shop. Finally out of the cold, Yuzuru relaxes his shoulders and lets the scent of the various flowers near the entrance settle over him. Can I help you with anything? The lone cashier asks him. Ah, yes actually…

---

Saturday comes and Yuzuru’s heart is all but beating out of his chest. He ordered the bouquet, a small but elegant piece, to be delivered right before he was supposed to leave to meet with Takamine. He’s never felt this nervous before, not even before any of fine’s live shows. This is more personal, though. There’s a knock on the dorm room door and Yuzuru answers it, signing and accepting the flowers before setting them down on a table. What does he even say to Takamine? The truth? That would be a bit much. But he’s not going to lie and say that he doesn’t like Takamine, he does, and he wants to continue spending time with him and drawing for him, but anything more than that just isn’t possible. 

There’s another knock at the door and the pit in Yuzuru’s stomach keeps growing. Ah, Fushimi-senpai, I’m ready when you are! Yuzuru takes a deep breath, picks the bouquet back up and opens the door. Takamine’s smiling when the door opens and Yuzuru’s stomach starts doing flips. He doesn’t want to lose that smile or be the reason it disappears. You look wonderful today, Yuzuru says, stepping into the hallway as he hands Takamine the bouquet of flowers. You didn’t have to get me anything, we were just doing some shopping, right? Takamine takes the bouquet anyway and they start walking. I… just felt like getting you something nice, that’s all. Takamine smiles even brighter, clutching the flowers to his chest. I appreciate it, Fushimi-senpai. Yuzuru smiles back, though it’s a small one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Of course, Takamine-sama; now, why don’t we get going, we can at least try to beat the crowds. Let me just drop these flowers off in my room? Of course. Yuzuru takes a seat on one of the couches in the lobby while Takamine runs off to his dorm. Did he want to wait until the end of the date to break the news, enjoy the rest of the day with Takamine or just rip the bandaid off right away (though they probably wouldn’t go out at all in that case…) or somewhere in the middle over lunch? Sorry, Takamine, I like you a lot but…it’s not going to work out for us; it’s not you, it’s me; We can still get lunch together though? That was probably the best he could do given the circumstances, but his train of thought is interrupted by the one and only Takamine sneaking up behind him and tapping Yuzuru’s shoulder. I’m back! Yuzuru smiles and stands up. Maybe… he can wait for another day, he just needs to make sure they aren’t holding hands or being too affectionate in public, Tenshouin might be able to help them keep their cover within StarPro as well. Maybe he can make this work. Alright, let’s get going then. As they head out of the apartment building, they both wear smiles on their faces like everything was right in the world. 

[bunni-v1]

(Twenty) Nine Lives for Love

Chapter 3: Meet the Team Prev Chapter\\Next Chapter m.list

Tw: Yamamoto (/j)

Info: Kenma x Reader ; Kuroo and Reader; Kuroo is a wingman; Your cat is so fucking fat (this is so important); Nekoma team introduction (yay!!!)

Word Count: 7.5k 🍓I know I said I was gonna get Curee out, but... I wanted to write this one so sorry lol. Anyway, I am again asking you to pretend Animal Crossing came out earlier in 2012. We get to meet the team, and I know I didn't highlight all the characters, but I just wanted to highlight the ones that are generally the most important in the Nekoma game. Anyway, enjoy lovelies!

Tag List: @angel-academia @bi-bi-papillon

You stretched your arms up above your head, groaning at the satisfying pops of your spine. The sun wasn’t even up yet, though you could see it just barely peaking over the horizon through your curtains. Maki let out a disgruntled sound as you shifted to grab your phone. 6:00 AM, 20 degrees Celsius, partly cloudy. 4 messages from ‘shithead’ (Noya) and 3 from ‘baldy’ (Tanaka). You shut the screen off, setting it back down, you’ll deal with the boneheads later. (Why Tanaka was up this early was beyond you). It was way too early to see your Dad off to work. He was never up before 6:30, and he left at 7:30 on the dot every day.

Lazily, you slumped out of bed, ignoring your cat growling at the loss of your warmth. You drag your feet over to your closet, pulling out your uniform and tossing it on haphazardly. You would fix it later once you were more awake. You took care of your hair just as fast and checked your phone again. 6:10 AM, great. You sigh, quickly responding to Noya and Tanaka’s messages (something about ‘annoying teachers’ from Noya and ‘rowdy freshmen’ from Tanaka). While you were at it, you decided to double-check the group chat Kuroo made last night for meeting times.

‘Meet up around 8:30’ and make your way to school with ‘enough time to grab snacks before class.’ You smile a little at the messages, Kenma complaining that was too early and Kuroo scolding him as usual. He also insisted on Kenma introducing you to Yamamoto and a Fukunaga, which you were 100% certain would not be happening if Kenma had the choice. You turn the screen off and sigh. With nothing to do for at least an hour (or until your old man decided to bother you), you decided to pass the time the only way you knew how: playing video games. 

With the stealth of a practiced ninja, you crept down the stairs and set up your N64. It was your Dad’s, which he bought so he could play with you when you were old enough. It had seen a lot of love since then, covered in stickers and markers from when you and Noya were too young to know better. You slid open the small drawer holding all your games, mulling over what you should play. Finally, you settled on the classic Super Mario 64. You’d beaten and 100% the game a million times by now, but you never got tired of it – besides it was only to pass the time for a bit. You would probably only play the slide level, or throw that little penguin off the side of Cool Cool Mountain. 

You blew into the cartridge, just in case, and pressed it into the slot. Not too long after, Mario’s impressive (for its time), but horrific 3D face greeted you with ‘It’s-a me, Mario’. You took a few minutes to stretch it around, deforming him until you were satisfied, then finally loaded up the game to mess around a bit. You decidedly chose not to play either aforementioned level, and hopped into Bob-om Battlefield instead, mostly because you liked the theme so much. After a long while (or exactly 45 minutes according to your phone), you heard the soft steps of slipper-clad feet make their way down the stairs, and pause right outside the entryway to the living room.

“You’re up early,” called the soft voice of your father.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep,” you answer.

He walks further in, leaning over the back of the couch to get a better look at what you’re up to. He laughs a little when he gets a full view of you running around aimlessly, setting the little bombs off on purpose. His hands come down to ask for the controller, which you hand him, and he proceeds to do the same thing you were doing. When he is satisfied, he hands the controller back to you and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Wanna eat breakfast together, since you’re up?.” He offers.

On cue, your stomach grumbles. Both of you share a look, then laugh before heading for the kitchen. Your dad makes two eggs, sunny side up, and toast. Simple, but more than enough to fill both of you up for the day. You pour yourself some apple juice, never having been a fan of bitter orange juice with your savory breakfast. When all is settled on the table, and you’ve already begun to eat your breakfast, your Dad decides he wants to catch up.

“How was your first day at school? I meant to ask last night, but that movie had us both snoring before we could talk.”

You laugh and nod, “Yeah, what a snoozefest. I thought it was ‘the scariest movie of all time.’ What a joke.”

“Scary movies aren’t scary anymore.” Your Dad scoffs, and you adamantly nod along with him.

“Seriously! But, anyway, school was good!” You exclaim.

“Oh yeah? Anything interesting happen, sweetpea?” he wonders.

You think it over, not quite sure where to start, “I was lost, but one of my upperclassmen – his name is Kuroo – helped me out. It turns out his best friend – Kenma – was in my class, and I was able to sit next to him, so I wasn’t lonely like I thought I’d be.”

He takes a big bite of his toast, and grins at you as he swallows, “That’s good! I’m glad you’re making friends. I told you it wouldn’t be that bad.”

You nod, “Oh, yeah, they actually live just down the street from us. We’re walking together this morning.”

“That’s… really convenient! You won’t have such a lonely walk now either.”

Again, you nod, “Oh, and get this, they asked me if I wanted to help manage the volleyball team. I’m going to their practice today, so I’ll get back around the same time as you today.”

He pauses, swallowing up the rest of his eggs – while you have only eaten half of what was on your plate – and gives you a nervous look. “That’s… a lot of conveniences. Anyway, isn’t it a bit odd that he’s asking someone he hardly knows to manage his volleyball team?”

You eye him suspiciously, “...That’s what I said, but… I dunno I guess he’s desperate. The volleyball team isn’t all that popular or good from what I’ve seen, so they haven’t had a manager since he was a freshman at least. Besides, if I feel uncomfortable or anything I just won’t say yes.”

He seems to accept the answer, “Alright, just be safe. Text me if you need me to come pick you up, okay, pumpkin?”

“I will, don’t worry too much,” you assure, and he reaches over to ruffle your hair.

“Finish your eggs up, then come see me off for work.” He states, getting up to clean off his plate and heading back upstairs to finish getting ready.

Obediently, you eat your food until the plate is clean and down the last of your drink. You rinse the plate off in the sink, set it in the dishwasher, and then move to straighten out your uniform in the first-floor bathroom. At some point, Maki lazes her way downstairs to find you, settling herself on the edge of the sink to stare at you complacently in the mirror. You give her a good scratch behind her ear, then leave to meet your old man at the entrance. He holds your school bag out in one hand, his briefcase in the other, and a big smile on his face.

You sling the strap over your head, adjusting it across your body, and then all three members of your household make your way outside. Maki, however, is not allowed outside of the gate, despite her wailing to say goodbye as well. You hush her as your father climbs into the old family van.

“She’s only so co-dependent cause you baby her all the time,” your Dad teases.

“She is my baby,” you insist, “I practically birthed that cat.”

He snorts, shaking his head at you, “Alright, alright. Be safe, love you pumpkin.”

You lean into the window, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “I will. Love you too, Dad. Have a good day at work.”

You wave him off – behind the gate, to appease Maki so she doesn’t disturb the neighbors. When he is out of your line of sight, you sigh, bending down to poke at Maki as punishment for her dramatics. She falls onto her side, thinking it’s playtime, and begins to bat at your hands. You huff out your nose, shaking your head. 

“Maybe I do baby you too much, you fatass.” 

She meows curiously up at you, and you can’t help but laugh at the display, rubbing at her stomach more affectionately this time. You spend a long time playing with Maki on the pavement of your entryway, enjoying the way she reacts to your poking and prodding fingers dancing across her little tummy. You only stop when you hear feet shuffling up to your gate, looking up to find Kenma. You blink in surprise, checking your phone, 8:00 AM – he was very early, and he was alone. You look around, maybe Kuroo is hiding, but there is no sign of him.

“Morning Kenma,” You finally say, standing to your feet.

“Morning,” he replies, but you can tell his focus is elsewhere. Specifically, on Maki.

Without another word, you bend down and scoop her up, then open the gate to let him in. He hesitates, looking at you nervously, but steps in when you widen your smile. Only after you close the gate do you set Maki down – knowing she would bolt if given the chance to. Kenma immediately squats down to pet her but pauses and looks at you.

“Is she friendly?” he asks.

“Yes, but she won’t be for much longer if you keep depriving her of pets,” you joke playfully.

Kenma smiles, then finally gives Maki her well-deserved butt scratches. You bend down to sit next to him, watching him in amusement. He got this glazed over, delighted look in his eyes, like he was in heaven. It was kind of cute to see. His eyes slipped over to you, and you continued to smile softly at him. There was a careful kind of consideration that crossed his face. Something… gentle and familiar about the look that you could not quite place. Then, he spoke.

“You didn’t mention you had a cat,” he mumbled, turning his gaze back to Maki.

You do the same, “It just didn’t come up, but she’s my pride and joy.”

His fingers find their way up to her collar, thumb rubbing the imprinted hiragana, “Maki. Why’d you name her that.”

You smile fondly at the memory, “I found her on the street when I was like eight or something. She was next to one of those souvenir shops that sell stuff to tourists. The shop had a big Maneki Neko sign, so I named her after that.”

He hums, scratching behind her ears, “So you rescued her?”

“Yeah, she was nothing but skin and bones when I found her. I fattened her up real good though, don’t you think?” As you say that, you give her stomach a playful smack.

“She sure is fat,” he laughs, then he thinks over his next words carefully before speaking, “Do you like rescuing animals?”

You nod excitedly, “Oh yeah. I scored a part-time job at the animal rescue downtown. I work the weekends, and I love it.”

“Paws and claws?”

“That’s the one! You know it?”

He hums his confirmation, “Yep. I’ve thought about trying to volunteer there, but I figured I wouldn’t get the approval.”

You frown at him, adamantly shaking your head, “We could use the help, and I can put in good word for you now. Besides, it would be a good way to get to know each other better.”

He seems to mull over your words carefully, jaw shifting as he thinks. You find him handsome like this, and you have to squash the squealing of the teenage girl in your head, reminding yourself you had met him yesterday. 

“I’ll… think about it,” he answers finally, “if I have the time.”

You huff a laugh out of your nose, “Oh! Uhm, I visited your village last night, it’s so cool. I love that all your villagers are cats, and you’ve got a cute, like, yarn theme going. It’s really, what's the word? Charming?”

He smiles, wide this time, “Thanks. I think I spent over a hundred hours making it perfect… I liked yours too. The way you set it all up was nice and cohesive, it felt like I was walking through a real city.”

“I based it off of my neighborhood back in Miyagi,” you admit, “I wanted it to feel as… homely as possible.”

“Well, you did a good job at that,” he compliments, “My favorite part was how you put your house right next to Bob’s.”

“He’s my favorite villager!” You defend, “He was one of my starters, and I kinda just fell in love with his personality. Y’know, he’s kinda like you!”

“He and Tangy are my favorites,” Kenma replies, still petting Maki, “…Tangy reminds me of you. A little.”

You try to shove down how happy that makes you, though your cheeks still heat up at the thought of it. The universe was out to get you, giving you this new boy who you just couldn’t seem to feel normal about. If Yuu or Tanaka were here they’d never let you hear the end of it. In your attempt to keep composure, a nice silence falls between the two of you. Kenma is still, somehow, dutifully petting your spoiled cat and you scrolling through your phone out of boredom. A few of your friends from Karasuno had posted about their first day back, and you tried not to feel too sour about it. It wasn’t your fault you weren’t there, and it wasn’t theirs for enjoying their time without you. Still, it stung just a little. Only a little, though.

“Have you thought about practice?” Kenma asks, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

“Huh? Oh! Yeah,” you respond awkwardly, “Yeah I have. I said I was gonna give it a try, so I won’t go back on my word. When does it go ‘till, though? I have to let my dad know what I’m up to or else he gets nervous.”

“Mine is the same way. My mom couldn’t care less, but he worries too much,” he responds coolly, “practice goes until 5, then we usually grab something to eat from the konbini down the street. So.. 5:30, I guess. We probably won’t today, though.”

“Okay, thanks,” you nod, quickly texting the information to your father. Kenma peers over your shoulder, cat-like eyes watching your fingers dash across the keyboard rapidly. He doesn’t have a touchscreen like you do – most kids your age don’t because they’re so new and expensive – so you don’t pay his prying eyes any mind, assuming it was only curiosity at the phone.

“Who’s shithead?” He asks suddenly.

You’re a bit confused until you look at your screen again and remember you never responded to Noya’s text. ‘Shithead: Remember not to be too intense or you’ll scare him off’ shows on your recent messages. Your face heats up, hoping Kenma didn’t read the message, “Oh! He’s just a friend from back home– Not just friend, sorry. He’d kill me if I said we were just normal friends. He’s my–”

“Your boyfriend?” a much deeper voice from behind asks.

You turn to Kuroo, face hot and flustered as can be. You try to ignore how Kenma’s face falls a little at what Kuroo said, not wanting to unpack that right now. Not this early in the morning, at least, maybe alone in your room tonight.

“Definitely not! Ew!” you exclaim, shaking your head, “I think I’d rather die. He’s my best friend. We’re practically family.”

Again, you try not to acknowledge that Kenma relaxes when you say that. Kuroo shrugs, pointing an accusatory finger at Kenma. 

“You coulda told me you were meeting her here early,” he scolds, “I stood outside your house like an idiot. Mrs. Shimada had to shoo me away, do you know how dumb I looked.”

Kenma rolls his eyes, “I wish I was there to see it.”

“You never leave the house early – actually, you’re almost always still sleeping when I come to get you! Who are you?” Kuroo argues.

An eye roll, “I just felt like it okay? It’s not a big deal or anything.”

A couple of expletives leave Kuroos mouth, and you snicker at him. They were just as amusing in the morning, that's good, yesterday wasn’t a fluke. Hoping to be the keeper of peace, you scoop Maki up from the ground and walk up to Kuroo.

“No arguing, okay, just pet my cat,” you smile, offering her up to him

He sighs, looks at her for a long moment, then begins scratching the top of her head. She purrs in your arms, little paws reaching out to grab at Kuroos arm. That seems to lighten him up, a wonderstruck smile growing across his cheeks as he goes in for more scratches.

“You didn’t mention you had such a cute kitty,” he coos.

“It didn’t come up,” Kenma says, now standing next to you, very close. He reaches up to pet Maki too, and you rationalize that he has to stand close to reach her. (He does not, you know he does not, but you were not going to complain).

“We should probably head out soon if we wanna make it in time,” Kuroo says, though he doesn’t stop his affections for a second.

You let him and Kenma give Maki all the love in the world for about five more seconds, then you pull her away. All three of them are disappointed. Spoiled rotten kitties. You open your front door and shoo Maki inside, laughing at the indignant face she gives you as you close the door. 

“She’s not an outdoor cat?” Kuroo says, a bit disappointed.

“You saw how fat she was!” you laugh, “but seriously, if I leave her outdoors she’ll follow me to class, and I don’t want her getting hit by a car or something.”

The two of them hum and nod in understanding, and then you’re off on your usual route to school. Again you talk about nothing and everything, and time passes incredibly quickly. These two were simple and easy to talk to, for whatever reason. It was a little annoying that you couldn’t place why, but you would count your blessings lest you lose them.

“Hey, are you still planning on coming to practice this afternoon?” Kuroo asks you as you arrive at the vending machines just outside the gym.

You nod enthusiastically, “Yeah! I’m really looking forward to it! You talked a pretty big game, I gotta see if it’s true, right?”

Kuroo laughs while Kenma slides some money in the slot, selecting some kind of juice, “We’re pretty average, but I think we’re fun to watch, maybe.” He comments, sliding another bill into the slot, “What do you want?”

“Oh– I can pay for myself,” you worry.

“I already put the money in, just pay me back later,” He says flatly.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Kuroo teases, much to Kenmas chagrin.

“Just milk, please,” you say finally, and he presses the button.

“I told the coach about you last night, he’s excited to have you,” Kuroo comments as he gets himself something too.

“I hope I live up to the standards then,” you joke.

“We don’t have any standards…” Kenma mumbles.

Your eyes glance over Kuroos hair, and you hum in understanding. He looks offended, and you sip on your milk so you don’t burst out laughing. For what it's worth, though, it gets a smile out of Kenma – which is all you wanted in the first place. Kuroo chooses something peachy, which does not seem to fit his whole persona, and then you are off to your homeroom together. You expect it to be like yesterday, light, playful conversation and quick, but it is not. 

As you are rounding the first of your right turns, a loud, somewhat familiar voice shouts behind you. Kenma flinches and Kuroo rolls his eyes. You have a total of about three seconds to react before there is a blonde boy tackling Kenma forward.

Ah. You think. It’s Yamamoto.

“How rude are you, you didn’t come by to see me yesterday – I gave you my classroom number and everything!” He says, scolding like a parent.

You think, just for a moment, that the sight is very funny. In the kindest way possible, this guy looks like a punk, and he’s scolding Kenma. You cover your giggles with another sip of your nearly empty milk carton. Kuroo sighs, which seems to be a habit of his, and marches forward to separate the two. You smile a little at Kenma, who shies away from your gaze, but still returns to your side like a lost kitten. (You let the teenage girl in you kick her feet over this one because it is cute.)

“Don’t make a scene, Yamamoto,” Kuroo scolds, and all balances itself out.

“‘M not making a scene, dude! I just–” He pauses when he sees you, doing a double take. The best way to describe his face would be: stupid. Like how Tanaka looks when he sees Kiyoko. You sure hope this guy doesn’t think you’re his soulmate – no offense to him. He points at you, “Who’s that?”

You introduce yourself and decide not to mention that you literally introduced yourself to the whole of his class yesterday. Kuroo decides to add, though you wish he hadn’t, “She’s trying out the manager position, so be nice and presentable, alright?”

Instead of being nice or presentable, Yamamoto falls to his knees and begins… praying? You think you see tears come to his eyes, and you realize the world has sent you a new Tanaka to replace the old one. 

“God, Buddha, whoever's out there, thank you for answering my prayers,” you hear him mutter.

Kuroo gives him a kick to his side, and you decide to leave him to deal with that, turning to Kenma. He looks nothing less than exhausted, and you feel a little bad. He was not much of a social creature. Still, he looks at you and sighs.

“I told you to avoid him.”

“Is he always like this?” You ask.

“He’s always whining about how we don’t have a female manager – it’s not fair because Fukurodani has two, we deserve one too.” He recalls, like having flashbacks.

“Kinda creepy…” you mumble, “but, one of my friends from home was kinda like that. Only, he’s convinced that he’s soulmates with his manager.”

Kenma huffs a laugh from his nose, “He still believes in that soulmate stuff?”

You feel a prick of… annoyance in your chest. Not only at the insult to Tanaka but because you believed in ‘that soulmate stuff.’ It also… kinda hurts, for some reason, that he doesn’t believe. Embarrassment and disappointment burn in your stomach at the thought, and you know you shouldn’t feel as bad as you do, but you do. Kenma seems to notice this because his face falls and he bites at his index fingernail. 

“I’m sorry–” he begins, but you cut him off.

“No, no, it’s fine.” The kind, non-confrontational part of yourself wins your mental battle, you didn’t want to debate soulmates with someone you didn’t know well,  “I know most people think it's silly.”

“It’s not–” He tries again.

“You don’t have to defend yourself. I get it.” You assure, smiling warmly at him.

He has this look like he wants to say more. Wide-eyed, eyebrows raised, and lip between his teeth. You hope he doesn’t, because you’re already embarrassed and hurting, and you don’t want to hear him justify why soulmates don’t exist. Why they can’t. You hear it enough from your dad.

The ten-minute bell is your saving grace, alleviating the tension in your shoulders and drawing Kuroo and Yamamoto back to the group. Kuroo splits off early because the nearest flight of stairs is closer back than it is forward, and you are left alone with Kenma – who does not seem to want to talk – and Yamamoto who is already mentally building a statue in your honor in his head. Thanks, Kuroo.

“Are you seriously considering managing for us?” Yamamoto asks, too excitedly, too close.

For some reason, Kenma finds it in himself to squeeze between the two of you, giving you the breathing room you need. Yamamoto grumbles about it, and you briefly see gears turning in his head as he considers the action, but you don’t give him too much time to think.

“I am, yeah,” you respond, “I wanna meet your coach and your team first before it’s set in stone, but… I like volleyball and there’s not much else for me club-wise here, so I’m pretty sure I’ll take the position if I’m wanted.”

“You will be!” He says too quickly, “I-I mean. I think everyone would be more than happy to have a cute girl helping us out every day too.”

You feel your face heat up at the compliment. The straightforwardness was refreshing, just like Noya, but if he flirted with you. Ew.

“We’d be happy with the help anyway,” Kenma jumps in, “we have to do it all ourselves, and it’s tiring after practicing for hours.”

“But it’s extra nice from a pretty girl~” Yamamoto purrs.

“Her gender doesn’t matter, so long as she’s helpful,” Kenma groans.

“Are you even into girls man?”

“Oh look!” You interrupt before things escalate, “This is our stop! It was nice to meet you, Yamamoto. I’ll see you in fifth period!”

You leave him in his bewilderment, ushering Kenma and yourself into the classroom and to your desks. He practically deflates as he sits down, all the tension gone as soon as his butt hits the seat. You chuckle at the look on his face, and he smiles a little, though you’re not quite sure why.

“Thank you,” he says finally.

“I’m used to his kind,” you joke, “If you ever need help, call on me and I’ll be your hero.”

He snorts as you flex your arms playfully in the air. You’re delighted that everything seems to be back to normal, though there is still a nagging thought in the back of your head. The disappointment that he does not believe in soulmates. You don’t know why it’s so disappointing – or, at least, you don’t want to acknowledge why it is.

.·:*˚¨¨ ≈★≈ ¨¨˚*:·.

The bell signaling your last class rings, and you are suddenly hit with nerves unlike any other you’ve experienced. Maybe it’s because you know you’re about to meet a lot of new people all at once, or maybe it’s because you feel the need to be more than you are to impress them, but your stomach is in knots by the time you and Kenma descend the second flight of stairs. You fiddle with your fingers, not sure what else to do with all this nervous energy. God, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. You felt like throwing up. Was it hot, or are you sweating a lot? Ugh, ew, why were you sweating?

“Are you nervous?” Kenma asks, startling you out of your head.

“Oh, uhm, hah… yeah. I guess I am,” you laugh at yourself, “I didn’t think it would be so bad, but now that we’re going…”

He considers you for a moment, before awkwardly patting you on the head. If you weren’t nervous your stomach would be doing backflips for a whole other reason now. “You’ll be fine. I promise everyone else is better than Yamamoto.”

You think – no you know that you look stupid, with your mouth in an open smile and eyes wide. If you think too hard about it, though, you might actually throw up, so you just nod. It’s enough to appease Kenma, and he gestures for you to follow him. Luckily, you do not bump into Yamamoto on the way, so he can’t pester you anymore in his excitement. (He did that plenty once he realized you were in his class. Though, you found it more endearing than annoying. You just couldn’t handle more than what you had right now).

He leads you to the entrance of the field house, where Kuroo and two other guys stand. One is short – like really short – with sandy hair. The other is more average height with tanned skin, and buzzed black hair. They’re both incredibly cool-looking, and you feel your nerves return in full when Kuroo points at you from a distance. It takes everything in you not to stop and turn around, but you manage to approach the three of them.

“Oh? Is this our little manager?” The short one coos, a wide smile on his face, “She’s a cutie!~”

“Don’t be a creep.” Kuroo scowls.

“I’m not being creepy, I’m pointing out a fact.” He snaps back.

“Yeah, like a creepy old man!” Kuroo presses further, and the two of them start bickering.

The normal-looking one sighs, smiles at you, and offers his hand over the bickering of his fellow seniors (you think the short one is a senior, because you can’t imagine a junior being so comfortable arguing with their senpai like that.) “I’m Nobuyuki Kai, don’t pay them any mind.”

You smile weakly, “Hi…” Your voice is small and squeaky, but you manage to introduce yourself. You think Nobuyuki must have the patience of a saint, to put up with his friends and your floundering all at once.

“The short guy is Morisuke Yaku, but don’t call him the short guy, okay?” he winks, and you feel a little better, “Everyone else is already getting changed or warming up. You can talk to the coach inside once you feel up for it.”

Your nerves return in a wave, “Are we late?”

“Kenma’s just slow,” Kuroo finally returns to the conversation, “he’s always the last one here. Normally I’m with him but… I figured I could leave him in your care.”

A knowing smirk grows on Kuroo’s face, and you see Kenma glare at him. Odd… but, whatever. You were just glad that you weren’t late or anything, especially not on the first day.

Morisuke holds his hand out to you, “Morisuke Yaku! Excited to work with you!”

“I already introduced you,” Nobuyuki corrects, causing Morisuke’s smile to drop.

Quickly, you take his hand and introduce yourself, and you swear you see stars in his eyes as the smile returns to his face, “You’re gonna fit in great.” He says enthusiastically. You realize then that your nerves are eased a lot. Is this the power of reliable senpai? 

Kenma tugs at your skirt a little, and you look at him, “I’ll take you to the coach so you can talk to him.”

“Oh,” you almost forgot all about that, “yeah, thanks Kenma.”

The five of you walk in, and then split off from each other. Yamamoto and two excited boys wave at you as you pass. You wonder why you were so worried in the first place. Kenma points out the coach, who is standing off to the side of the court discussing with the Assistant Coach about something. When he spots you (at least, you think he does, since his eyes remain closed) he waves you over with a welcoming smile. You bid Kenma farewell, and quickly close the distance between yourself and the coach.

“You’re the new manager girl?” He asks before you can say anything, and you nod, pulling a hearty chuckle from him, “Welcome to the team!”

The other man clears his throat, “Sir, she’s just trialing today.”

“Don’t be so negative about it Naoi, you’ll scare her off!” The old man scolds. They seem to do a lot of scolding on this team.

“I-It’s no big deal Sir– I’m pretty sure I’ll accept the position, I just wanted to be sure I clicked.” You try and smooth things over, and the old man chuckles at you again.

“Coach Nekomata,” He introduces, “and this is Assistant Coach Naoi. We’re happy to have you.”

You grin, “Thank you! I really hope I stick, so to speak.”

He gestures for you to follow him, so you do, and he leads you over to a set of seats. Coach Naoi does not follow you, instead going over to check up on the boys. He pats the empty one next to him, and you take a seat.

“Tell me about yourself, where you’re from, and your interests.” He says, leaning in intently.

You’re taken aback but recover quickly. Describing your love for animal care, where you came from, and how you got into volleyball. He perks up when you mention coming from Karasuno, and asks a couple of questions about the team. You do your best to reiterate what Tanaka had told you, but you’re not much help since you’re so removed from it now. You do feel a little sad at the loss, but try to remind yourself that your friends haven’t suddenly forgotten about you due to distance. Sugawara’s constant texts asking about Tokyo and Diachi’s reminders to take care of yourself are proof enough of that.

“Our boys are rowdy, but they’re good-hearted. I think you’ll come to love working with them if you give it the time, I know I have.” He says with an air of finality, “Coach Naoi will show you the ropes today, I do hope you decide to stay.”

You give him a shy smile, “Thank you, Sir. I think I’d like to give it a try.”

Another hearty laugh pushes its way out of him, and then he claps his hands together and stands from his seat. Only then do you realize the whole team is changed and ready to begin practice. He waves you over to his side, and you follow him over to Coach Naoi’s side, the boys standing in a half circle around the three of you. Coach Nekomata begins some kind of speech to welcome back the team and get them excited for the coming year, and you take the time to observe the new faces that you’ve yet to see.

First, and most obviously, was a ginormous foreign-looking guy. He had to be at least three heads taller than the other members of the team, and his silver-grey hair and green eyes made him stick out like a sore thumb. Next to him was a kind of cute guy with spiky brown hair and a big smile passively resting on his face. He was one of the boys who waved at you when you passed Yamamoto, which led you to the other kid. He had a black bowl cut and was also awfully smiley, though you’d describe him as more thoughtful-looking than the brown-haired boy. And finally was a boy you recognize passing in the hall once or twice. You’d seen Yamamoto talking with him between classes yesterday, a permanent cat-like look on his face like he was up to no good. There were a couple of others, but they didn’t strike you as interesting – not to be mean. The four of them mixed in with the others you’d met piqued your interest. What kind of players were they? How did they play as a team? Would you be able to fit in with them?

“This young lady here is thinking about being our manager,” Coach Naoi’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts as all eyes fall on you, “do your best to impress her today, and she might just stay.”

Your face heats up, and to hide your embarrassment, you bow and introduce yourself just a little too loud. Luckily, no one comments on it, and they all excitedly bow and welcome you with an eagerness that only teenage boys can have. It reminds you a lot of Karasuno, and your chest warms up at the kindness these boys have afforded you already. You've never managed a team before, and you doubt you’d be any good to start, but you feel the need more than ever to give it your all – if only to make sure their kindness doesn’t go to waste.

Coach Nekomata barks out a few commands for warm-up, and Coach Naoi pulls you to the side to give you a rundown on your responsibilities. Fill water bottles, hand out towels, take notes on the athletes, clean up the balls, and help come up with strategies. Simple things you’d already sort of done before just by proximity to Nishinoya and his love for the sport. Coach Naoi shows you where things are, how best to fill up and transfer multiple water bottles at once, and of course, gives you some reminders of the basics of the game. By the time practice is wrapping up, you can hardly remember why you were so nervous to start. Everything comes so naturally to you, and you mentally make a note to text Kiyoko your thanks for conditioning you later tonight.

You’re so busy learning from Coach Naoi, that you don’t get the chance to talk to any of the team members outside of handing them their towels and water. Kuroo does take the chance to shoot you a thumbs up every chance he gets, which is reassuring. Kenma even smiles at you when you pass him. Every time you pass him actually, without fail. You do your best not to overthink it.

It’s not until you’re picking up balls that you get a chance to talk to some of the other members of the team. Fukunaga – the cat-faced guy – and Inuoka – the spiky-haired cutie – offer their help to you while everyone else cleans up in other places. Inuoka is a first year, and is just as friendly and excitable as you expected, asking all about your interests and happily sharing his when you ask. He’s kind of like a dog amongst cats, which makes him all the more likable in your opinion. Fukunaga the second year on the other hand is more of the quiet observant type, you expect him to be a stone wall, but he is not. He’s actually – pardon your language – fucking hilarious. He has you bursting out laughing with nearly every quip that leaves his mouth. Unfortunately, you don’t get a chance to talk to the others you don’t know, but you learn that the super tall guy is Lev Haiba, who is Russian, though he’s ‘Not cool enough to know the language’ according to Fukunaga. He also was totally brand new to the sport which made sense since he seemed to be way out of his depth. The other was Yuki Shibayama, who Inuoka described as just ‘Nice’ from their interactions at the camp before the semester starting. ‘Nice,’ might’ve been the most vague descriptor possible, but you weren’t gonna give him too hard of a time about it. (Fukunaga did that for you with another jab that had you snickering behind your hand.)

Kenma approached the three of you just as you finished tossing the last of the balls in the basket. You gave him a smile, positioning yourself to face him better.

“Hey Kozume-Senpai,” Inuoka says cheerfully, which makes you feel bad when Kenma’s face doesn’t even shift a little. Jeeze, he was heartless.

“Kuroo wanted me to grab you, you’re on sweeping duty tonight,” he states flatly.

Inuoka groans but obediently jogs over to the broom closet. Only when he’s out of earshot does Fukunaga’s lips twitch up into an almost smile, leaning in to whisper to you, “We don’t assign broom duty.” Then, before you can respond, he walks off casually leaving you and Kenma alone.

“He’s strange,” you comment, still watching him wander away, “but, nice!”

“You don’t have to be so positive about everything,” Kenma responds.

“But I mean it,” you retort, “everyone is so nice. I feel welcomed.”

You begin to put the cart toward the storeroom, and Kenma follows side by side with you. “Everyone is so… cheery. It’s exhausting sometimes.”

“I’m cheery,” you pout, “do I exhaust you?”

The question takes him off guard, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, and then he looks to the floor like he’s considering the question. Again, you do think he’s cute while he’s thinking. His face doesn’t change too much, but there's a subtle furrow in his eyebrows and scrunch of the lips. It’s… charming.

“You’re cheery,” he finally manages, “but… you know when it’s too much. It’s a good thing from you.”

You ignore the nagging part of your brain that wants to ask what that means, and simply smile, “Thanks. And, for the record, your pessimism is kind of a nice thing to have around too.”

His lips quirk at the corners and your heart thrums with pride at the sight. It is quickly interrupted by a throat clearing, and Kuroo is standing behind you already back in his school uniform. He looks more disheveled than usual, and you actually laugh at him this time. He prickles like a pissed-off cat, and you swear you see his hair stand up.

“If you two are done flirting in here, Kenma needs to get changed so we can head out,” He says, annoyed, but somehow still playful about it.

It’s then that you realize you haven’t texted your Dad since practice started. You curse and pull your phone out, pulling up the messages with a frown.

Dad: Let me know when practice is out.

That's all he said, which is significantly worse than a long paragraph about how upset he was. He was angry, but he was also hurt. You groan. The lecture you would get upon returning home was bound to be legendary.

“That looks bad,” Kenma states factually.

You nod, “He’s going to make me feel like shit when I get back.”

“Then let's not waste any more time,” Kuroo announces with two claps, “Go get changed so we can get her home.”

Kenma rolls his eyes but doesn’t do anything else to protest as he moves out of the store room. When he’s gone, Kuroo gives you a weary look, “You all good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you sigh, “just… frustrating. I’ll be good though.”

He hums, “Did you at least enjoy practice?”

You think back over everything, and you realize… you never ever miss out on texting your dad. The only time you do is when you’re having too much fun with Noya. The comprehension of this draws a little chortle out of you, “Yeah. I had a lot of fun. Who knew menial work like this could be enjoyable?”

“See! I knew you’d be a perfect fit!” He proclaims, “You were all nervous for no reason.”

You scoff, following him as he leads you outside the field house, “You couldn’t have known that I would’ve worked out. I’m practically a stranger.”

Despite your words being a little harsh, he shrugs them off like nothing, “It just… felt right? Like, you know how sometimes you meet someone and you just know you’re gonna be friends. That’s what it felt like with you, especially after seeing how well Kenma took to you.”

You try not to think about Kenma liking you, and consider his words. They echo how you’ve been feeling this whole time, and it feels good to have that reciprocated. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, y’know. I normally don’t… connect well with other people on my own, but for some reason, everything felt natural. Like it was fate.”

“Exactly!” He confirms, “Weird isn’t it?”

“Suuuper weird,” you laugh, “but, it’s nice!”

“You two sound like crazy people,” Kenma says, stepping out of the gym.

“Don’t be rude!” Kuroo defends.

“It is true though, right? Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too,” you insist as the three of you start your walk home.

Kenma gnaws on the thought for a second before responding, “I dunno if I can believe it’s fate or anything like that… but I do like that you were able to fall into place as you have.”

You cannot stop your heart from singing songs at the shy smile on his face. You also cannot decide if this is the universe being cruel or kind to you, but you think you could get used to the giddy feeling in your stomach.

[oldhalloweentape]

🐀Junkrat (OW I & II) x (fem) Reader💣

(DC Raven Reader Edition!)

(Picture’s not mine!)

(Request here! Yet another interesting request from @thequeenofcupps, always a delight to write such interesting posts!)

- Falls in love with both you and your potential for destruction, I mean, the list of abilities Raven has as the daughter of Trigon on top of being a skilled magic caster is extensive and you bet he is eager to see you fight like a demon.

- Quick to try to befriend you, I mean, I don’t know about you but I think he wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of the person who can rearrange his guts in a bad way.

- Then again he has no self-preservation besides that and will flirt with you, it’s as crazy and unhinged as one might think.

- Like, “Ohoho!! Mate you really know how to strike some fear, maybe you can do that to me some time~”

- Can and will try to convince you to enchant his bombs to make them more… Effective, pouts when you say no.

- When it comes to talking about you, he is SOO annoying but endearing (well, to you at least). Could chatter on and on about you forever and someone has to yell at him to shut his trap.

- You and Roadhog take turns making sure he doesn’t do something to cost your fellow teammates a literal arm and leg, I don’t make the rules.

- Whenever he says something factually incorrect with lots of confidence, you take the time to be like “Jamison— That’s not what that means,” he’s quick to be like “AH! Right!! That’s not what I meant!- I ACTUALLY meant-” quickly leans close to you to ask what is right then exclaims your answer and wrapping his arm around you as a silent thank you.

- You’re a fact checker to him with how smart you are, he would be rambling on and on while tinkering on something and he pauses before saying, “Right?”

- When I tell you his chest puffs in pride when you tell him he got it, he goes on a gloating tirade about it later to Roadhog and he gruffly tells him to “Shut up.” every time.

- He’s very eager to please, especially you, I mean you’re his girlfriend and a very powerful person so— Obviously.

- Tries to get you to do heists and mercenary work with him and Roadie, if you actually agree to do them it’s up to you, and if you do it’s almost always a success that has all three of you holding your riches with Junkrat beaming proudly.

- When it comes to helping your emotions when things become too much, he genuinely tries to help, loudly saying words of encouragement before getting smacked on the head by Roadhog because being loud could only just make things worse.

- After time he gets better at it, learning the quips and tricks that get you back on solid ground and back into his arms.

- You both help each other in your own ways, and honestly it’s an endearing sight, a little alarming because sometimes you both encourage the other to commit some crime or two.

- Whether or not you’ve never been imprisoned before, you probably will be when you’re with him and he definitely frames your mugshot in a frame heavily decorated with heart stickers and crudely held together with scotch tape.

- I like to think Roadhog and you have a silent respect between each other and help each other insult another teammate if they’re mean first, with Junkrat saying “OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH” obnoxiously like a middle schooler in response to the burn uttered by his bestest mate + his girlfriend.

- You know how that one skin Junkrat has a bracelet that says ‘if lost return to Road’? Yeah uh he will also have another one that has your own name on it, it just feels right.

- Will maybe call you pet names like “sweetheart” or “love”, but in usually very serious situations and usually just call you “mate” most of the time.

- He’s crazy for you, like, very crazy, thinks highly of you and absolutely melts when your soft to him, it’s kinda giving Wall-E & Eve from Wall-E in general.

(Hope you all liked this one, Raven [alongside Starfire] is a favorite of mine so I hoped you all enjoyed this! 💋)

[bwabys-scenarios]

Fixer Upper

Part 3

Perv!Kurapika x Fem!Reader

part 2

part 4

taglist: @fabitheraven @tsukilover11 @ashdownunderscorebeloved @lemonslut @homeinmydreams @superweeniehutjrsblog @bugmomwrites @heartsforseo @lixiawinter

if you’d like to be ADDED to the taglist, please comment a red heart ❤️, make sure you’re able to be tagged/mentioned, and have your age in your bio(IF YOU ARE ALREADY ON THE TAGLIST, YOU DON’T NEED TO ASK TO BE ADDED AGAIN!!)

warnings: mentions of vomit, slightly suggestive

Kurapika woke up the sound of someone knocking on his door.

“It’s me.”

(Name)’s head peeked through the crack, the smell of dinner wafting through.

“I assume you woke me up to say dinner is ready?”

“How did you know?”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Lucky guess.”

The other three were already sat at the table. Tonight, they were having a baked hen, (Name) placing a few side dishes onto the table as Kurapika sat down.

“Go ahead and start eating, I’m going to grab drinks.”

Gon jumped up. “I’ll help!”

The two walked into the kitchen.

“Did you sleep well? (Name) wouldn’t let us wake you up.”

Leorio offered him a smile as the tall man filled his plate with food. He didn’t get to eat good, home cooked meals often, relying on fast food and TV dinners in between classes.

Kurapika nodded. “Yes, I did. I feel much better now.”

“Good. Does that mean you’ll be joining our sleepover tomorrow?”

He blonde sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.” Killua replied through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

‘Sleepover… I don’t think I’ve ever attended one.’

Kurapika stared at his empty plate before beginning to fill it.

“Is lemonade alright with everyone?”

Gon and (Name) we’re back at the dinner table, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and cups.

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s going to complain about (Name)’s homemade lemonade.”

Killua grabbed a cup from Gon and held it out to (Name), who filled it.

She filled everyone’s cups before sitting down and making her plate.

“It’s been so long since we’ve all been together. We should go do something tomorrow, before our sleepover.”

Gon nodded, his face covered in food. “Oh yeah, maybe we can go to the carnival! It’s in town for the next few days.”

“That’s a great idea! Guys, what do you think?”

Leorio shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

Killua was just as excited as Gon, and Kurapika…

“I guess that would be fine.”

(Name) giggled, clapping her hands together. “It’s settled then. Tomorrow, we’ll go grocery shopping in the morning, and go to the carnival after lunch.”

———————

The five loaded into the car to go grocery shopping. Unfortunately for (Name), she hadn’t gotten up fast enough to avoid taking everyone with her.

“Killua, Gon, repeat it one more time.”

“No touching anything but the shopping cart.”

She sighed. “Good. And?”

“No fighting the employees.”

“Finish it.”

“… even if they’re rude to you.”

“Alright. Let’s get going then.”

The drive to the grocery store was short, the two boys playing I-spy to pass the time.

“(Name), did you get the text I sent?”

“Yes. I’m not buying wine, nice try though Leorio.”

“Damn. Foiled again.”

The five exited the mom van, Kurapika going around the back to open (Name)’s door for her, but he paused.

The bumper was covered in stickers, ranging from Sanrio themed stickers to cursed images. It was easy to see who had placed which stickers.

“Kurapika? Oh, the stickers.”

(Name) had appeared by his side while he’d been looking over the back of her car. Kurapika’s eyes paused on a family if stick man that decorated her back window.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, that’s a representation of us. The girl is me, the little ones are Killua and Gon, and the big kid is Leorio. Though he’s more of the weird uncle, we just couldn’t find one that looked like him.”

He nodded. “I see.”

He felt a bit if disappointment that his own image wasn’t there.

‘But why would it be? I’ve barely been around.’

He diverted his attention to another sticker, raising an eyebrow.

“Baby on board? What baby?”

“Killua of course.”

“I put it on myself.”

The white haired boy looked strangely proud, patting it. Gon pointed to a sticker of an alligator. “I picked this one.”

“We know Gon.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“It’s a great sticker.”

Kurapika couldn’t help but laugh.

They all followed behind (Name) as she entered the store.

‘They look like little ducklings.’ Kurapika thought, unaware that he looked like one too.

“You can grab a buggy, Killua. Gon…”

The two made eye contact, not a single word exchanged.

The two boys followed behind quietly.

‘Telepathic communication? Is that what just happened?’

Kurapika watched the boys with a carful eye. With the way (Name) had talked in the car, he knew they had to have done something in order to earn her distrust.

“Alright, let’s start with snacks. Leorio, Kurapika, grab whatever you usually snack on and watch the boys. I’m going to grab Killua and Gon’s juice boxes.”

She waved as she walked off.

“So…”

The boys turned to look at Kurapika.

“What the hell did you do to not be allowed to touch anything?”

The two shared a look.

“They’ve gotten (Name) and themselves banned from every other grocery store in town.”

“Leorio!”

Kurapika snickered. “Seriously? What did you do to get banned so many times?”

Gon kicked the ground, looking embarrassed. “… made all the shelves fall like dominoes.”

“I bit an employee hitting on (Name).”

‘I’ll have to buy him some chocolate robots for that later.’ Kurapika thought. ‘Wait, why do I care if someone hits on her?’

“They were also caught trying to break into an employees only room.”

“We just wanted to see what it looked like!”

“Maybe you did, Gon, but I wanted to steal their uniforms and see how long it took them to realize I didn’t work here.”

Leorio shook his head. “This is why they aren’t allowed to touch anything. Honestly the fact that she allowed you two to come at all is shocking.”

——————

(Name) returned with a few packs of juice, dropping them into the grocery cart.

“Is it the-“

“Yes it’s the orange juice kind.”

The two grinned, following behind her.

“Kurapika?”

“Hmm?”

“What would you like for dinner? Gon got to pick what we had last night, it’s your turn.”

The blonde took a while to answer. ‘If I tell her anything is okay, she won’t take that as an answer. What is something I would prefer?’

Kurapika didn’t usually have the privilege to be picky. He ate what he could.

“If I’m being honest, I would prefer a traditional Kurtan dish, but as that is impossible for you to make…”

He thought for a moment more, (Name) typing something into her phone as he did.

“Something… suitable for a slumber party should be fine.”

Leorio snickered. “She asked what you specifically wanted, Kurapika.”

The man shot him a look. “I’ve never been to a slumber party. I don’t know what foods you eat during one.”

(Name) nodded, patting the blonde on the back. “It’s alright, I’ll let it slide this time. Just focus on picking out some snacks you like, okay?”

She left the snack aisle then, Gon and Killua in tow.

“You heard the lady, pick out some snacks.”

Kurapika frowned. Again, he wasn’t picky. There were few things that he cared about when it came to food, but…

He managed to pick out a few items.

The first was a box of cinnamon covered pecans. Pecans were one of his favorite nuts, and he quite enjoyed cinnamon.

His second pick was bag of trail mix, and his last was a box of crackers and cheese.

“No offense but those are some pretty lame snacks.”

Kurapika rolled his eyes. “She said to pick what I like. This is what I like.”

“Any particular reason you like them?”

The blonde nodded. “Nuts are high in protein, crackers and cheese are filling. Travel mix is convenient.”

Leorio sighed. “This isn’t a mission Kurapika, it’s a slumber party. Is there any food you get purely because you enjoy it?”

Again, the blonde had to think for a minute. Staring down the snack aisle, he began walking towards the sweets section.

In front of him was a specific type of candy. They looked like normal peppermints, but instead tasted of strawberries and cream.

Kurapika took a bag, looking down at it with a half hearted smile.

It was the first candy he could remember eating, a favorite among the Kurtan children.

“Got what you all wanted?”

(Name) strolled towards the two, the shopping cart the boys were pushing a lot fuller now.

Leorio turned to her with his arms full of snacks, (Name) stopping.

“Leorio, you can have three of those.”

Kurapika blinked and looked down at his own snacks, reaching to put one back.

“Oh, you can have as many as you want, Kurapika!”

She grabbed the snacks from his arms and dropped them into the shopping cart.

“Hey, no fair! Why does Kurapika get special treatment?”

(Name) gave him a smile. “Because Kurapika is just too pretty to deny.”

It took a moment for Kurapika to process the compliment, but when he did his cheeks turned pink. She’d called him pretty before, but the suddenness of her words left him flustered.

“That’s discrimination! Are you saying I’m not pretty?”

Leorio leaned forward, fluttering his eyelashes. (Name) groaned and pushed him away. “You’re not pretty, Leorio, you’re handsome.”

The man paused, his own cheeks turning a shade of pink.

Leorio cleared his throat and stood. “Ehem. Thank you.”

‘She thinks Leorio is handsome?’

Kurapika glanced between the two. In the past two years he’d been gone, how much closer had they gotten?

Was it closer than him and (Name) had been?

Kurapika only became more suspicious when (Name) looped her arm in Leorio’s.

“Let’s go check out, then.”

She walked away, Gon and Killua laughing.

“She always knows how to distract Leorio.” Killua said, snickering. Gon nodded.

“Yeah, one compliment and he’s like that.”

Leorio stumbled over both his words and his own feet as (Name) dragged him away.

The blonde watched with mild irritation.

———————

“Everyone, what are the rules for the carnival?”

They all sighed.

“1. Don’t fight the carnies, even if their games are rigged.” Killua said, his arms folded over his chest.

“2. There is a buddy system. At least have on other person with you at all times.” Gon answered, grabbing Killua’s arm.

“3. No gambling.”

“Wait why is that a rule?” Killua asked after Leorio stated the 3rd rule.

“You can blame Leorio for that.”

The other three boys turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

‘What an idiot.’

“4. No leaving the carnival without informing everyone first.” Kurapika said, opening his car door.

“That goes for everyone, adults included. I won’t hesitate to report any of you missing.”

She gave them all a look before smiling.

“Okay, everyone grab your buddy and let’s go!”

The group left the parking lot and entered the carnival.

“We’ll walk around then split up. Killua, Gon.”

She grabbed both of the boys by their shoulders when she noticed them starting to drift away

“You’ll be joining us.”

Killua groaned, Gon just nodding as he was dragged away.

They made a lap around the carnival, (Name) pointing out each attraction she’d want to visit.

“Oh, there’s a haunted house.”

Leorio perked up. “Haunted house? It’s not even close to Halloween.”

Kurapika glanced at the cheaply designed haunted house before continuing to follow (Name).

“Okay, you two can go. We’ll be meeting back up before 3 pm at the food court.”

The two boys were gone as soon as she finished talking.

“Are they going to follow the rules?”

“No, but they’ll be secretive about it so hopefully it can’t be traced back to me.”

“Hopefully they don’t attack anyone this time.”

Kurapika stared at the two with an incredulous expression.

‘What the hell do they get up to when they’re unsupervised?’

The first attraction the group of three were drawn to was a game where you threw darts at balloons to win a prize.

“Hmm… Leorio, I’m going to try.”

The man nodded. “Go ahead. I’m going to be at the next booth.”

Kurapika and (Name) turned, only to be instantly disappointed.

“A kissing booth? Seriously Leorio?”

(Name) walked up to the game of her choice. “Kurapika, you can go to another booth nearby while I play if you want.”

“I think I’ll try this one after you.”

(Name) nodded then handed the man behind the counter a few dollars.

“Alright Miss, all you have to do is hit three balloons with these darts, and you’ll win a prize!”

He handed her five darts, meaning she had five chances.

She handed Kurapika two of the darts. “Hold these for me, sweetheart.”

He did so, holding back a smile.

(Name) threw her first dart.

“You’ve hit your first balloon! Only three more to go!”

She jumped up and down in excitement. “Ahh, okay!”

She threw her second one, almost grazing a nearby balloon. It hit the board, missing it by a millimeter.

The next dart also missed, (Name) raising an eyebrow.

‘Weird, those should have hit.’

“Do you want me to try?”

Kurapika twirled a dart between his nimble fingers. His eyes were on the balloons, a frown on his lips.

“Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

Kurapika stepped forward, throwing the dart with more strength than necessary.

POP!

The carny’s eyes went wide. “How did you…”

“You’ve been using nen to make the balloons harder to penetrate but…”

He threw his last dart, popping the last balloon.

“It wasn’t strong enough to resist my nen coated darts.”

(Name) used Gyo to see Kurapika was right. The balloons had a thin nen barrier around them, making them indestructible to non men users.

The carny scoffed. “Didn’t think any nen users would be coming to my booth. Go ahead and pick out your prize, little lady.”

(Name) glanced at Kurapika, giving him a sweet smile.

“You pick. You’re the one that figured out what was going on, it’s only fair.”

Kurapika browsed the various plushies and small toys. Nothing he saw caught his eye.

‘I’m not really interested in such things. But…’

He turned away to think, and spotted a couple at another booth.

A man won a game, the girl at his side cheering for him. Once the prize was won, he handed it to the girl.

Kurapika’s eyes widened when the girl gasped and pulled the man into a kiss.

‘Is this what you’re supposed to do?’

He looked over the prizes again, this time with (Name) in mind. Kurapika remembered when he’d been in a small store in York New with Leorio

“She likes cute things. Like Sanrio products.”

“Sanrio? What is that?”

Leorio stared at the man. “Are you being serious? Hello Kitty, My Melody, Keroppi?”

Kurapika gave him a confused look.

“Oh my god. Just get her this.”

Leorio shoved a keychain into his hands. It was small and pink, with a cartoon cat holding a strawberry at the end.

Kurapika pointed to a Hello Kitty plush. “I’ll take that one.”

The carny handed it over and shooed them away. “Now get out of here. You’re bad for business.”

(Name) shrugged and walked over to Leorio, who was still in line for the kissing booth.

Now Kurapika was left carrying a small Hello Kitty plush.

‘Do I… give it to her now? Or later?’

(Name) had to physically drag Leorio away from his place in line. “It’s flu season, Leorio.”

“I don’t care! I’ll happily get sick if I get to kiss a pretty lady!”

Kurapika followed behind them, staring down at the small plush.

‘It’s… kind of cute.’

——————

After playing a few games, the group met up at the food court. Gon and Killua had been waiting for them with corndogs in hand.

“Finally. We’ve been waiting for like…”

“Five minutes.”

(Name) rolled her eyes and sat down next to them. “You two having fun?”

“Gon threw up.”

“Twice!”

(Name) smacked a hand over her forehead. “And you didn’t call me, why?”

“… it was really gross.”

“Trust me, you didn’t want to see it.”

Kurapika shivered. “Gross. Why are you eating if you just threw up?”

“It’s BECAUSE I just threw up. Gotta refuel before our next ride.”

“Wait, pause.”

(Name) held up her hand, causing the two boys to go quiet.

“Have you been eating and getting on rides right after throwing up?”

They looked at each other before answering.

“… yeah?”

She took a deep breath.

“I love you two. So much.”

She stood up and took Gon’s backpack.

“Hey, my tickets are in there!”

“Yeah, that’s why I took it. No riding anything for at least 20 minutes.”

“But-“

“But nothing! It’s like you’re shaking up a soda can, opening it, then refilling it and doing it all over again! You’re the soda can, Gon!”

Gon sighed, laying his head on the table.

“I told you not to eat four bags of popcorn before going on the carousel, but noo, you wouldn’t listen!”

Killua huffed. “Now we both have to sit out. I can’t rude anything because you’re my buddy.”

(Name) patted Gon’s back. “I’ll get you some water, okay? Just try and relax.”

She left to order her food and get some water.

(Name) returned a few minutes later with a platter of food in one hand and a cup of water in the other.

“Sip on this, I’ll be right back with the other drinks.”

Gon gulped the drink in one go.

“She said sip.”

“Please don’t tell her.”

Killua slapped a hand over his face. “I won’t, but only because if I do she’ll make us stay seated longer.”

Kurapika took a bite of the chicken strips he’d ordered, wincing at the greasy food.

“Ahh, carnival food. I’m going to be sick later.”

Leorio took another bite of his turkey leg.

(Name) returned with the drinks, sitting one in front of each person before taking her seat.

“Alright, dig in.”

She didn’t bother to look up to see they had begun eating without her, seemingly replying to someone on her phone.

After their meal of chicken strips and corn dogs, the group split up again.

“What should we ride next?”

Leorio began to speak but (Name) interrupted.

“I said ride. We’re not going back to the kissing booth.”

“Foiled again.”

Kurapika pointed to a nearby attraction. “How about that one?”

It was one of those turning teacups rides.

‘It’s cute, (Name) would probably like it.’

She hummed, pulling the two behind her to get in line.

“Yeah, let’s try this one. It’s only a dollar per person.”

(Name) stood on her tippy toes to peek over the person in front of her. “The line doesn’t seem that long, we’ll only have to w-“

She was interrupted when someone shoved her back and took her place in line.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Leorio stepped out of line to help (Name) up and brush the dirt off her dress.

The man who had cut the line didn’t answer.

Kurapika glanced between (Name) and the man, his jaw tensing.

‘She said not to attack anyone. Keep calm.’

Leorio and (Name) joined the line again, Kurapika creating a space for them to get in front of him.

(Name) politely tapped on the man’s shoulder.

“You need to go to the end of the line.”

The man turned around.

“And just what are you gonna do about it if I don’t?”

Her companions stared back at him from behind her, their expressions darkened.

“I… I’ll go.”

The man scurried away before (Name) could say another word.

“Wow. Was he scared of me?”

She pointed a finger at herself, looking back at her friends in surprise.

“You do have a scary mom look. Must of been a mommas boy.” Leorio replied with a shrug.

Kurapika followed the man with his eyes, making sure he could feel the blondes bloodlust with each step.

“Kurapika?”

He blinked before turning his attention back to (Name).

“Your eyes.”

The blonde paused, staring into the reflective metal off the teacup ride.

His usual soft brown eyes were a rich shade of scarlet. (Name) grabbed Kurapika’s hand and moved into a crowd of people.

“Close your eyes until I say to open them.”

He did so, trusting her to lead him to safety.

The two stopped somewhere, (Name) thrusting something onto his face.

“Okay, you can open them now.”

His vision was darker now.

“Sunglasses?”

“Yeah, will that work?”

He nodded. “Yes. They’ll work for now.”

Kurapika took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.

‘Why are my eyes scarlet? Am I that angry a man pushed her?’

(Name) placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t think anyone saw, but we should probably leave to be safe.”

Although she was putting up a brave face so he wouldn’t feel bad, he could tell she was disappointed they would have to leave.

“No, it’s fine. I closed my eyes seconds after they became scarlet, no one would have seen them.”

He took her hand, walking away from the booth she’d led them to.

“Let’s get back to Leorio. He probably has no idea what’s going on.”

“Actually, he’s the one that realized your eyes were red. I just reacted first.”

Kurapika laughed. “Of course. He’s so slow to act. Very indecisive.”

———————

The two joined Leorio, who had kept their spot in line while they were away.

“You two are just in time. It’s our turn next.”

(Name) jumped up in excitement. “Really? Oh good, I hate waiting.”

The three soon discovered that the ride was two per teacup.

And Leorio was way too tall to be stuffed into a teacup with another person.

“Sir, we’ll need you to step out of line. You’re too tall to ride this attraction.”

“Too tall?! There aren’t any rules about being too tall!”

(Name) gave him a look, causing him to back down and grumpily step away.

“Alright, you two ladies can go ahead and enter the teacups.”

Kurapika frowns. ‘Why do people keep assuming I’m a woman?’

(Name) took her seat in a pink teacup. “Get in and close the door behind you.”

He listened, a pout on his lips. Did he really look that much like a woman? What was it that made people immediately assume he wasn’t a man?

‘I should cut my hair…’

(Name) tapped his leg with her foot. “Hey, it’s time to start spinning!”

“Spinning? What-“

(Name) turned the wheel in the center with a giggle, the teacup spinning around so fast Kurapika had to hold on to keep himself from flying out.

“Ahh, this is so much fun! K- wait are you okay?”

Kurapika was beginning to turn a sickly shade of green as the rude continued. He gave her a thumbs up before moving his hands to hold his stomach.

“Oh shit.”

———————

“(Name), I am so sorry.”

The two sat on a bench, both covered in vomit.

“Don’t be. I should have known you would have a sensitive stomach after eating that greasy food.”

Leorio returned, carrying (Name)’s backpack. “Hey, I got your text. Is-“

He stopped a few feet away, holding a hand over his mouth.

“Yikes.”

(Name) let out a tired sigh, standing up so Kurapika could lie down fully.

“Watch over him, I’ll be right back.”

“What about the buddy system?”

(Name) shrugged. “That only applies to you four trouble makers.”

Kurapika slapped a hand over his head, letting out a miserable groan.

She was back soon after, carrying a handful of wet paper towels and a novelty tshirt that says “I love YN”.

“What is a York New tshirt doing here? We aren’t even close.”

(Name) shrugged. “I don’t know, it was the cheapest shirt available. Here, let me help you.”

She helped Kurapika sit off and pulled off his tabard, folding it carefully and throwing it in a plastic bag to wash later.

“I’m sorry, I’ve ruined your fun.”

(Name) pulled the shirt over his head and gave him a soft smile. “To be fair, Gon has been throwing up too.”

“But I threw up ON you.”

She grimaced. “Yeah, that does suck. But everyone gets sick. Trust me, I’ve gone through worse.”

He frowned, looking down at his new clean shirt.

“I’m going to go change too. Just rest up, the boys will be here in a minute.”

“You mean Gon and Killua? Wait I-“

She was already gone.

“Fuck, if Killua sees me like this-“

The sound of raucous laughter could be heard to his left.

‘God damn it.’

“Oh my- oh my god no way. There’s no way this is happening right now, hahaha!”

Killua was rolling on the ground, tears in his eyes from how hard he was laughing.

“Oh, you threw up too? And you got a new shirt, wow!”

Killua pulled himself together, picking himself off the ground.

“I don’t see why this is so funny. It’s just a novelty tshirt.”

Killua paused.

“No way.”

He took his phone out of Gon’s backpack and snapped a picture, turning the screen towards Kurapika.

The glasses (Name) had unceremoniously shoved into his face weren’t just normal sunglasses.

They were the most obnoxiously over the to hello kitty sunglasses on planet earth.

Killua bursted into laughter again. “Jesus Christ man, who told you those were a good choice?”

“(Name) did.”

His cheeks were a dark shade of red now. He wished (Name) would have picked something a little… manlier.

‘This must be the reason that person thought I was a woman. Of course.’

“Oh.”

Killua quieted down. He wouldn’t insult something (Name) picked out.

“I think they look good on you.”

Killua jumped at the sound of (Name)’s voice behind him.

“(Name)?”

Kurapika raised his head weakly to look at her.

“Where did you get those clothes from?”

(Name) was now wearing a tank top and a white pleated skirt. “Oh, I keep a change of clothes in my bag at all times. It became a habit after the Hunter Exam.”

He glanced from her small backpack, to her new clothes, to her face.

“How… never mind.”

(Name) crouched down next to him and placed a hand on his forehead.

“You’re warm. I’m going to take the boys to a few more rides, and then we’ll go home. Leorio, stay with him until then.”

“Roger that.”

(Name) leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Just consider us even for me drooling on you during the Hunter Exam, alright?”

She gave him a sweet smile before turning to leave, Killua and Gon following behind her.

——————

For the most part, Leorio listened and stayed by Kurapika’s side.

That was until he had to use the bathroom.

“Hey, you think you’ll be okay for like… five minutes? I need to take a leak.”

“I’m a grown man, I can handle myself.”

Leorio would have shot back saying even grown men need help sometimes, but he didn’t have enough time to, sprinting off to the restrooms.

For the first minute or so, Kurapika stayed still, letting the cool breeze calm him down.

That was until people started to gather around him.

“There’s a drunk lady just… laying on that bench. Is that legal?”

“She smells awful.”

Kurapika cracked one of his eyes open. On his right were a handful of people, peeking over the bench to look at him.

“I’m not drunk, just sick”

“That’s what they all say, lady. There’s kids here, drink at home.”

Kurapika sighed softly. He didn’t give a shit what other people thought about him, but they were disturbing his rest.

“Listen, I’m this close to projectile vomiting on anyone in 30 foot vicinity. You might want to vacate the premises.”

They scoffed at him. “Oh really?”

Kurapika rolled his eyes and pretended to dry heave, sending the crowd of people running.

“Oh god he’s going to throw up again. (Name)!”

“Where is Leorio? I leave for 10 minutes and-“

Kurapika held up a hand. “I’m fine, I was just pretending.”

(Name) helped him sit up. “Okay, we’ll pretend to not be a total mess right now because people are staring. Where’s Leorio?”

He leaned against her shoulder for support, cursing his weak body. “Bathroom. He’s only been gone for a minute.”

She halfheartedly patted his back. “Alright. Gon, Killua, go get him and head towards the car. I’ll meet you there.”

She pulled him into a standing position. “Can you walk?”

He stepped forward without her help, pushing her hand away. “Yes, I’m not helpless.”

Killua raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. You look like a newborn giraffe. Don’t blame (Name) if you fall and eat shit.”

Kurapika flipped him the bird before stumbling towards the car.

‘Why are men like this?’ (Name) followed behind him, ready to catch him if he fell.

———————

The car ride home was quiet, the only sound heard being Killua singing along to whatever was on the radio.

“Killua, could you please quiet down? I’ve gotta headache.” Kurapika asked as a hand rubbed away at his temple.

Killua looked like he was considering his question, opening his mouth before (Name) sent him a glare through the rear view mirror.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Kurapika sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

If he knew that Killua had been seconds away from screaming at the top of his longs before (Name) intervened, he wouldn’t have thanked him.

(Name) pulled into the driveway of her home. The boys piled out of her mom van, running inside and tossing off their shoes.

“I’m going to shower…” Kurapika stated before stumbling towards the bathroom.

“Wait, don’t forget-“

He closed the door behind him.

“Your clothes…”

She groaned. Now, either she would have to bring him clothes while he showered or he would have to walk to his room in a towel.

‘Wait…’

“Hey, I’m going to take a shower. Can you bring Kurapika some clothes in a minute?”

She’d asked Leorio, but KIllua butted in. “Yeah, I can.”

“No. Sorry but I don’t trust you.”

“But…”

“No buts. Leorio, don’t let him get his little paws on Kurapika’s clothes. Killua has a cute face, but don’t be fooled.”

Leorio scoffed. “Oh please, I’ve known him longer than you. I watched him take a man’s heart out with just his bare hands.”

“Killua thats unsanitary.”

“He didn’t even wash his hands after.”

“GROSS!”

(Name) pulled away from the boy, a look of disgust on her face. “Go wash your hands, now!”

“It was two years ago!”

“I don’t care! Go!”

He walked up the stairs to (Name)’s bathroom while grumbling about her being unreasonable.

“I’ll take his clothes now…” Leorio slipped away into Kurapika’s room to avoid (Name)’s irritated state.

“Okay, let’s get you some medicine for your nausea earlier.”

Gon and (Name) sat at the dinner table, drinking juice boxes as she waited for Killua to come back down the stairs.

“I’m done. Go take your shower or whatever.”

(Name) leaped out of her seat and races up the stairs. She’d been putting on brave face for Kurapika, but she’d been on the verge of a meltdown for the past two hours.

‘God I smell so gross. Gonna throw that dress away later…’

She threw her clothing into the hamper and stepped into the warm water.

‘Ahh… that’s better. Gonna- where the fuck is my shampoo?’

(Name) blinked, did she use the rest of her shampoo last time? Good thing she kept extra under her sink…

(Name) finished her shower quickly. She’d need to start dinner soon if they would be eating before 8 pm.

Since they were having a sleepover, (Name) threw on a pair of pajama pants and a sweater. Comfortable, and cute.

‘There’s no one to look cute for, though.’

She sighed. It had been a while since she’d thought about purposefully dressing up. She’d have to call up some of her friends for a night on the town.

“Hey, did you-“

(Name) paused on the last stair. For a moment, she contemplated just going back upstairs and going back to bed. That would be much easier than dealing with the current situation.

Fake money was strewn across the floor, Leorio sitting in a corner muttering something about losing everything.

Killua and Kurapika were having a stand off, Monopoly money clutched against Killua’s chest.

And Gon was sitting with his shoes on the couch.

‘Where to start?’

She made her presence known by clearing her throat. Several pairs of eyes shot up to see her staring down at them, her eyes narrowed.

“You have 1 minute to fix this. I’ve got to grab my backpack from upstairs.”

With that, she turned around and walked back up.

———————

When (Name) returned, the floor was clean and the boys were all sitting patiently at the dinner table.

“Okay, good. Now that that’s settled, what should we do for dinner?”

“Something simple. I don’t think Gon can handle anything complex right now.”

Killua patted his friends back, who was currently sitting with his face planted on the table.

“Anything you make will be good, so I don’t care.”

(Name) groaned. “God you guys are no help at all.”

She stormed to the kitchen and threw the fridge open.

‘Something easy and simple… that won’t take long to cook…’

She settled on her grandmas recipe for homemade chicken noodle soup. She’d made it countless times, and even though it wasn’t cold outside yet, she knew it was the best option she had.

It was easy to make and would be good for her two sick friends.

“We’re eating chicken noodle soup. That okay with everyone?”

They all nodded, the two boys moving from the table to the couch to watch TV.

Kurapika’s hair was wet. Again. (Name) stared at him, hoping he’d be able to feel her thoughts and dry his hair, but he didn’t react at all.

“Kurapika… your hair.”

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“Didn’t I tell you if you don’t dry it, you’ll catch a cold?”

He pushed his wet locks out of his face. “You worry too much. I’ve been leaving my hair wet for years.”

(Name) left the room and grabbed a towel. “Either you dry it, or I do. I’m not going to let you get sick.”

Kurapika stared at the towel.

‘Well… she did a good job last time…’

“… you can dry it. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Leorio, watch the chicken. It’s cooking on the stove.”

“Roger that.”

(Name) dried his hair again, Kurapika relaxing ever so slightly under her touch.

‘I shouldn’t get used to this…’

But even as he thought that, his eyes closed and he leaned into her touch, a content look on his face.

He didn’t know how much he loved the feeling of fingers running through his hair. Kurapika even enjoyed the conditioner she added in.

“All done. Try to remember next time, okay?”

‘I’ll remember to forget.’

As (Name) cooked, Kurapika watched her from the table. It was hard not to.

He could still feel the lingering sensation of her fingers in his hair. It felt comforting, soothing almost.

Was it wrong to let himself enjoy the comfort of his friend? Maybe. In his world, that was a luxury he didn’t have the time to enjoy.

But he wasn’t on a mission right now. He could relax.

Just a little.

——————

After dinner, the group gathered in the living room. (Name) and Gon carried in multiple large comforters, placing them on the group to make a pallet.

“Are we… all sleeping here? Together?”

Kurapika watched as the other four plopped down onto the floor, Gon and Killua rolling around the soft surface.

“Yeah? That’s what you do during a sleepover. You… sleep over.”

He stared down at Leorio, who looked a bit too comfortable lying next to (Name).

“I see.”

He sat between Leorio and (Name), pushing the man away with his foot.

“Hey, rude! Who says you get to sleep next to (Name)?”

“I just don’t know how I feel letting my female friend sleep next to a known pervert. I wouldn’t be able to rest knowing she might be leered at.”

Leorio began to protest, but Killua spoke up.

“I actually agree with Kurapika. We haven’t forgotten what happened during the Hunter Exam.”

“Wait what happened?”

(Name) tilted her head in Leorio’s direction.

“On second thought I think I’m perfectly fine sleeping over here.”

Leorio cuddled up under a blanket, hiding away from (Name)’s judging gaze.

“Uh huh… anyways, what should we do next? Okay some games? Watch a movie?”

“Aren’t we… aren’t we supposed to sleep?”

Kurapika was already under his blanket, looking up at her with sleepy eyes.

“Oh, I mean you can, but I won’t promise you’ll be unscathed when you wake up.”

He was suddenly very awake.

“Unscathed?”

“First one to fall asleep gets their face drawn on.”

“Except for (Name). Last time we did that…”

KIllua shuddered. “It was a permanent marker too.”

“Killua. You didn’t.”

(Name) sighed. “He did. I had to go on a mission with a faded marker mustache and scribbles on my face. It was awful.”

“I don’t envy you. Not one bit.”

Killua and Gon crawled over. “We said we were sorry! Gon even picked you flowers.”

“Yeah, from our neighbors garden.”

“Technically-“

“Technically nothing! Now they won’t talk to me anymore!”

(Name) crossed her arms, pouting. “They were pretty though… and it was sweet of you…”

She pulled the two into her arms. “Aww, I can’t stay mad at my boys. Come on, let’s get some snacks and play some games.”

The two followed behind her like the puppies they were, Kurapika watching.

“How should I know you’re not going to perv on her?”

Kurapika glanced down at Leorio, who was wrapped up in a blanket. He’s inched towards the blonde like a worm.

“Unlike you I don’t have the history of being a sexual deviant.”

Leorio scoffed. “Yeah, sure. That’s only because you haven’t had your sexual awakening.”

Kurapika frowned. “My what?”

The dark haired man stared up at him. “You’re joking. Have you ever had any kind of sexual education?”

“… no?”

Leorio face planted. Now he really looked like a worm.

“Jesus. Okay, when a mom and a dad love each other very much-“

“I know what sex is, Leorio. Also, shut up.”

The blonde man’s face had gone red. Even if he hadn’t had his sexual awakening or whatever the hell Leorio had said, talking about sex was awkward.

Especially when his friend knew a lot more than he did.

“Whatever. Just… if you need to know something about it… just call me. I don’t want you doing something stupid and embarrassing yourself in front of (Name).”

Kurapika’s face turned a brighter shade of red. “In front of (Name)? What do you mean by-“

“Guys, should we play Candy Land or Uno?”

Their conversation was thankfully cut short by the group returning, games in hand.

Kurapika thanked the fact that he’d been sick today, because his red face was easily excused.

———————

They played for an hour or so before Leorio gave in and fell asleep.

“Boys, he has classes this weekend. Use the washable markers.”

Kurapika and (Name) sat on the couch watching some random anime the two boys had picked out as they doodled away on Leorio’s face.

“Are you feeling tired?”

(Name) had only asked because Kurapika’s head was dangerously close to leaning on her shoulder.

“Mm… a little.”

“You’re safe to sleep now. They have their victim.”

Kurapika nodded, but didn’t move. His eyes were getting heavy and he didn’t have enough brain capacity to listen.

“Mhm… yeah I’ll do that in just… just a…”

His head fully leaned onto her shoulder, the man falling asleep.

(Name) peeked at him from the corner of his eyes.

‘Ugh, why does he have to be so cute. It’s hard to keep my distance when he’s so freaking cute!’

She moved, moving his head from her shoulder to her lap.

‘If he stayed like that, he’ll hurt his neck…’

Once Killua and Gok finished their dastardly deed, they joined (Name) on the couch.

“I can kick him off of you if you want.”

(Name) shooed Killua away. “Killua, that’s not nice. Let him rest.”

The white haired boy rolled his eyes. “Alright, but don’t come complaining to me if he drools on you.”

She pursed her lips. “I won’t.”

Another hour passed, with (Name) passing the time by gently running her fingers through his hair.

It wasn’t as soft as it had been when he’d fallen asleep on her before. She knew he hadn’t been taking care of himself, and this only solidified the thought in her head.

‘I need to help him. Before he ends up getting himself killed.’

Gon and Killua fell asleep soon after. Killua had finally run out of steam after him and Gon chased each other down the street for a good 30 minutes.

‘The neighbors are going to complain again. At least they think the thing disturbing their sleep is a cryptid and not Killua.’

She glanced down at Kurapika.

He was crying.

She didn’t know why, but in his sleep tears had pooled into the corners of his eyes, falling onto her lap.

(Name) wiped them away and pulled the blanket they were sharing up to his chin.

‘It’s been a long day. I should sleep too…”

She moved so her legs were underneath him and lied down, her head resting against the armrest of the couch.