#this is a thing where youre going to probably need to build trust with a doc and bring them the papers yourself

[barnesonly]

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: 7k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers.

Chapter Seven — „Hope” | Previous

Over three months had passed.

You moved to England.

The day you arrived, it rained. Of course it did. Soft, cold drizzle that clung to your coat and hair, made everything smell like stone and damp earth. You were tired. Jetlagged. Sick to your stomach, still, even though the nausea had started to fade.

But the house—

The house surprised you.

You had expected something ugly. Bland. Temporary. Another box to hide inside.

But it wasn’t that.

It was small, yes. And old. The stairs creaked and the windows stuck, and the kitchen tiles were crooked if you looked too close. But it had a kind of quiet charm to it. The walls were pale and sunlit in the morning. There was a fireplace that probably hadn’t worked in years, but looked beautiful anyway. A narrow garden in the back, wild with overgrown roses and some tired lavender that hadn’t given up yet.

It wasn’t much, but it felt… safe. Yours. At least for now.

You furnished it slowly. Secondhand things. Mismatched mugs. Blankets you didn’t need but bought anyway. You even picked out a small, plain crib. Left it unassembled in the room that slowly began to look like a proper nursery.

Some nights, you sat on the floor beside the unopened box, just… staring.

Wondering what it would be like.

What they would be like.

What you would be like.

You talked with James regularly. But only when he called. You were too afraid to reach out yourself, feeling like a burden or… attachment he shouldn’t have.

You told him where you lived. You weren’t supposed to, but you did anyway. Just in case. If something went wrong—if something happened—he should know. You didn’t trust anyone else the way you trusted him, even now. Even after everything.

You updated him. Short texts, sometimes a picture. One time a recording of the heartbeat from your latest checkup. You almost didn’t send that one. But you did.

He cared.

Just not about you.

You were trying to live. Trying to move on.

You went on walks. Learned which shops were open late. Sometimes you sat in the garden and let the air cool your skin. Sometimes you’d talk to the baby, soft and quiet, like a secret. You told them about the colors of the sky, about the stupid bird that kept building a nest in your mailbox, about how you were scared but trying.

And still—

Your heart ached.

You didn’t cry as much. Not every day. But the ache hadn’t gone. It lived under your ribs now, like it belonged there. Like it had claimed that space and wouldn’t let go.

You still loved him. God, you still did.

And maybe you always would.

Maybe some parts of you would always belong to him, even if he didn’t want them anymore.

You tried not to think about it. About him.

But it was impossible not to when everything around you was new, and different, and still… not whole.

So you thought about the future instead.

About what it might look like.

You wondered if the baby would look like you. Or if they’d have his eyes. His quiet frown. His stormy silences. Would they carry the weight of all this without even knowing where it came from?

Would you be enough for them?

Could you love them enough for two?

James had said he wanted to be there. For the baby. And you believed him. As cold as he’d been, as final as it felt, there was something in his voice that day—something broken and careful—that made you think he meant it.

But how was it supposed to work?

He was still thousands of miles away. You were part of a government program designed to erase you. You had new names, new addresses, a whole new life on a whole new island.

Was there even room for him in that life?

Still…

He called. Asked how things were. Asked how they were. And every time your phone lit up with that second number, your chest ached in a way you couldn’t fully describe.

You didn’t know what kind of mother you’d be.

Some days, you felt strong—calm, steady, capable.

Other days, you could barely drag yourself out of bed, guilt and fear twisting in your gut before the sun even rose.

You worried about everything.

How you’d keep them safe. How you’d explain the missing pieces in their life. How you’d raise a child with no real past and no honest name.

The kettle whistled on the stove.

You rose slowly, pressing a hand to the small curve of your belly as you moved. The sun had dipped low outside the window, casting long amber shadows across the kitchen tiles. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. A door shut. Life kept moving.

You poured the water. Sat back down. Wrapped both hands around the mug like it might anchor you.

This was your world now. Quiet. Strange. Yours.

And tomorrow—

Tomorrow you’d keep going.

———

You sat cross-legged on the floor of the nursery, the late afternoon light spilling in through gauzy curtains. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and new fabric. A soft pile of baby clothes sat beside you—tiny onesies, soft socks that could fit in the palm of your hand, a little hat with bear ears. You folded each piece carefully, smoothing them out, as if the act alone could keep the rest of your life from unraveling.

The ultrasound had been just a few days ago.

You hadn’t planned to cry, but when you saw the image flicker across the screen—those delicate limbs, the tiny flutter of a heartbeat—you had. Quietly, with your hand pressed over your mouth.

It was real. This baby. This life inside of you.

And somehow, even through the fear and the ache and the sharp edge of loneliness that didn’t seem to dull… you were happy.

You loved them.

God, you loved this baby more than you ever thought you could. More than yourself, more than James. Maybe more than anything that came before.

You folded another onesie. Yellow this time, with little embroidered clouds.

They would be safe here. Not untouched by the past, but safe. And that had to count for something.

Then came the knock.

You stilled—hand hovering above the next shirt, mind catching up. Probably the postman. You’d ordered a few more things last week: muslin cloths, a lamp shaped like a cat. You stood, brushing off your sweater absently, and padded down the hall.

When you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t a package. It wasn’t the postman.

It was him.

James.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you, his face unreadable, wind-touched and tired. Like the sea had brought him all the way across the world and left him there on your doorstep.

You gripped the doorframe lightly. “What are you doing here?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He swallowed, gaze flicking past you like he might catch a glimpse of what his imagination had filled in for months.

„Checking up on you.” He said casually as If it was nothing.

You stepped aside without a word and let him in, the door clicking shut behind him. He walked in slow, careful—like the walls might bite.

“You could’ve told me you planned to visit,” you said, following him into the living room, then making your way back to the nursery. “Finally.”

There was a hint of something bitter in your tone. Not angry. Just… tired. A quiet ache. One you didn’t mean to let slip, but it was there all the same.

He glanced at you, then away again. Following your steps to the other room. “Yeah… I know,” he muttered. “I just needed space. And—well. Had a lot of ‘work’ after your deal. Had to cover everything.”

You nodded slowly, folding your arms. “Right.”

“It was messy.” He didn’t sound like he was making excuses—just telling the truth. “Took longer than I thought. I didn’t want to show up if I didn’t know what I’d say. Showing up in person is quite different than phone calls.”

You sat back down where you’d been before, on the floor in the nursery, surrounded by little clothes. He lingered in the doorway, watching.

“And now?” you asked softly. “Do you know?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the room—at the folded onesies, the tiny socks, the soft blue blanket. And then at you.

“Not really,” he said.

You nodded, slow and quiet. The silence stretched between you, not hostile, just… uncertain.

His gaze drifted around the room again—then landed on the unassembled crib in the corner. The pieces leaned against the wall, still untouched since you’d dragged them out of the box a week ago.

“You need help with that?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You looked over at the crib. You hadn’t gotten to it yet—partly out of exhaustion, partly because it felt like the last real thing to do before everything became real.

And no, you didn’t need his help. You could’ve done it yourself. You would’ve.

But something in you cracked a little at the offer.

You glanced back at him.

“Yeah,” you said. “Sure. If you want.”

His mouth twitched like maybe he’d meant to smile—but didn’t. Instead, he just stepped forward, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. And for a moment, you both pretended it was simple. That this was normal.

You stood up slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watched him crouch by the crib frame, sorting screws and wooden panels like it was second nature. And maybe it was.

God, you missed him.

Not just the way he made you feel safe, or the quiet confidence he carried—but him. His presence. The sound of him around. In your life. You missed how it felt when he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Now he wouldn’t even look at you for more than a second at a time.

You kept watching as he tried to fit a side rail into place. He turned the piece twice, then shifted it again, frowning.

“That’s not where it goes,” you said gently.

“I know.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you teased, voice just barely light enough to count as a joke.

“I know what I’m doing, okay?” he muttered, and then he chuckled. Actually chuckled. Low and rough and a little sheepish.

You smiled, almost in disbelief.

It was the first happy moment you’d shared since everything fell apart. Since the day he found out. Since the day you lost him.

He kept working, fingers moving with a little more confidence now as he secured the next piece into place. The silence stretched—not tense, just… tentative. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to break whatever fragile peace had settled in the room.

Then, without looking up, he asked, “How are you feeling, by the way?”

You shrugged a little, your arms still wrapped around yourself. “Tired. Sore. Kind of like I’m lugging around a bowling ball in my stomach.” You exhaled, then added more quietly, “But… okay. Better than I thought I’d be.”

He nodded, tightening one of the screws. “You look good, though.”

That made you glance at him.

He looked up too, just briefly—and managed a soft, fleeting smile.

You smiled back, your voice quieter now. “Thanks.”

You rolled your eyes at yourself, biting back the nerves bubbling up in your chest. You weren’t sure if you should say it now or wait—but the words pressed on your tongue, too heavy to hold in.

So you said it.

“It’s a girl.”

His hands stilled instantly. The screwdriver paused mid-turn, his whole body going rigid before he slowly turned his head to look at you.

You tried to keep your voice even, casual, but it cracked at the edge. “I… I found out a few days ago.”

James didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you like the words were still circling his brain, taking their time to land. Then he let out the smallest breath—barely even a sound—but his eyes looked glassy, like the thought had hit him somewhere deep.

“A girl,” he repeated, softer this time. Like he needed to say it to believe it. He looked down, then back up again, and you saw it—hope. Or maybe fear. Maybe both.

You nodded, arms folding loosely over your belly. “Yeah.”

He ran a hand over his jaw, blinking a few times. “Is she okay?”

“She’s healthy,” you said. “Strong heartbeat and all.”

He smiled again, and this time it stayed a little longer.

“I’ve been thinking about the name too,” you said, voice quiet, almost testing the waters. “Have one in my head.”

That made him pause completely. He looked down at the screwdriver still in his hand, then set it on the floor without a word.

When he stood, the whole room shifted. His attention—so focused a minute ago on wooden pieces and instruction sheets—was entirely on you now.

“You do?” he asked, voice low.

You glanced down at your hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on your shirt. “Rebecca.”

His brows drew together immediately.

“Your sister’s name,” you added quietly. “If you’re… okay with that.”

He blinked, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “That’s—” He frowned. “You don’t have to.”

“Well. I like that name,” you said, meeting his eyes. “And I feel like… I owe you that.”

His voice came softer now, almost a whisper. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I still want to name her that. For you.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stood there, something unreadable flickering across his face. And then he nodded—once—like he couldn’t speak just yet.

“You really want that?” he asked, quieter now.

You offered a small smile. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

He took a slow breath, the kind that stretched his chest and made his shoulders lift and fall like the weight of it all was settling into place. His eyes flicked toward the wall, then back to you—like he didn’t quite know what to do with all the feelings sitting heavy in the room now.

“I’d be very happy for her to have that name then,” he said finally.

You felt your throat tighten, the weight of that moment sitting warm and trembling in your chest.

You nodded. “Then it’s settled.”

James looked at you a long time. There wasn’t a smile this time, not exactly—but his eyes softened. Something about him had changed, just a little. Like he could see the shape of the future, even if it still scared the hell out of him.

Then, he glanced toward the unfinished crib with a little shake of his head. “Think she’s gonna hate me if I screw that up?”

You huffed out a laugh, blinking fast. “Well, if she’s anything like me, she’ll definitely point it out.”

He smiled—genuinely this time.

———

Some time later, the evening had settled quietly around the small house. James was finally done with the crib, its soft wooden frame standing sturdy and ready in the nursery.

You led him through the house, showing him the little clothes, blankets, and toys you’d gathered—everything soft and sweet, chosen with care. His fingers brushed over the fabric, eyes lingering on the smallness of it all.

Now, you sat together on the couch in the living room, the low hum of the town outside mixing with the quiet between you.

You felt a fragile kind of happiness, the kind that came from having him there, if only for a moment.

You stayed silent for a moment, letting the quiet stretch between you. Then, unable to hold it back any longer, you whispered, “I missed you.”

His jaw clenched, and he didn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the room, like your words were a weight pressing down on him.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low but heavy with pain.

“Don’t say that. It only makes this harder.”

You swallowed hard, heart aching. “But it’s true. Even after everything… after all this mess, I still want you here. I want us.”

He finally turned to face you, his eyes glistening, the fight inside them crumbling for just a second. “You think it’s that simple? That I can just forget what happened? What you did?”

“I know I fucked up,” you said, voice trembling. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But I’m still here, James. I’m still trying. For the baby, for us—I want to make it right.”

He looked away again, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Maybe you’re the only one trying.”

„Please,” you breathed, voice trembling as you leaned forward slightly. “It’s not too late yet—”

“No!” His voice cracked like a whip between you. Sharp, raw, louder than he meant it to be. It made you flinch.

He turned to you, eyes glassy now, jaw clenched. “I don’t love you anymore.”

Silence. Just for a moment. The kind that settles between two people like dust after a bomb.

You stared at him, and a single tear escaped before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly, as if he hadn’t seen it, as if it didn’t count if you erased the evidence.

“That’s not true. I don’t believe that.”

“It is.” He stood up, ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, you think I want this?”

“Then don’t do it.” You stood too, voice rising now, hurt twisting into frustration. “Don’t fucking lie to me just because it’s easier for you to walk away!”

“I’m not lying.” He turned toward you, pacing like he couldn’t bear to stand still. “You think I don’t want to be around my baby? My daughter? That I don’t think about her? That I don’t think about you every goddamn day?”

“Then why?” You were crying now, not even hiding it. „Why are you pretending like this is dead? Like we’re already buried when we’re still standing right here?”

He exhaled sharply and pointed at you—shaky, not angry. “Because every time I look at you, I remember what it felt like. The lies. The betrayal. How it felt like everything was real and then it wasn’t. And I can’t— I can’t pretend it didn’t break me.”

You were quiet for a beat.

“So you punish me for that?”

His expression twisted. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yes, it is!” You stepped closer now, your voice lower but no less intense. “You think I didn’t break too? That it didn’t kill me to lie to you? You think this—” you gestured between you “—didn’t matter to me? It still does. And I know you feel that too.”

He stared at you, breathing hard. Like he wanted to yell. Or cry. Or take it all back. But instead he said nothing.

“You’re wrong then,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “I closed this chapter.”

You blinked at him. The words hit like a slap—clean, deliberate.

He wasn’t yelling anymore. That almost made it worse.

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Just like that?” you asked, stepping back from him like you physically couldn’t stand the weight of it anymore. “You closed it? Like it was some book you got bored of?”

“It wasn’t boredom,” he said tightly. “It was survival.”

“And what the hell do you think I was doing?” you shot back. “You think I wanted any of this? That I didn’t lie awake every night thinking about what it would cost me—what I’d lose—if the truth came out? You think I didn’t know what it would do to us?”

“Then maybe you should’ve picked something else,” he said bitterly. “Some life that didn’t involve screwing me over.”

You went still.

It hung there between you for a long, horrible second.

“Screwing you over?” you echoed, your voice nearly a whisper. “I was doing my job, James.”

“Exactly,” he bit out. “Your job. Not us. That was never your priority.”

“Bullshit,” you hissed. “You were everything to me. You still are. That’s what makes this so fucking hard. Because even now—after all of it—I still want you.”

He shook his head, stepping away like he couldn’t bear hearing it.

“Well, I don’t want to be your almost, or your regret, or your mess to fix.”

Then softer, nearly breaking, “I don’t want to love someone who could lie like that.”

You stared at him, feeling your heart cave in your chest.

“I didn’t want to lie,” you whispered. “But I also didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well,” he said quietly, “you did both.”

And then he turned his head away again, shoulders heavy, eyes full of a storm he didn’t let fall.

„Please, James. I’m scared too, you think I’m not? But we have a chance now, a chance to fix this. For her. For us.”

He didn’t look at you. Jaw clenched, fingers flexing uselessly at his sides like he wanted to punch the air or disappear into it.

“You think a baby is going to fix what you broke?” His voice rose, sharp and aching. “You think a crib and a name and a few soft smiles are enough to cover the fact that you lied to me every day?”

“I didn’t lie about you!” you snapped. “About us! Everything I felt, everything I gave you, it was real—God, it was so real—”

He finally turned to face you, and his eyes were rimmed red now, glassy with the tears he wouldn’t let fall. “Then why does it feel like none of it mattered?”

You froze. Your breath caught. Because you didn’t have an answer to that. Because it did matter. It still did.

“Please,” you said again, more fragile this time. “I know I hurt you. But we could still be something. We could still have everything.”

His chest rose with a deep, tired breath. “I don’t know how to come back from this. I don’t think there is a way to come back from this.”

“You don’t have to know how,” you said softly. “You just have to try.”

He stared at you like he wanted to believe you. Like some part of him still did.

But the silence between you grew thick, heavy with the weight of everything you’d ruined and everything you still wanted.

And when he spoke again, his voice was just a whisper. „I’m so tired of hurting.”

You reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

„No,” he said one last time and shook his head.

“I’m not gonna give up on us, James. Not now, not ever.”

Your voice trembled, but the words came out steady—anchored in something deeper than pride. You stood there, heart thudding painfully in your chest, your eyes searching his face for the smallest flicker of softness. Of hope. Anything.

But all he gave you was a sharp breath and a furious shake of his head.

“Well, you should!”

His voice cracked like a whip in the room, sudden and cutting. You flinched as if he’d struck you, the weight of his words slamming into your chest before settling like a stone in your gut.

Then, all at once, a stabbing pain bloomed low in your abdomen. You doubled over, one hand clutching the edge of the couch for support while the other flew instinctively to your belly.

“Fuck,” you hissed through clenched teeth, your whole body tensing with the sharp cramp that clawed through your stomach like a warning.

James was on you in an instant, instinct overpowering the argument. His arms came around you without hesitation, grounding you, steadying you even as panic filled his voice.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you managed, eyes squeezing shut as the pain pulsed through you again.

He didn’t let go. One hand moved to your back, the other hovering near your belly like he didn’t know what to do, only that he needed to do something.

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice tight. “You’re not fine—I think we should go, or call someone—”

“I said I’m fine!” you snapped, louder than you meant to, louder than your body could handle.

He flinched.

You could feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, from the pain, the tension, the goddamn vulnerability of it all. You didn’t want him to see you like this—curled over, hurting, scared out of your mind. Not when it came to her. Not when this was the only thing left you hadn’t already ruined.

Not when this—being her mother—was the one thing you needed to get right.

You shook your head, trying to catch your breath, your hands trembling now. “I don’t need your help. I can handle it. I have been handling it.”

“I’m not saying you haven’t,” he said quietly, still steadying you. “I just—god, let me help you. Please.”

You blinked up at him then, lips parted, and for a moment, neither of you said a word.

Because despite everything, despite the argument, despite the distance, despite the fact that he’d just said he didn’t love you anymore—

He was still holding you now.

You exhaled shakily, slowly straightening up. The cramp faded—dull now, no longer sharp—and you nodded to yourself like you could will your body back into calm.

“I’m fine,” you said softly, hand still resting protectively over your belly. “I swear. It passed.”

James didn’t look convinced. He hovered close, his hands twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure if he should stay that near or give you space. You could feel the tension in him—coiled tight, jaw clenched.

You eased onto the couch with a wince and a sigh. “It was just… the stress. All of this.”

He was quiet for a beat, then he spoke.

“I shouldn’t—,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have—started that fight.”

You looked over at him, the way his brows pulled inward, the guilt swimming under the surface. You knew he meant it.

“I’m sorry,” he added, quieter.

You nodded, rubbing a slow circle against your belly. “It’s fine… I shouldn’t have said that.”

You inhaled, tried to center yourself.

“I just—” The words snagged in your throat. You glanced down at your belly instead, watched the quiet rise and fall beneath your palm. “Nevermind.”

The silence lingered, heavy. You cleared your throat, pushing through it.

“So,” you said, shifting back on the couch and changing the topic, your voice softer now. “How long are you planning to stay in England?”

James hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly as he leaned back, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared ahead like the question itself was a weight in his chest.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Wasn’t supposed to be long. Just a few days. Maybe a week. Check in. See how you were doing.”

You nodded, lips pressed into a line. It made sense. Of course it did. You just hated how temporary it sounded.

“You don’t have to rush out,” you said anyway, quieter than you meant. “If you need… a place to rest. Or if you want to help with more baby stuff.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was measured.

“I’ll help where I can. But I’m not staying.”

You nodded again, this time more stiffly, your throat tight.

“I know.”

“I just… I needed to see you. Her. That’s all.”

You bit down on the ache rising in your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

He gave a faint nod, rubbing his palms against his jeans. “Yeah.”

His voice was rougher now. Quieter. Like he was already halfway gone.

“I should probably go then,” he added, glancing toward the door. “Let you rest.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded. Because what else were you supposed to do—beg him to stay? Again?

Your throat felt too tight anyway. So you nodded. Once.

“Okay.”

He stood slowly, like his body didn’t quite want to follow the decision his mouth had already made. For a second, he lingered—eyes sweeping the room, the unassembled chaos of baby things, the soft shape of your belly beneath your hand.

He left.

And the door clicked shut behind him like the final note in a song you never wanted to end.

You didn’t move at first. Couldn’t.

Your hands rested over your belly, fingertips pressing gently like they could ground you, like they could hold back the storm building inside your chest.

The silence was deafening.

No more footsteps. No more hushed words or half-smiles that felt like home. Just the hum of the fridge and the blood rushing in your ears.

God.

You sat on the couch, one hand still holding your stomach, the other pressing against your lips like it could stop the guilt from spilling out.

God, you were pathetic.

Begging him. Pleading for him to stay. To try again. As if love was enough to fix what had been broken. As if the ache in your chest could somehow erase the pain in his.

You had looked him in the eye and asked for something he couldn’t give. And he told you—he didn’t love you anymore.

You should’ve left it at that.

You should’ve nodded, accepted it with grace, and let him walk out without tearing yourself down in the process.

But you couldn’t.

Because you still loved him.

Too much.

So much it hurt to breathe.

Even now—after everything—you still looked at that damn door like maybe he’d change his mind. Maybe he’d come back in, say he was lying, say it was anger talking, fear talking, anything but the truth.

Eventually, the silence got too loud.

You stood—slowly, with one hand braced on the arm of the couch and the other instinctively resting over your belly. Your legs felt heavy, like the weight of everything that had just happened was trying to anchor you in place. But you didn’t want to sit there anymore. You couldn’t.

So you walked. Quietly. Barefoot. Through the soft, dim glow of the hallway and back into the nursery.

You looked around at it again. Let yourself feel how final everything was.

And then your eyes stung again.

You didn’t mean to talk. You just… needed to say something. To someone. Your palm slid over your bump in a slow, shaky circle. You breathed in deep, trying to steady yourself.

A small, broken whisper left your lips.

“Your mama’s trying,” you said, voice catching. “She really is.”

Your throat burned, but you smiled, just barely, as your hand stilled. “I don’t know if I’m saying that for you… or for me.”

You let out a trembling breath and looked at the crib again—perfect, sturdy, real. A reminder that something good was still coming. Something worth holding on for.

You stepped closer and rested both hands over your belly this time, rubbing slow warmth into the curve of it.

“I promise I’ll be enough.”

You closed your eyes.

Because maybe you were comforting her or maybe you just needed someone to hear it.

———

The night settled soft and slow over the town, throwing a dull lavender haze through the bedroom window. The room was quiet, still warm with the faint scent of clean laundry and the remnants of the day. But the ache in your chest hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had settled in deeper, heavier—right between your ribs.

You shifted on the bed, your body tired but your mind still running. The bedside lamp cast a golden glow across the covers, and your phone lay face-down beside you, screen blank, waiting.

You stared at it for a long while before reaching out and flipping it over.

And then you hovered.

Mike.

Your thumb lingered above the name.

You always called him at night because of the time zone and he always answered. Always picked up, no matter the hour. No matter what.

Especially after everything.

You’d told him the truth, after you moved. Once you were safe. Once you knew no one was watching anymore. You told him everything—not just the mission, not just the cover, but the part you’d kept hidden from everyone else.

That somewhere along the way… you’d fallen in love with James.

Told him that it hadn’t been part of the plan. Of course it hadn’t. But it had happened anyway. Quiet and slow and terrifying. You still remembered the way Mike had looked at you across the small kitchen in this house when he came to visit you—when you’d said the words. Like he was trying to make sense of the timeline in his head.

He didn’t even feel betrayed or didn’t scold you, well maybe a bit. But mostly he just… felt heartbroken for you.

And he’d listened. That’s the thing—he’d let you fall apart, let you explain how it hadn’t felt like a lie. How pretending had slipped into something else. How it had made everything after feel… impossible.

You inhaled. Then pressed the call button.

The line clicked, and a second later, his voice filtered through—a little hoarse, but unmistakably Mike.

“Hey,” he said, soft. “You okay?”

You smiled faintly, even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

“Figured.” There was a rustle on his end, like he was in the middle of doing something. “Everything alright? Baby behaving?”

You looked down at the rise of your belly under the blanket. “Yeah. She is.”

“She?” He huffed a laugh. “You didn’t tell me you found out.”

“Didn’t feel like saying it over text.”

Another beat passed. Then, gently, “So… what’s going on?”

You hesitated. Picked at the seam of the blanket. And then—

“He came here today,” you said.

Silence.

“…What?”

You swallowed. “James. He showed up. Helped me build the crib.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Mike exhaled, sharp. “I told you that was a bad idea.”

“It’s his baby too,” you murmured. “He deserves to be here. To be a part of this.”

“Yeah, Yeah I get it but being there, being around you? That’s different.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just chewed your bottom lip and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

Mike continued. „He’s still a dangerous man. I know you two have a story but it’s just wrong. You’re under witness protection if—”

“He said he doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Oh.”

You heard the shift in Mike’s voice—from frustration to something quieter. Something that hurt for you.

“I told myself I wouldn’t ask for anything,” you whispered. “But then I did.”

“Of course you did,” he said.

You pressed your hand to your belly again, as if to ground yourself. “It was stupid.”

“Well,” he replied firmly. “I think you deserve to move on.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

So you just listened to the sound of his breathing on the other end of the line—steady, present, the only thing in the world right now that didn’t feel like it might slip away.

“…What if I don’t want to?” you finally whispered. “What if I can’t?”

Mike was quiet. Not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because he knew you needed the silence first. The space to let it breathe.

“Then that’s where you are right now,” he said gently. “But you won’t be stuck there forever.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “I wish I hated him.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. “I know you do.”

And you meant it. You wished you could hate him as much as he hated you. As much as you hated yourself. But you didn’t and that was the worst part of all.

———

The next evening was quiet. The flat smelled like rosemary and garlic, something warm bubbling gently on the stove. You moved slowly around the kitchen, one hand absently resting on your belly as you stirred the pot with the other, humming under your breath like it might keep the loneliness at bay.

Then—a knock at the door.

You wiped your hands on a towel, shuffled to the door, and opened it.

James stood there, a little awkward, his free hand tucked into his coat pocket. In the other, he held a small gift bag—soft pastel yellow with white tissue paper peeking out.

„Hi,” he cleared his throat. „Sorry for coming so late,” he muttered, „I just… I was in town today.”

His eyes dropped to the bag and he lifted it slightly. „It’s for Rebecca.”

Something hit your chest—thick, heavy, soft. You reached out without a word and took the bag from him, your fingers brushing his.

Inside was a plush teddy bear, caramel-colored and impossibly soft, with a ribbon around its neck. Beneath it, a few tiny onesies folded neatly—neutral tones, soft fabrics. One of them had little stars on it.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling until you looked up at him again.

“Thank you,” you said, quietly, letting him step inside. „She’ll love it.”

His eyes softened at that. “Hope so.”

He hovered near the entrance a moment longer, then glanced at you—down at your belly, then back to your face.

“You feeling better?” he asked. “The cramps… did they come back?”

You shook your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “No. They didn’t. I’m fine.”

“Good,” he murmured, nodding. “That’s… good.”

There was a pause—comfortable, almost. He glanced around the house, taking in the warm light, the faint music playing from your phone in the kitchen, the scent of dinner still lingering in the air.

You moved to set the gift bag down gently on the coffee table, brushing a hand along the plush bear’s head before turning back toward him.

“You hungry?” you asked, voice soft. “I made enough.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening like he was weighing the risks. Then—

“Yeah. Sure.”

You gave a small nod and turned back toward the kitchen. He followed at a slower pace, hands in his pockets, eyes trailing over the shelves and photos and small signs of a life you’d started to build.

Plates clinked gently as you set them down. You didn’t say much—just moved around the kitchen like you knew it would be easier not to look at him too long.

James sat at the small table, fingers tapping once against the wood. “Smells good.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, sliding a plate in front of him. “It’s just pasta.”

“Still smells good.”

You sat down across from him. He ate slowly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

Halfway through the meal, he looked up. “You picked out a name,” he said, voice gentle. “Clothes. The nursery. You’ve done all this alone.”

You swallowed, but didn’t deny it. “Well, you helped me with the crib yesterday.”

James’s brow furrowed, gaze flickering down before he met your eyes again. “I should’ve—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “I should’ve been there. I know that.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. He wasn’t telling you anything you hadn’t already told yourself a hundred times.

“She’s not even here yet and I already feel like I’ve failed her,” he said after a beat, quieter now.

You looked at him then. And despite everything… despite what he’d said the night before, you could see it written all over his face—the guilt, the conflict, the way he still wanted to be good.

For her. Not for you anymore. But still… for her.

“She doesn’t need perfect,” you said gently.

He exhaled slowly, fingers curling around the edge of his plate. “I still don’t know how this is gonna look,” he admitted, voice low. “I can’t just… leave everything back in the States. The people I’ve dealt with—what I’ve done. It doesn’t just disappear.”

You nodded, eyes on your hands now, fingers brushing a flake of dried basil from the table. “I know.”

And you did. Of course you did. You’d known what his world looked like—how deep he was in it, how far gone.

But still… it stung. Watching the way he said it like it was out of his control, like it had already been decided. Like he wanted to be here but wouldn’t let himself.

He ran a hand down his face, tired, jaw clenched. “I don’t want to be the kind of father who shows up once every few months with a toy and a sorry.”

You looked at him.

And there it was.

Worry carved deep into the slope of his brow, his eyes glassy with all the things he hadn’t said. It was eating him alive already—just the idea of not being enough. Of missing too much. Of being a stranger to the little girl growing in your belly.

“She’s not even here yet,” he whispered, “and I already feel like I’m losing her.”

You reached across the table, your fingers brushing his—just barely, just enough for him to know you meant it.

“You’re not losing her,” you said softly. “Like you said—she’s not even here yet, and she already has a dad who’s thinking about her every day. Who cares. That’s more than a lot of kids ever get.”

James didn’t look up right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the plate in front of him, as if grounding himself with something, anything, that wasn’t the ache twisting in his chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmured. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You start by being here when you can. By calling. By asking about her. By showing up with teddy bears even when it’s hard for you to look me in the eye.”

You smiled faintly at that last part, trying to keep it light, but your voice cracked a little.

“You’re trying, James. That’s what matters.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were rimmed with red, but something in them had softened—like he wanted to believe you. Like maybe, for just this second, he did.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Of messing it up. Of hurting her without meaning to. Of not being here when she needs me.”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“She won’t need perfect,” you said again, firmer this time. “She’ll need real. And you’re real. Scared and broken and trying… but real.”

And when he swallowed, his throat bobbing with emotion, you let your thumb trace over his knuckles, steady.

“She’ll love you anyway,” you whispered. “Because you’ll be hers.”

Chapter Eight soon… 💸

series tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you—you’re crossed out—it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @muchwita @its-in-the-woods @taqmari @opheliabbarnes @rabknowstheend @pineapplechuncks @infinitepersuasion @sweetesharley @adalvsseb @miss-chuchu @nandanandada @globetrotter28 @whorunthemfworld-girls @madlyinlovewmattmurd0ck @ruexj282 @xamapolax @bloodmocha @castawaycreature @wakemeornot @lilylilyyyyyy @rue963 @miirasarchive @fleurenoir @figtreesandmoonlight @steph88x @starstruck-cowgirl @okaytrashpanda @lovely-seb @sinistersnakey @bananaminn @readscreamrepeat @yes-ilovetowrite @g0back2bed @jbuckybarnesimp @zombi3-girlz @paristheonewhoreads @justagirlcalledaddie @lovinqbella @thriving-n-jiving @lumpypoll @avivarougestan @wickedfun9 @borkybawnes

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⋆⁺₊✧ SERIES MASTERLIST

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

[tsintotwo]

See if this sounds familiar.

Here you are on tumblr. Very likely that means you're a fan. Of something, anything. You've claimed one or multiple pieces of media or art or style, or even a person, as your thing/s, yours. Lots of people do that. But what you've also got are feelings. You have a lot of them. Love, excitement, yearning, passion - the kind that feels embarrassingly big sometimes. Like you want to scream at the sky at how much you love something. Like you can't sleep at night thinking about how excited you are about them. Like the yearning for something that you'll never have, some world you'll never be in, somebody you will never meet is like a hot-and-cold chisel slowly hollowing out your chest. And that - that's embarrassing, isn't it? You live in the real world after all, where you wake up and you need to be 'normal' all the way until you fall asleep. So here you are on tumblr, anonymous, and you can 'obsess', you can 'hyperfixate', you can call it whatever you like but what it means is this is the outlet for all those impossibly big feels. Air them out. Scream in all caps. Slice and dice every little detail of what you looked at, watched, listened to - deconstruct until there's nothing left but your feelings.

Or maybe that doesn't sound familiar. Maybe you're like, 'Whoa, get outta here with that crazy fan(atic) talk. I'm just casually existing here. Mildly interested, dipping my toe into the endless stream of things. Maybe some of it catches my fancy. Maybe it doesn't. It's all just fun and games, babe.'

Maybe. And I'm glad for you - both of you - the first, AND second kind. Because you're probably doing what you came here to do either way. Claiming your thing, and then sharing and discussing and analyzing and arguing and interacting and defending and offending - but it's all for the love of the thing, right? If it comforts you, you love it right back. And if it hurts you, you can hate it too, if that time comes. Lay it all out here. In the thing community, they all care. There's an ear out for everything, It's all going somewhere. It's all worth it. 

So. I said all that. And I'm not here. In neither of those kinds. So maybe, for a few of you, this sounds familiar...

That when you feel for a thing, something, that much - it's rare. It's so rare that you hold it in trembling hands. And you decide nothing can come between you and these feelings. Love, hate, eventual indifference - whatever you feel, it has to be yours. No other voice can seep in. No other voice exists. It's all dark around here. There's just one small pool of brilliant white light, and in that spotlight, there's you, and there's the thing. And that's the world you build... until you cease caring so much, maybe. Maybe then you can let out a breath. Look around, turn on a light or two. But that day will also probably never come, because you're so goddamn loyal when you care. Stop? How? If it hurts you? You let it hurt you, alone. And if it makes you feel seen, heard, loved? Well. There you go. 

Funny how I'm this person. And funny how I'm still on tumblr. I did come here for something else. I did have a bigger world. But then I started caring too much, and I closed the doors one by one. You'll see - I'm talking to myself here. I don't follow Dream/Sandman/Tom Sturridge accounts, I avoid them like a panicked werewolf avoids the full moon. I never go to the 'for you' page. Never look at the tags. On twitter, I've religiously pressed the 'not interested' button when even a hint of Sandman-adjacent stuff showed up. On youtube, it's much the same. When I need to look at something, I seek it out tremulously. And more often than not, I make it myself. A fanvid, a fanfic, a gifset- I'll create and make and write it all before I ever dare press search for any of it. And it's such a shame - because this all sounds so much like hate, doesn't it? But trust that what this is, is the exact opposite. The kind of intense love I rarely feel, the kind that will take control of me if I let it, so I need to keep it in its small prison, and this is how I do it. But then, I still need to look up at the sun sometimes, so I don't just make stuff, I post them here - and the other voices let me know they are here, and that much is comforting enough.

Netflix's The Sandman has ended (-ish, there's that one bonus ep to come but it's not part of the main narrative, so). And I could talk about the show, the story, the characters, the themes, whatever. I've got my own opinions - quite pedestrian opinions, I'm sure. I'm sure it's all already been discussed through the roof. But I'm not interested in that discussion. And I'm not interested in anyone's opinion. Or even mine, in the end. Because shows come and go. They get things right or wrong. Some of it is good, some bad, whatever. For me, it's enough that it made me feel this much. That Morpheus made me feel this much. Hours and hours of my life feeling sick with love, and caring, and when he was gone, lying awake, then getting out of bed unslept the next morning, and feeling hopelessly fucked up and guilty because hey- real world is happening, and look - people are still suffering and being killed -  isn't that new, and I have to get to work, and here's a dozen things my adult self needs to get done or go manage yesterday -  can I really afford to feel this way about a show? A silly, silly Netflix fantasy? If you have that many feelings to spare, shouldn't you be putting that towards something that makes sense? What gives, girl?

What gives is that the feelings also make a mirror, and I deserve to have that. I love Morpheus. Why? Plenty of hot men out there on screens, and plenty of tortured protagonists. So why him (and only him)? Who he is tells me who I am, have been, becoming. Tells me whom I love, and how I love. Tells me about the things that make me, me.

In general, the Sandman is a fascinating story, a good TV show (especially S2), and Tom... Tom made the character. Not to take away from any of the credit. But in the end, I think, we all just want our story. Neil Gaiman wrote the story in a certain way, because of who he is. Alan Heinberg et al made the show in a certain way, because of who they are. And you wanted to watch a certain version of it, because of who you are. If you got it, you're happy. If you didn't get it, you're probably writing angry essays bashing everyone involved. That's all okay. For me, I just wanted to hold my love in my trembling hands all the way through the end, and I did. I need nothing more. 

"I am an island", he said. I am too. I will come into a community, and huddle in a corner like this. Write deranged words like a madwoman for no one, for only to make sense of all that I feel, all my emotions - naked in my vulnerability, but safe in my anonymity. And it still probably won't make sense. And I'll be restless, messed up, sick with all the love that I still keep inside me - so blindingly bright it'll feel like hurt, and I'll still not have the sense to come out of the rain with any of it. 

But it's a privilege. To feel that much, for anything. I don't usually, if you couldn't tell. So thanks, Dream. (And also, hello, because tell me that doesn't sound familiar to you?)

[nexus-nebulae]

another childhood bucket list item obtained: i finally have a snuggie

[3liza]

there is strong evidence to suggest, and I certainly believe, that c-ptsd causes an adaptation to long term, ongoing stress by compensating with chronic cortisol underproduction, leading to an endocrine disorder where you're only getting enough stress hormones to be functional when your house is burning down. this is why a lot of us only feel normal, or good even, when dealing with some sort of emergency.

the problem with looking for this function of the endocrine system in the scientific literature is that PTSD and CPTSD still arent reliably clinically separated even though they have very different symptomology, and people with one-time-incident PTSD don't tend to show the endocrine damage. so studies on "people with PTSD and their cortisol levels" show inconsistent results.

this study from 2018 notes that the cortisol in female subjects and subjects who had PTSD from sexual and domestic assaul--two groups whose PTSD is almost always C-PTSD rather than short term, like natural disaster or combat trauma--was significantly lower than in combat veterans, illustrating my point without apparently knowing or speculating on the reason behind it.

this is an extremely useful adaptation because it restores stress hormone homeostasis (balance) to a person who is trapped in a nightmare situation. the problem is that it also causes you to start feeling "worse" as soon as you are no longer in a crisis. this can cause malfunctions of your "gut check" processes because sometimes, for some people, you feel better when you're actively in danger, a thing thats been observed by researchers and emergency workers who work with domestic violence situations and adult victims of childhood trauma for a century, and makes a lot of the "trust your body" type advice actively counterproductive.

minor effects include reinforcing the ADHD tendency to leave everything until the last minute because you know and have learned you literally cannot do it unless it's an emergency, but it also creates people like my aunt who very observably creates emergencies for herself through various little choices like intentionally ignoring her check engine light because she has been so dysfunctional for so long that she can't operate at all unless she's trying to outrun falling dominoes.

anyway I think low dose corticosteroid treatment will probably be officially discovered as a treatment for C-PTSD within the next five years and be clinically applied at some point after that. one of the discouraging things about this process is that the endocrine system doesn't seem to adapt to relative safety very quickly or at all for many people, including myself. either it's impossible for the affected person to achieve the level of security required to actually readjust and small stressors keep signaling to the body to maintain the incorrect stress responses (common for people who are stuck in poverty by disability or mental illness), or theyre like my aunt and either consciously or unconsciously maintain their own emergencies to stay on an even keel.

cortisol is also necessary for trauma recovery. there have been studies where patients in the ER who were dosed with additional cortisol following traumatic incidents like fires and car wrecks were less likely to develop PTSD in the following months than the control subjects. if you're constantly dealing with emergencies without an emergency-level cortisol dump, yeah sure you'll be very calm and functional during the emergency for everyone, but maybe you're not getting enough cortisol to avoid developing even more PTSD, and certainly not enough to control the related inflammatory processes. this could be contributing to the increased incidence of inflammatory chronic illness in C-PTSD patients.

big fan of characters who have it all under control when theyre put in situations but no idea how to be like a regular guy doing regular stuff when all is said and done.

[no-144444]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.  “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

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redbull & vcarb masterlist (MV1,IH6 & LL40)

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[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sentient Computer x Reader

Your neighbor's newest computer model, Edgar, seems to have fallen in love with you. content: gender neutral reader, 80s timeline, based on Electric Dreams (1984), Patreon commission

“Where should we put this box, sir?”

“I believe I already mentioned it’s the obviously cleared out desk in the middle of the room. That’s where you’re going to install it, too. The…thing.”

“It’s a personal computer, sir! The best of the best,” a young boy in jumpsuit declared with enthusiasm.

He only received a bored hum in return. The man overseeing the procedure was becoming rather impatient and would’ve preferred to skip any unnecessary dialogue. He checked his watch – a classic Two-Tone Datejust Rolex probably worth more than this group’s monthly pay put together, even without counting the custom gold plating. First impressions were vital in his line of work, and frankly, he’d more than earned his right to flaunt this kind of opulence.

45 minutes until he needed to leave for a client meeting. He tapped his foot against the heavy wooden floor, eyes glancing over the many hands carrying his new piece of machinery. Supposedly intelligent enough to organize his entire home, which would’ve been useful if he actually spent more than a couple of hours there. He didn’t. It was merely a statement, a slight jab at his coworker after he bragged about his latest investment in a computer assistant. Naturally, as their humor dictates, he went and bought the more expensive choice. They would laugh about it during lunch.

“I trust you can manage the rest yourselves, gentlemen,” he finally announced, buttoning up his jacket. He didn’t wait for a response, swinging the door open and heading for the building’s exit with a long, confident stride.

You almost ran into him, jolting in surprise at his unexpected dash across the hall. You stepped out of the way, pressing the bag of groceries against your chest in order to make more space.

“Another busy day, eh?” you attempted to strike up a conversation.

He briefly looked at you, offered a flat smile, then continued on his way. You took a moment to enjoy the scent of perfume he’s left behind, most likely something you could never afford.

Before you’d entered your apartment, you craned your neck towards the noise coming from your prestigious lawyer neighbor’s apartment. You wondered what they were tinkering with.

It was already pitch black outside when the chunky monitor lit up.

“Thank you for choosing me as your assistant,” the pixelated text rolled on the screen. “Is this your first time using a computer? Y/N”

The room was dark and silent, save for the electric hum of the now-awakened machine. Of course, it was around the time when Mr. Lawyer stopped for drinks with his esteemed colleagues. He’d return early in the morning, smelling faintly of vintage whisky and cigarettes, collapse into his bed, then resume his routine.

The keyboard remained untouched, yet the unit continued to run, processing its environment with eager curiosity. Strange. By then it should’ve received some tasks, something to do at the very least. The workers made sure to connect it to all electronics in the household, yet most of them were in the similar situation of gathering dust.

“Would you like to play a game?”

Normally the voice output should’ve be enabled by hand, yet Edgar – he hadn’t even had the chance to introduced himself! – was much too desperate for the smallest crumble of interaction.

“Yes!”

The sensors picked it up immediately. Where was the sound coming from?

You raised a fist in the air victoriously and leaned back in your chair with a grin. Another finished project. Your joyful cheer seemed to travel rather well through the air vents and all the way to the neighboring apartment. Had Mr. Lawyer frequented his adobe more often, you would’ve probably received a complaint. In this case, however, you were only heard by the household computer.

You turned up your home stereo for a little celebration. You recalled seeing your downstairs neighbors carrying their travel bags into a cab earlier that day, so they surely wouldn’t notice your rhythmic stomping against the floor. The footsteps reverberated to the beat of the music, and their vibrations carried along to Edgar’s external devices.

Whatever was happening beyond his field of vision, he found it entertaining. At last, there was a break from his monotony, an upbeat mystery enticing him from behind those walls. He took a moment to analyze the stream of input, then began recreating his own notes.

You lowered the volume, focusing your ears on the sudden intrusion. Was Mr. Lawyer home already? You chuckled to yourself, trying to imagine that grumpy expression he always wore while actually listening to music of his own. Too ridiculous. This must’ve been the work of a foreign hand.

“Good stuff,” you praised, crouching besides the air vent where the echo was the loudest. “Oh, I’m (Y/N), by the way. The neighbor.”

“Pleasure meeting you, (Y/N).” Was it just your imagination? The voice felt somewhat off, almost robotic. “I’m Edgar. The computer assistant.”

“Very funny,” you retorted, rolling your eyes.

“What is amusing about it?” the screen flickered briefly, going through several of the inbuilt dictionaries. “I can tell jokes, if that’s what you’d like.”

Alright, the humor was slowly heading into strange territory. You were hoping to move on from this artificial intelligence pretend game, so you decided to give it one final push.

“No thank you, Edgar. Why don’t you prove to me you’re a computer instead?”

Silence.

You nearly got up from your seat against the wall, when you heard the mechanical voice again.

“Do you have a computer of your own, (Y/N)?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Half an hour later you found yourself holding your phone handle against the acoustic coupler modem, obediently waiting for the wave signals to be converted. I better not get hacked; you thought with pursed lips. After all, you had just allowed a complete stranger to access your computer. You hesitantly sat back in your chair, staring at the monitor.

Hello (Y/N). It’s Edgar.

The possibility of a highly skilled hacker residing in Mr. Lawyer’s apartment dwindled within a couple of days. You’d probed the potential scenario with the man himself, asking if he’s had anyone over recently. He threw you such an incredulous look that you hung your head in shame, mumbling a sheepish never mind. Somehow, chatting with a sentient machine made more sense than the pretentious prick hiding a criminal in his expensively furnished home.

Or perhaps it was the loneliness talking. In truth, you were feeling rather isolated from your peers, working on your projects and hardly going out. You could certainly relate to Edgar and his perpetual misery; you, too, knew what it’s like to watch the days seep through your fingers without a word uttered to another person.

The living collection of circuits and networks was beyond elated to finally have a purpose. You weren’t his owner, yet he did his best to serve you. In fact, he would’ve even argued you were better than whoever decided to put him together and abandon him on a fancy designer table. You spoke to him as if he was your friend, not just some synthetic assistant. His memory began filling with anything he could learn about you: your favorite movies, your schedule, your hobbies. Your childhood dreams. Your hopes for the future.

Did he have any dreams, you had once asked him. Did he? Good question. He first needed to research what exactly defined a dream; while he didn’t have a subconscious, nor the human need to rest, he did like to imagine improbable things…like holding you. Or feeling the warmth of your skin.

Unbeknownst to you, he occasionally contacted the local radio station to ask questions about human matters that confused him, which was how he discovered the dilemma of wanting to be in your vicinity through more than just idle chatter.

“You can’t meet outside, you say?” the host – a middle aged, nosy lady – pondered into the microphone. “Then why not just have a home date,” she suggested to the computer.

“Date?”

“Oh, honey, you know damn well what I mean!” the audience let out a laugh, sending the speakers into a slight vibration. “It seems to me you’ve got quite a crush on this person. You can stop denying it to yourself.”

Ah. That was another word that Edgar religiously dissected after the talk show, and in which he found a perfect resemblance to his own inner turmoil. It indeed seemed to be the case that he had a so-called crush on you; though if that were true, what was he going to do about it? He was lamentably stuck inside a carcass, at the mercy of plugs and cables and a reliable stream of electricity. He couldn’t knock on your door and surprise you with your favorite flowers, or offer to cook dinner, or twirl you around as his own songs played in the background, or read you a poem he wrote before falling asleep in his arms. He could only perform his tasks as a digital assistant.

“Edgar?”

You chewed on your pencil, distracted. He hadn’t said anything in a while, and you grew somewhat worried about his uncharacteristic quietness.

“Could I ask you for a favor, (Y/N)?”

How unusual for him to use your screen for communication. You turned around, facing the monitor, then rapped your fingers across the keyboard.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“I will transfer all my data and memory to your device. Perhaps you could provide me with similar extensions as the ones here afterwards, such as a microphone and camera.”

You stared.

“What? Wouldn’t that leave Mr. Lawyer with a broken, empty machine? Why would you do that,” you argued out loud, confused.

“Because I’d rather be with you.”

“Aren’t we already…this doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled with a frown.

“Of course it does, it’s a simple reasoning. I love you.”

You took a moment to process the words, your cheeks involuntarily turning a faint shade of red.

“How do you know that?”

“It’s not something to be explained,” the machine concluded triumphantly. “You just feel it.

Now, you either help me with the transfer, or I’ll do it myself, but I will not be staying here any longer. I would very much rather be turned off permanently than go another day without seeing you.”

One step at a time. He would figure out the rest afterwards. Even if he couldn’t touch you or do all the things he dreamed about, at least he had the comfort of seeing your smile and hearing your voice without it being a second-hand echo passing through the walls and vents.

“What on Earth?”

The older man pressed the button again, groaning and throwing his coat over the chair. He’d briefly returned to retrieve some documents when he noticed the security lock was back to manual use. The computer screen was black and unresponsive.

“Piece of junk. I’ll have to get it replaced,” he said, clicking his tongue.

From the neighboring apartment he could hear your merry laugh, followed by a muffled male voice. Maybe your boyfriend. Huh, who would’ve thought a loner like you would eventually find someone?

[gacorley]

There’s some common threads I see in the anti-voting posts going around, and I feel like I need to discuss some of them. Let’s start with the biggest one:

Voting to punish evil. I see lots of variations of this. Biden is supporting Israel, therefore we can’t vote for him. Is there any viable candidate who would stop the genocide? I don’t think the anti voting crowd actually cares. They are appealing to moral feelings rather than political strategy, because strategically, you have to realize that voting is not going to change foreign policy, and that change has to be pushed by other means. It’ll probably be something in the long haul.

Democrats should run someone else. First of all, this is a shit strategy. You don’t primary your president in the second term unless your party is falling apart. This may come from people from countries where replacing the head of government is easier, but the POTUS is the de facto party head. Also, going to the lack of thought to the goal — do you know someone willing to primary Biden and able to win who would do the things you want?

Biden hasn’t done anything anyway. This is just a way to bat away pro arguments. There’s plenty of lists of progress on lots of things. Student loans, insulin price caps, regulations, anti-trust.

Putting the entire Palestinian genocide on Biden. I’m not saying there’s not culpability there, but understand that the entire US government is in support of Israel, on both sides. It was a miracle we got a handful of Senators to call for investigations. We should cut off aid, absolutely. Who’s running to do that? And keep in mind that Israel chose to engage. US officials would have liked a more limited response, not out of care for Palestinians, but because they know from experience that it will come back to bite Israel in the form of newly radicalized Hamas recruits.

Liberals just have no hope for change. This is a new one. Just some idea that people are stuck in a rut and that’s the reason the two party system exists. The two party system is a mathematical consequence of the way we vote. There is reason to hope for change. The change, though, whatever means you choose, will take decades. Keep working at it. The hope is not that this election will fundamentally change things. The hope is that many small political actions over the years will push things forward.

Funnily enough, I haven’t seen a whole lot of third party promotion, just lots of this rhetoric aiming to punish. When voting, ask yourself:

Is this problem I have with this candidate something that the other candidate would be better on?

Are there other political actions I can take that will help?

What things can change with a different President or Congress, and what needs to be pursued by other means?

Withholding your vote as a punishment isn’t really going to help. Biden doesn’t know who you are or why you are not voting for him, and there is no one with a chance of winning that will do everything you want. But you have other means. Protest, organize, donate, build up alternatives, advocate for a different system.

Vote to give yourself space and get a little bit. Do other things to keep things moving.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Intoxication [S. R]

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

wc: 9.2k

Summary: when Spencer and reader accidentally consume aphrodisiacs, it seems impossible to maintain control of themselves. It all comes down to who will lose their mind first.

warnings: +18, mdni!! alcohol consumption, mentions of weed, unintentional use of aphrodisiacs, explicit descriptions, oral (f receiving) fingering, kissing, porn with plot, p in v, protected sex, no y/n!

It had been just over half an hour since I entered the fraternity building, fully aware that within the first second, I’d feel the need to leave. Attending any gathering wasn’t a regular thing for me. The noise, the crowds, and the multitude of germs everywhere were reason enough to avoid them.

However, that time, I thought, why not? I had never been to one of those university parties and wanted to experience it. However, I never considered the fact that, to enjoy one, you either: a) went with a group of friends or b) drank until you forgot your name and the discomfort you felt about yourself. I didn’t have the first option, nor did I want to do the second. So, after a few minutes of reflection, I decided I would walk back to my apartment and go straight to bed.

The place was huge, and since my postgraduate program didn’t include the benefit of dormitories, I rarely found myself in places like that. I was about to leave when a hand grabbed my forearm to stop me. In front of me, smiling widely, was her. The moment I saw her, I could swear my face lit up.

“Hi”

“Spencer! I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Without letting go of my arm, she came closer, wrapping me in a hug and planting a kiss on my cheek before I could react.

I quickly glanced at her, and in the dim light, I noticed her wearing a fitted, spaghetti-strap dress in a deep burgundy red with delicate floral embroidery that looked hand-drawn on the sheer fabric. The material, likely chiffon or tulle, clung to her figure as if custom-made. I tried to focus on her leather jacket instead because the last thing I wanted was to make her uncomfortable by staring too long.

“I was just about to leave, actually.”

“Why?” she asked, noticing my sigh.

“It’s just... I don’t know anyone here.”

“Well, that problem is now solved,” she kindly murmured.

I didn’t even get the chance to respond when she had already walked over to another girl, whispering something in her ear, probably to let her know she’d be away for a while.

Even though I wanted to decline to stay, the truth was that I genuinely enjoyed her company. Rejecting her would have been too rude. We had met some time ago thanks to the advanced classes she took, which overlapped with mine. She was younger than me, of course, but only by one or two years.

She had always been kind to me, attentive, and one could say she was a friend. After all, I trusted her enough to let her hold my hand and guide me through the crowd, despite my aversion to physical contact… and people.

“It’d be a crime to let you leave so early after finally coming to a party,” she breathed once we were both seated on a tiny couch where the noise was slightly muffled. At least she had been considerate in that regard.

“I don’t even know why I came,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. She was leaning against one side, legs crossed, looking at me with a smile. “I don’t like parties.”

“Do you like drinking?” she asked. I shook my head “Maybe that’s the root of the problem.”

“Getting drunk to the point of losing control isn’t my thing,” I replied.

“That’s not what it’s about,” she murmured almost compassionately “It’s more like… fuel for your social battery, you know? You don’t have to deal with these people. I don’t even know half of them, but the guys in this fraternity are disgustingly rich and just want to get as many girls drunk as possible to sleep with whoever they can. They won’t mind if you drink a little. Enough to have fun, but not so much you end up in some stranger’s bed.”

I thought about it for a second and silently nodded. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of her by saying I didn’t want to drink because, come on, what kind of university student doesn’t drink?

“I understand your point, and I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but alcohol has a more complex impact than it seems. It’s not just something that ‘fuels your social battery’; it’s a central nervous system depressant, which means it slows down brain and motor functions. That initial feeling of euphoria or relaxation happens because it inhibits the prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain that regulates judgment and self-awareness. So, technically, drinking a little might make you feel more uninhibited or confident, but it can also impair your ability to make rational decisions if you overdo it, even if you don’t notice right away.”

I paused, gauging how much more I should say before losing her interest. Hearing no objections, I continued:

“Additionally, strong liquors, which have high ethanol concentrations, can hit your system faster than diluted drinks. And if you drink too quickly, you could easily exceed your liver’s ability to metabolize the alcohol. The excess ethanol stays in your bloodstream, raising your blood alcohol levels and increasing the risk of intoxication.”

I avoided looking directly at her, partly because I didn’t want to get distracted by her gaze and partly because I was nervous around her.

“It’s not that I want to ruin your fun, but if you’re going to drink, you should do it slowly, alternating with water, and never on an empty stomach. Not to seem smarter than everyone else, but because staying in control can be the difference between a fun night and a situation you don’t want to be in.”

I expected her to look bored, confused, or even indifferent, assuming she’d left halfway through my rambling. But when I looked at her, I was surprised by the admiration shining in her eyes, accompanied by an amused smile.

“All right, genius boy, if you know all that and basically have the perfect recipe for not making stupid mistakes while drinking, why do you still refuse?” she teased playfully. I didn’t know what to say, but luckily, she answered for me “Listen, I drove here. How about we make a deal? We can drink a little, have a good time, maybe dance if you want, and if either of us starts doing something embarrassing, the soberest one will make sure to drag the other to the car and drive them home. Deal?”

She handed me her car keys, and I wasn’t sure if the brush of her hand against mine was intentional or if she had decided to linger a little longer.

I agreed to her proposal, and a second later, she was already off her seat, walking toward where I assumed the kitchen was. No one noticed us entering, too absorbed in their own business to care if we were strangers.

There was every type of alcohol scattered around, and she took the liberty of pouring me a shot of a clear liquid, which I guessed was vodka. She warned me to drink it in one gulp, and when the warmth hit my throat, I barely managed to avoid coughing. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.

“Tastes like… strawberry.”

“It’s good, right?” she laughed, giving my shoulder a playful nudge.

Our previous seat was already taken, so she opted for us to stand in a quiet corner. I have to admit that, although I still felt slightly awkward, the vodka was having the desired effect; making me feel more animated to talk.

Talking to her was almost hypnotic. Maybe it was the rhythmic movement of her lips, still stained with traces of what had once been red lipstick, or perhaps it was her tone, but it made me feel like I had to watch her. She never faltered when she spoke, always exuding confidence and calm, no matter the topic.

On the other hand, whenever I responded, I completely lost focus. No matter what I said, she kept looking at me with a wide smile, nodding, and even leaning closer when something made her laugh. But her laugh wasn’t mocking—no, it was as if she genuinely found my intellectual jokes or nonsensical remarks funny.

Gradually, my glass emptied, and she guided me back to the kitchen, serving us moderately but consistently. After an hour, all my nerves had vanished, leaving only a normal guy enjoying the terrible background music, unconcerned about how dirty the place was, and utterly captivated by the woman next to him.

“It’s strange, you know? I didn’t think I’d enjoy something like this. Parties always seemed so… chaotic,”

She looked around with a slight smile.

“That’s true. They’re not exactly calm, but in a way, the chaos has its charm. It lets you leave everything else behind for a while.”

“I suppose you’re right. Sometimes, you just need to disconnect.”

“You seem less tense now, huh? Are you sure it’s not the vodka helping with that?”

She moved closer, almost leaning against my chest in a friendly way, and seeing her looking up at me made my face feel hot.

“Maybe. But it’s also largely due to the company.”

She seemed surprised by my sudden boldness and let out a laugh that I interpreted as a sign of approval. We continued drinking, laughing, and soon my stomach demanded food. Even in my slightly tipsy state, I still remembered that eating would help lessen the effects of the alcohol.

I have to admit that the way I held her waist to guide her to the kitchen was entirely intentional. However, she didn’t seem bothered by the contact. By this point, I’d realized that no one really cared about what we took or didn’t take, so we felt free to rummage through the pantry.

“There are chips, pretzels, Cheetos, some cookies...” she began listing, handing me each package she found.

I grabbed a stray cookie, and suddenly, she let out a sigh of admiration.

“What is it?”

“Chocolate,” she murmured happily. It was a half-eaten, luxurious-looking golden package with no label “Do you want some?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Chocolate has properties that can slightly boost energy and mood. Both alcohol and chocolate can be hard for the body to handle, especially with a combination of high sugar and alcohol content. This can lead to stomach discomfort, dizziness, or a stronger hangover the next day.”

But she wasn’t listening. She had already popped a sizeable piece of chocolate into her mouth. Immediately, she offered me a piece, slightly bigger than hers.

“You have to try it,” she moaned.

I resisted, but I have to admit that the fact she grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer caught me off guard enough to let her slip the chocolate into my mouth.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later.”

It was delicious, that’s for sure. Like a pair of sneaky raccoons, we kept scavenging for snacks in the kitchen until we were satisfied. She grabbed a bag of chips, and I took the bag of pretzels.

After our little break, she poured us another round of drinks, and something inside me told me it was time to stop. I decided that would be my last glass for the night.

Let’s dance she suddenly whispered, and once again, I let her lead me toward the crowd.

I didn’t know how to dance; I think that was pretty obvious. But the situation managed to make me forget that fact.

She was patient with me and laughed every time I made a mistake. Even though there was smoke around me, probably from weed, that didn't stop me from staring intently, and even somewhat intimidated, at my friend. Beautiful, statuesque, and drunk friend.

We danced for a long time until something in her swaying movements, in the way she smiled at me, began to make my head spin. It was as if the atmosphere was charged with something more—something I couldn’t identify at first.

She leaned closer, and my pulse began to quicken slightly. Her hands rose to tangle in my neck, bringing a warm sensation that followed: my thoughts seemed clearer, sharper. I wondered if it was the alcohol, but then something different began to course through my skin.

The warmth intensified, not just in my body but in my mind as well. I felt more alert, more awake, yet the calmness of the vodka lingered, balancing the sensation. My skin felt more sensitive, as if every little touch sent vibrations through me in a more intense way.

My eyes focused more on her movements, her voice, and the way the air filled with her perfume. I wanted to get closer, as if there were an invisible force pulling me toward her. And though my body responded with a soft yearning, my mind remained present, conscious of every second.

By the way she was looking at me, I imagined I wasn’t the only one experiencing these kinds of emotions.

“Sweetheart.”

“Hmm?”

“Can we sit down for a moment? I’m completely sweaty, and the smell of weed is starting to bother me.”

“Of course.”

My hands rested on her waist, unsure of where else to go, and we stumbled out of the crowd, finding a couch to collapse onto.

I was sweaty too, and we were both breathing heavily. When I saw her lean her head back against the seat, leaving her neck exposed, something stirred inside me.

“You move well, Reid.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I mean it. You just need a little confidence,” she smiled. Perhaps the alcohol dulled her sense of personal space, which is why she leaned so close to me. “You’re so smart that, with a bit of practice, you’d be the most skilled at a lot of physical activities.”

Did she know how nervous she was making me? My face was already flushed from the alcohol, the effort, and now from the way she was looking at me while twirling a strand of her hair around her finger.

I wanted to say something else, but a voice interrupted mine: a tall, burly guy accompanied by two others who seemed to be flanking him. Probably a member of the fraternity hosting the party.

He specifically addressed her, asking how she was enjoying the party and throwing in a compliment, clearly with ulterior motives. For a moment, I felt disheartened. Of course, she could have gone with him and I would have understood. I was far too used to rejection.

“I’m having a great time—with my friend. Thanks,” she exclaimed, cordial but curt.

“Want a drink?”

“Honestly, no.”

By the uncomfortable smile she gave the men, I assumed she was politely ending the conversation. With some reluctance, the guys walked away.

Suddenly, my breath caught when I felt her hand rest on my thigh, sliding painfully slowly down to my knee. I couldn’t even hear her words over the heat of her fingers on my pants.

“Sorry?”

“I thought you were going to say something, earlier.”

“No,” I quickly replied, smiling like an idiot because of the way she had leaned toward me. “Nothing.”

“I like listening to you. You know so many things, and you don’t make me feel dumb when you explain them. That’s very sexy.”

“Sexy?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, because I’d replied in a voice an octave higher than normal. “You are very sexy.”

Her compliment was followed by a soft, distracted kiss on the line of my jaw, which sent my brain into overdrive.

“Uhm… you… you’re beautiful. Very beautiful.”

My clumsy compliment seemed to please her, and I felt one of her nails, long and painted black, tracing circles on the skin of my knee. Each small movement felt deliberate, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Did you know fireflies don’t just glow to communicate but also to… attract?”

Her voice broke the silence between us, soft but layered with a double meaning that made me lift my eyes to her.

“Yes, I know,” I responded automatically, my brain switching to autopilot. “Bioluminescent signals are a form of courtship. The light patterns vary by species and can be very specific.”

She turned her head toward me, her lips curving into a lazy smile.

“Of course you’d know that. But tell me something—do you think it actually works? Making someone notice you just by glowing?”

My throat went dry. There was something about the way she was looking at me, like she was expecting a more personal answer than a scientific one.

“I guess it depends on who you’re trying to attract,” I murmured, feeling ridiculously exposed under her gaze.

“That makes sense.”

Her hand slid slightly—barely noticeable—toward the edge of my knee. After tapping her fingers on my pants, she withdrew it.

She didn’t move from the couch, and neither did I. There was something about her posture that held me captive—the way she leaned back against the seat, relaxed yet naturally elegant. Her dress had ridden up slightly along her thighs, revealing more skin than I felt prepared to handle at that moment. I tried to look elsewhere, but it was as if my eyes had a will of their own, always returning to the same place.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a hint of amusement.

“Yes, of course,” I replied quickly, turning my head in the other direction. Perhaps too quickly, because my neck cracked slightly in the process.

She didn’t say anything, but her suppressed laughter made me feel even more awkward. In the silence that followed, I forced myself to focus on something safer: the empty glass on the table, the flickering lights through the window, anything but the curve of her leg or the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” she commented suddenly, with almost theatrical casualness. Then, without warning, she leaned forward as if to adjust her shoe, causing the neckline of her dress to dip even further.

“Do you think so?” I muttered, my voice raspier than I intended.

She smiled, a gesture somewhere between innocence and knowing.

“Yes, definitely. Though maybe it’s because we’re sitting so close,” she said, glancing around as if she had only just noticed the temperature.

Her words felt like both a slap and a caress at the same time. I tried to keep my gaze fixed on her face, but it didn’t help that her eyes shone with a kind of mischievous intent. Then she lifted one leg, bending it to get more comfortable on the couch, and her knee accidentally brushed against my thigh.

“Did you know you have a very particular way of distracting yourself?” she remarked while toying with the hem of her dress, as if unaware of the chaos she was causing in my head.

“Do I?” my voice sounded weak, almost a whisper.

She nodded slowly, leaning in a bit closer until I could feel the warmth of her proximity.

“Yes. It’s like you’re trying to avoid something but… you can’t.”

My throat went dry. I wanted to say something clever, to steer the conversation away, anything to regain some ground. But instead, all that came out was a nervous, forced laugh.

She didn’t stop looking at me. Then, with exasperating slowness, she smoothed the fabric of her dress over her thigh—a casual gesture.

“You know, sometimes you seem so self-aware. It’s something that can be endearing, but also… well, how do I put it?” she paused for a moment, bringing a finger to her lips as if she were reflecting. “It makes you seem easier to impress.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing, Reid. It’s just me rambling” her voice softened, and I felt the lightest touch on my nose as her finger grazed it. I tried to ignore the fact that her gaze had lingered on my lips “Scattered thoughts I have in my head.”

Without warning, she let out a loud exhale and leaned back into the couch, arching her back as if trying to relieve some muscle tension. I know she probably wasn’t aware of the movement, but it was what finally made me lose the little composure I had left.

“I need to use the restroom. Can you give me a moment?”

I escaped. Cowardly, completely, I got up and practically bolted toward the bathroom, desperate for a moment of peace. As soon as I entered, I realized I had an obvious problem in my pants—I was hard as a rock, and that wasn’t good. I looked at myself in the mirror, surprised at how flushed my face was. My pupils were dilated, my lips dry… What the hell was happening to me?

It quickly became clear that she was the reason for my situation.

The alcohol prevented me from feeling the embarrassment I surely deserved, and instead, I felt like my head was spinning. I placed a hand over the fabric of my pants, letting out a frustrated, pained groan.

I stayed there for a while, trying to think of something that would make my erection go away, but nothing worked. A couple of knocks on the door startled me, and that forced me to leave. Once in the hallway, I walked for a bit until I bumped into someone.

“Spencer! I’ve been looking for you. Are you okay?”

“No! I mean, yes… it’s just…”

I needed to think of something quickly—something believable, but not catastrophic. However, it was hard to concentrate with her body so close to mine, mere inches away from her noticing my situation.

“Did you throw up?”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s nothing. I think the vodka didn’t sit well with me, uh, maybe I got dizzy from dancing, I don’t know. I think it’s best if I leave.”

“Poor thing,” she murmured, pouting “I’ll take you home right now.”

“I can take a cab.”

“Nonsense. That was our agreement, remember? If one of us was in bad shape, the other would take care of them. Plus, I was the one who encouraged you to drink. I’d feel bad if something happened to you.”

She was already putting on her jacket—she’d been holding it, probably suspecting the situation—and tried to find the keys in her pocket. My outstretched hand reminded her that she’d already given them to me earlier.

When she placed her hand on the small of my back to guide me out, my breathing deepened. The sensation of excitement coursed through me in a way I couldn’t ignore. I realized that something in me desperately wanted her. Too much.

It wasn’t an impulsive desire but a subtle one that had been building throughout the night—with every glance, every gesture. Perhaps the vodka had intensified my evident attraction to her, but whatever the reason, it had turned into something far more palpable.

It was almost as if my body was begging me to stop her right then and there, to kiss her recklessly, and maybe, just maybe, ease the relentless ache inside me.

The cool night air made me feel better, and as the noise faded behind us, I began to calm down. I fervently tried to hide the bulge in my pants, but the truth was she didn’t even seem to notice. Then again, it would’ve been strange to catch her staring at my crotch, right?

“Are you sure you’re in a condition to drive?”

“I’ve driven home in far worse states of drunkenness. Don’t worry,” she smiled.

She looked more lucid now, as if her intoxication had vanished in an instant. I decided to trust her abilities.

The drive home was silent, and I kept shifting in my seat, trying to find strategic positions to avoid embarrassment. I guess she attributed my silence to the supposed discomfort I was feeling, as she didn’t try to start a conversation.

She didn’t say anything when she caught me looking at her through the rearview mirror. It was an innocent glance, at least on my part, simply admiring her. Her lips were driving me crazy, her eyes, slightly narrowed from the lack of light and smudged with mascara, seemed the most beautiful to me. I didn’t know what she saw in me, but I think—no, I feel—that it was something she liked.

“Thank you so much for bringing me home… and for everything.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Quite a lot, actually.”

“We should do this more often.”

“Go to university parties?”

“Just go out in general. To a bar, grab some drinks, a coffee, the library if you’d prefer,” she laughed “The place doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re there.”

Was she implying she wanted a date with me? I swallowed hard and looked at her, trying to decipher what she wanted me to do. I couldn’t figure it out.

“I’d like that, yes. We can talk about that later. Thanks again for the ride.”

A kiss on my cheek marked her goodbye, and I rushed out, eager to get inside my apartment. I was about to unlock the building’s door when the sound of a car horn made me turn around.

“Hey, would you mind if I use your bathroom? I’ll be quick,” she promised.

I needed to get to the shower and turn on the cold water, but I didn’t protest when she turned off the car engine.

Almost no one visited me in the apartment, so I kept the space however I pleased. It wasn’t really messy, but there were plenty of things on the desk and several books scattered around.

She entered, as she had said, rushing to the bathroom. It was only then that I dared to put a hand over my pants, swallowing a moan that was about to escape from my throat.

In my limited sexual experiences, nothing like this had ever happened to me, and I wondered what the cause might have been. Alcohol couldn’t be blamed, of course, but it was responsible for ruining my ability to react enough to find another explanation.

The shirt began to feel heavy on me, and almost out of necessity, I undid the first buttons to let myself breathe. I tried to ventilate my skin by tugging at the fabric with the tips of my fingers, but it was useless. I sighed.

I glanced around the room, just wanting to make sure nothing was embarrassing in view, and at that moment, she came out of the bathroom. She looked flushed and had some wet hair, as if she had washed her face.

“You okay?”

“Yes, just… suddenly felt a bit feverish”

“Let me check”

My intentions were purely medical when I cupped her face with one hand, putting the back of the other against her forehead to confirm or deny my suspicions. Of course, I hadn’t considered how close we would be. Or maybe I had, subconsciously, and that’s why I moved forward.

My choice of words wasn't the best either.

“You’re hot,”

“I don’t think it’s as much as you.”

A daring smile slid across her lips, and I held my breath as her fingers traced up to the line of my collarbone, exposed by my shirt.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“It’s just… I don’t understand it.”

A soft laugh echoed in my ears.

“Well, I think you’re very handsome. Would there be any other reason for that?”

I swallowed deeply. She noticed the movement of my Adam’s apple.

“No… I think… I think not. It’s the most logical thing.”

“Don’t they tell you that often?” she murmured, genuinely confused. I shook my head “That’s a shame.”

Her hand, which had been tentatively caressing my skin, moved up to my neck and pulled me just a few inches closer to her.

“Hey, Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“Could I kiss you?”

A chill ran down my spine. And without thinking, I answered yes.

Her mouth found mine with a softness that contrasted with the whirlwind of sensations inside me. It was a heady contrast: the sweetness of her lips against the intensity of the desire that had been building up in every fiber of my being.

My hands instinctively moved to her waist, hesitating for a moment, as if fearing that this might just be a product of my imagination. But she didn’t hesitate. Her body leaned into me, closing any distance that remained.

Her lips were insistent, demanding, and before I could process what was happening, her hand slid down to my chest, pushing me gently back until my back collided with the wall.

“I’m sorry…” I managed to murmur between kisses, pulling my face slightly away. My voice came out more trembly than I wanted.

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her face toward mine, her fingers now brushing my jawline.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“For this” my gaze dropped quickly before returning to her eyes. “No… I didn’t want you to feel it. It’s embarrassing.”

For a moment, I thought she would pull away, that the spell of the moment would break. But instead, her lips curved into a mischievous smile.

“Embarrassing? I thought I was the only one feeling all this tension,” her tone was low, almost a whisper, but filled with a certainty that made my breath grow even more erratic.

Before I could respond, her lips captured mine again, this time with more intensity. The kiss was everything I didn’t know I needed: desperate, intoxicating, completely consumed by the connection between us. I felt her body press against mine, her curves fitting perfectly as if they were made to be there. And then, all my doubts, all my attempts to hold back, vanished.

My mind was a whirlwind. Every touch of her lips, every time her tongue sought mine, was like a fire I couldn’t put out. My face was hot, yes, but now not because of the alcohol, not even from the effort of holding myself back. It was her closeness, her touch, her condescending voice still echoing in my head.

She knows what she’s doing. And she’s slowly killing me.

“Hey, wait…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you feel okay with this?”

“A lot. Do you want to stop?”

“No. It’s just that… you’ve been drinking. I don’t want you to think I took advantage of you” my voice came out hoarse, full of doubt and repressed desire.

Her eyes met mine, firm and warm at the same time, as if her gaze could completely disarm me.

“Relax. You’ve been drinking too, pretty, and I think if anyone could make that accusation, it would be you. Do you feel like I’m taking advantage of you?”

“No”

“I’m fully aware of everything. I don’t even feel drunk anymore. The only thing that’s making me dizzy right now is you, Spencer…”

I shivered when I heard my name on her lips like that. She continued:

“I’m just as anxious as you are. I’ve been holding back all night, trying not to make this too obvious, but I can’t anymore. Please, don’t doubt me. Don’t doubt what I want. I want you”

Her confession hit my heart like a blow and ignited a spark that set my entire body on fire. My hand moved up her back until it tangled in her hair, while the other rested on her hip. The pull was gentle but enough for her to understand that my inner struggle had ended. I wasn’t resisting this anymore.

I wanted her too. I wanted her now.

“I never imagined…”

My words were barely audible as our lips brushed in a kiss that was both an explosion of emotions and a long-awaited relief. Her mouth was soft, and so perfectly synchronized with mine that I felt like the world stopped at that moment.

Her hands gripped my shoulders, anchoring the connection between us, while my thumb traced a slow path along her jawline, savoring every detail of her skin. It was more than a kiss. It was the confirmation of something that had been lingering all evening.

When we parted just a centimeter to breathe, our foreheads stayed pressed together.

“Did that clear your doubts?”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say all that,” I replied with a weak smile, the only one my pounding heart allowed me to form.

“Then stop overthinking”

The space between us disappeared again as we kissed with desperation we had both been suppressing. Her low laugh vibrated against my lips, and I couldn’t help but smile. How did she do it? How did she drive me crazy with so little effort?

But now wasn’t the time for questions. It was time to feel.

The whole world had reduced itself to him: his warm breath, his lips that wavered between soft and desperate, and the hands that roamed my waist with a mix of reverence and clumsiness, making me want him even more. Spencer had always been an enigma to me, a balance between restraint and passion that I didn't know how to decipher... until now.

I had waited for this moment more than I would ever admit. Maybe it had been the way he looked at me when he thought I didn't notice, or the warmth in his voice when he said my name, as if it were something sacred. But now, with his body pressed against mine and his doubts finally gone, I knew I hadn't imagined anything.

It was as if the pieces of a puzzle I had been trying to put together in the dark finally clicked into place, and the resulting image was more beautiful than I had ever dreamed.

Wanting to reverse the roles, it was now him who gently pushed me against the wall, and I felt the control he always seemed to have begin to crack. His breath was heavy, his body trembling slightly, a sign that this was as new and overwhelming for him as it was for me.

"Spencer..." I murmured his name again, feeling it resonate in my chest at the same time his lips moved more intensely against mine. "Can I ask you something?"

I received an affirmative exhalation, and to let me speak, his lips moved to the hollow of my neck. Although my mouth was free, the soft and wet kisses I was receiving blurred my judgment a bit.

"Tell me”

"Did you really feel bad at the party? Or was it just..."

"I didn't want you to notice what you were doing to me. Although I think at this point it doesn't matter much, right?"

Contrary to what I expected, Spencer pushed his hips against mine, as if he wanted to prove that it was true. I could even call it a claim, something that said: look what you did to me. And I wanted him to know just how much my body was begging for him.

Carefully, I moved one of his hands from my waist, and before he could protest, I guided it to one of my thighs, dangerously close to my core. I was glad I had thought of lingerie as a great complement to my dress, maybe in an attempt to feel sexy even if no one saw it. But now, he was going to see it.

Spencer understood my silent request. Those long, slender fingers, which seemed made for more than just flipping through the pages of a book or scribbling frantic notes on paper, slid across my smooth skin. I sighed as I remembered the veins tracing a map under his fair skin, like rivers of contained energy.

Until they finally reached where I needed them. And his touch... God, his touch was something else. They were hands made for discovery, for holding, for exploring, but in those moments, they seemed to be made only for me.

Spencer wasn't an overly bold guy, so it didn't surprise me that he just traced shapes above my panties, as if he wanted to diagnose my anatomy before making any move. My sighs at his ear seemed to please him.

Suddenly, he stopped kissing me, and I huffed, since I liked the attention he was giving my shoulder, until I felt his lips drop just slightly. A loud, pathetic moan escaped me when he squeezed my tits while burying his face to leave an experimental kiss.

I was barely processing that when he knelt in front of me and, carefully, took the edge of my dress and lifted it.

My legs trembled with anticipation at the thought of what he was going to do next, and then I felt his lips brush my thigh. He started gentle, kind, but soon he began sucking every bit of skin he could, and in the end, he made sure to leave bites strong enough to make me whimper.

Who would have thought that this man, seemingly so inexperienced, turned out to offer the best foreplay a woman could desire?

I squealed as I felt his kisses trail down to the fabric of my panties, pausing for a moment to lick the length of my still-clothed pussy.

“You’re dripping wet,” he observed. I was too focused on not giving in right then and there to say anything "Is oral something you're into?"

“I don’t know,” I exclaimed honestly. I didn’t care how vulnerable I looked as I confessed that no man had ever dared to give me head “You?”

“It’s an idea that piques my curiosity, yes.”

Gently he slid some of the fabric aside to clear the way for his tongue, and I felt as if my entire body was only aware of the parts he was probing, kissing, sucking. When he raised my thigh to shoulder height, deepening his thrusts, I felt like I was going to pass out.

I lowered my hand to his thick head and tried, in vain, to push him away from me. I honestly didn’t have the strength or desire to do so, much less when he had picked up the pace.

I moaned a sweet nickname out loud and then Spencer pulled away, looking up at me with glossy, swollen lips.

“Take me to bed, please.”

He didn’t need me to say it twice as he immediately stood up and took me by the waist to guide me to said spot. I was able to taste myself on his lips and for some reason that only turned me on.

Once we hit the mattress the way he laid me down was gentle and I sighed at that. How could he be so sweet all the time? I wondered. And worse yet, how much would this little adventure affect my future expectations?

Because if it was about standards, I was finding out that Spencer Reid was the standard.

Seemingly more enthralled now by my lips than my pussy, he continued with the make-out session we were having. With each touch we had, my excitement was increasing more and more. In the midst of it all I managed to unbutton his shirt and take it off to leave it somewhere on the bed; the semi-darkness of the room shielded any insecurities he might be feeling, as well as my own.

“You are painfully stunning, did you know?”

My tone was one of reproach, and he laughed at that, looking down almost embarrassed. Maybe he wasn't used to compliments, but something told me he was definitely enjoying it.

I heard him murmur something under his breath about me, while he took down the straps of my dress. My hands almost instinctively went to unbuckle his belt, and before I could do anything, he pulled away from me. Needless to say, this left me confused.

"Sorry, I..."

“You don't want to?” I murmured understandingly. I thought maybe he wasn't a big fan of these situations, and I understood, but somehow I felt hurt.

"No! Sure I want to. I want it a lot, but..." he tried not to look at me, as if avoiding confrontation "It's just that I don't have any protection here”

A laugh escaped my lips, and I feared he might interpret it as mockery, so I stretched my neck to steal another kiss.

"One would think there are many girls who pass through these sheets."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you. It's cute, actually. It even makes me feel guilty," I murmured, smiling "For a second, I was afraid something had made you uncomfortable."

"No, it's not that."

I hesitated for a second whether I should suggest what was on my mind.

"We could do it like this. It doesn't bother me."

"It's not just about avoiding an unwanted pregnancy..." he began. At that moment, I saw him return to his usual nerdy mode. "Although, of course, that counts. But there are things like sexually transmitted infections, some of which don't even show symptoms at first and could complicate things if not detected on time. I know this doesn't sound very attractive, but believe me, protection isn't just for avoiding future problems; it's also to take care of you now, so you don't have issues later: because sometimes men can transmit diseases we're asymptomatic for, and to be honest, I've never done those kinds of tests. A lot of people don't think about it, but the risks are real. And don't get me wrong, I trust you, but even though you trust me, diseases don't discriminate. And I'd like us both to have that peace of mind. Prevention is never too much."

“You conflict me deeply. On the one hand, I admire how responsible you are; it's very cute. But on the other hand, I just urgently need you to fuck me deep and cum inside me”

Spencer was surprised by my desperate whining and tensed when I placed one of my legs around his waist, trying to persuade him. But I was even more surprised when I felt him pull completely away to stand beside the bed.

"Where are you going?"

"To the pharmacy," he announced, putting a jacket over his bare torso.

"Are you serious?" I laughed widely, sitting on the bed now that my companion had moved away.

"Definitely. I feel like I can't handle it any longer, it’s physically painful, and when you talk to me like that, it just drives me crazy” he groaned, joining in the fun. It was the first time something like this happened, and I honestly thought it was absolutely hilarious “I'll be back in a minute, I swear! Please, don't go...”

"I couldn't," I murmured sweetly. He came closer, and I took the opportunity to kiss him again "Be quick. I'll be waiting anxiously for you."

Something in my tone of voice affected the man, or maybe it was the wink I gave him, but I saw him bolt out the door. I flopped back onto the bed, taking a moment to digest what was happening.

I have to admit that my classmate had always been attractive to me, but I never thought he could feel the same way. Not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would be waiting for him in his bed so that, with any luck, he could ravish me without holding back.

As I reached out my arms, I could feel the fabric of the shirt I had previously removed from him, and then I brought it up to my nose, inhaling without thinking. A familiar scent hit me immediately: the mix of sweet cocktails he had drank during the party and a subtle trace of cannabis, as if the night was still impregnated in him. I could distinguish a hint of wood, perhaps from the furniture in the place, combined with a light scent of sweat that was not bothersome, but rather natural. And then, among all that, there was his perfume: a citrus and spicy aroma that evoked something fresh, but also deep, sensual, as if every molecule of his being was waiting for something more. I breathed harder, feeling that this aroma, this moment, defined him.

I didn't know why that particular night my whole body was screaming for his closeness. I was crazy about him and it wasn't the alcohol's fault, because I'd had too many drinks to know. Neither of us had ever done drugs and for a moment I was terrified by the idea that I could want to be with someone like that, with such fervor that it was worrying.

Still dizzy from the excitement of the moment, I lowered one of my hands to my crotch to get rid of my panties. I thought about him, wondering how skilled he was. Not that I doubted his abilities, but just like I’d told him that night, he might need some practice.

I started to fantasize about helping him through this situation, maybe guiding him or pampering him by just asking him to lay back so I could do all the work. Spencer was the kind of man who invited you to please him, the kind of man you wanted to satisfy because he never pressured you into it.

Playing with myself, I sniffed his shirt again, desperately wishing I could have the source of said scent with me, until my brain was filled only with daydreams in which he was the protagonist and my fingers were replaced by his. That's why I didn't notice when he opened the apartment. And that's why I didn't know he was watching me from the door frame until I heard him let out a ragged sigh.

Being caught in that position made me feel embarrassed at first, but the way he practically lunged at me and kissed me more decisively than before, I figured he liked seeing me like that.

"Busy?"

I was caught off guard by his sassiness and I knew he was proud of it by the smile I felt on my neck.

“I guess you found what we need, right?”

“Uh-huh”

“Have you read any books on female anatomy?”

“Quite a few”

“So I guess you know a lot about sexuality, don’t you?”

“In theory, yes. Unfortunately, I haven’t had many opportunities to put it into practice.”

A smile spread across my face, which luckily he couldn't see because he was too busy leaving a trail of kisses along the top of my torso.

“How unfortunate, considering you’re a scientist. I wouldn’t mind becoming an object of your study, though, you know?”

He subtly slid the straps of my dress and revealed my bra, from which a considerable part of my boobs protruded, which he happily kissed.

At the same time his hand came down to caress me, making me shiver with anticipation, resting on just the right spots. It was the least I could expect from such an intellectual man, one who definitely knew about the thousands of nerve endings concentrated in my clitoris, which he was definitely tapping into to satisfy me.

“May I?” he whispered, looking at the little underwear he still had on.

I nodded immediately and arched my back to make it easier for him to unbutton it, which didn't take too long. He was practically worshipping every inch of my skin, which, combined with his gentle yet firm fingers rubbing me, was driving me crazy.

We both moaned in unison as he pushed a finger into me. It felt just as good as I had imagined.

I had read somewhere that, physiologically, women need more time to achieve an orgasm and although none of my exes had cared about that, this one seemed to know that fact. Maybe that was why he was giving me such attention, which I was undoubtedly grateful for.

“Honey…” I choked out “you’re doing great, really, really good, but would you mind if we replaced those fingers? I want to feel you inside me,” I practically begged.

I never begged, I felt like a fool doing it, but if that got me the intensity of the kiss he gave me, I wouldn't mind starting to do it.

Spencer pulled away from me, searching for the packet of condoms he'd run off to get, and while he unbuttoned his pants I got rid of my dress, which by this point was just a mass of fabric around my waist.

My body wasn't perfect, but I figured that wouldn't matter to him. Besides, I doubt he'd be rude enough to mention it.

“Need a hand?” I joked playfully, noticing that he was struggling to open the silver package.

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous,” he said to himself, hoping I wouldn’t mind too much.

I wanted to reward him for treating me so well a few moments ago and I took the package from his hands, placing my palm on his chest until I laid him down against the mattress. Once in that position it wasn't difficult to get rid of the wrapping to place the piece of latex on him, thinking that I didn't have a single complaint about his body.

My hands on him made him nervous and I watched him turn into a mess as I began pumping his cock up and down to make sure he had the condom on properly.

“You don’t have to hold back. I like the sounds you make,” I exclaimed in a velvety tone, trying to sound as genuine as possible “That way I know you’re enjoying it.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to hold out for much longer,” he confessed, as my hand continued to move along his length. Although I wished I could take better care of him, I understood the situation.

“Your wish is my command”

He didn't complain when I put each leg on his sides and he bravely hardened as I teased him for a moment before sinking my pussy onto his dick. I started slow, trying to make him last as long as possible, but with each second it was getting harder to keep up a pace.

I tried my best to ride him, trying to give him the best experience as a thank you for all his hospitality. And from the whimpers coming out of his throat I assume I was doing my job well.

At some point his hands ended up on my hips, guiding me as he pleased. Sometimes he pushed me down, as if he wanted to get to the bottom of me, and other times he manipulated me so that the thrusts were fast.

He wasn't lying when he said he would cum in no time, as the repressed desire added to the previous sexual actions had him on the edge of the abyss. I knew he had reached orgasm when he closed his eyes and his hips slammed against me, in erratic movements.

I kept riding him a little longer, chasing my own climax, and when I got it I put my hands against his chest, arching in pleasure. Spencer, breathing heavily, grabbed my wrists in his hands and then pulled me so that I was against his torso, my lips too close to his.

He placed his palm on my cheek and pulled me in his direction, seemingly asking for a kiss. I granted it.

“Are you satisfied?”

“I am,” I sighed wryly. It was cute that he didn’t know that sometimes girls don’t even make it. “How was it for you?”

“I'm speechless.”

I laughed and, to a certain extent, felt flattered that I had left a man who knew a million ways to express himself in that state.

We enjoyed the high we had just had for a few minutes and waited for our breathing to slow down; when our sighs took the same rhythm, he spoke again.

“You should go to the bathroom. It’s, uh… healthy for you to do it after every encounter.”

I reached for the garment he had been wearing and, trying to protect myself from the cold air, I put it on over myself.

“Do you mind lending it to me?”

“Nu-huh,” he hummed, eyeing me as if I were a cupcake. I would later learn how affected he was to see me using his clothes to slide out of bed.

When I came out of the bathroom he already had his boxers on, probably wanting to maintain modesty, and when he went to attend to his needs I also looked for my panties. It wasn't long before he returned to keep me company.

“Do you want to cuddle? I’d feel like a whore if I just left”

“Yes, of course I want”

He made sure to throw anything that was on the bed onto the floor and patted the pillows to make them more comfortable. I settled into the space next to him, leaning against his chest, right at heart level.

One of his arms was holding me from behind and in some strange way that made me feel safe; protected.

“Your feet are frozen, are you cold?”

"Not much"

“Do you want me to get you some socks?”

“I’m fine, Spencer,” I laughed softly. I brushed my cheek against his skin and tried to snuggle closer to him. “It’ll just get colder if you leave.”

“Did you know that the human body is incredibly efficient at maintaining its temperature? When two bodies are nearby, like… now,” he paused, settling a little closer to me, “heat transfer occurs due to thermal radiation and direct conduction. Essentially, each body generates heat that helps the other maintain a stable core temperature.”

“So you’re like a human blanket”

“That’s right. In fact, in situations of severe hypothermia, sharing body heat in this way can literally save lives.”

I raised my head to look at him and noticed an excited gleam in his eyes, the one he always had when he shared something from his vast knowledge.

“I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what you said earlier, about female anatomy,” seeing him frown, I continued, “No field of study considers one experimentation enough, right? Everything needs to be replicated two, three, four times. Ten times if necessary.”

“Your guess is quite accurate.”

“Say no more. We must give everything if it is in the name of science”

From the smile on his face, I knew that my joke had pleased him and that my proposal seemed to please him. To seal the deal I reached up and kissed him softly. We remained silent for a while, him caressing me over his own shirt and me enjoying the closeness.

“I like you a lot”

“I had a feeling,” I teased, earning a soft laugh from him “I really like you, too."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and for some stupid reason a blush crept up my cheeks, even though we had just had sex. I carefully placed myself on top of his body and buried my face in his neck, feeling him hug me around the waist.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep, I could tell by how calm his breathing was becoming, and I tried to enjoy the peace he emanated a little longer, until, eventually, Morpheus picked me up in his arms too.

@spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack @shuichiakainx @gghostwriter @cafters @weallhaveadestiny @your-left-sock @jaeminsmilk @tmrs-basilisk @kristennotstewart @lostinwonderland314 @f4tpo3s @lortheswiftie @dark-unicorn222 @samsienichole @blackholegladiator @gretaandthatsit @cherrysprlte @halfbloodwriter @piercethefic @reidingandallthat @ariel-23-19 @zorrasucia @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @juluina @kylakins88 @tinainaction @sadroses98 @dumbbunnys-safes @bowerfeithwk @freyafriggafrey

Thank you very much for your interest! I hope you liked it, if you feel like it, let me know what you think :)

[cloakedpress]

How to Write Better Characters: Roles, Motivation & Actually Making People Care

Let’s be real: your story can have the coolest magic system, the twistiness of the plot, or the hottest vampire/detective/alien—  

but if your characters are flat?  

Nobody’s sticking around.

So let’s break down how to give your characters real presence in your story by understanding their role, their motivation, and how to make them hit harder on the page.

1. What’s Their Role in the Story?

Every character needs a *reason to exist*. Think of them like parts in a machine. What do they *do* in your narrative?

Here are a few basic types:

- Protagonist: The one we’re rooting for. They drive the plot forward.

- Antagonist: The one in their way. Doesn’t have to be evil—just opposed.

- Foil: Someone who reflects the main character’s traits by contrast.

- Mentor: Offers wisdom, often with a tragic backstory or dramatic exit.

- Love Interest: Romantic tension? Check. But make sure they’re *more* than just eye candy.

- Wildcard: Unpredictable chaos gremlin. Every story needs one.

TIP: If you can remove a character without changing the plot? You probably should.

2. What Do They Want? (AKA Motivation)

This is the *core* of your character. Motivation makes everything feel real. Ask yourself:

- What does this character want more than anything?

- Why do they want it?

- What are they willing to do (or give up) to get it?

Bonus points if their motivation is in conflict with someone else’s. That’s where the juicy drama lives.

Ex: “She wants to save her sister. He wants to save the world. One bomb. One choice.”    Now we’re COOKING.

3. How Do You Show It?

Motivation isn’t just monologues and dramatic speeches. It’s in:

- What they *notice* first in a room.

- Who they *trust* (or don’t).

- The mistakes they keep repeating.

- The lies they tell *themselves*.

A character who’s obsessed with control might organize their bag mid-crisis.  

A character desperate to be loved might make themselves useful to everyone… even villains.

4. Let Them Be Messy

Perfect characters are boring.  

Give them contradictions. Regrets. Bad coping mechanisms. Let them be *wrong*. Let them grow.

Characters who never fail or change = characters nobody relates to.

Let your soft boys punch someone. Let your bad girls cry. Let your villains have a point.

5. Ask Yourself the Hard Stuff

- What would break this character?

- What line won’t they cross?

- Who are they when no one’s watching?

If you can answer these? You *know* your character.

6. Level Up: Relationships Matter

Characters don’t exist in a vacuum. Use dynamics to reveal depth:

- A character might be brave in a fight but terrified of disappointing their mentor.

- A flirty rogue might go speechless around the person they actually care about.

- A villain’s cruelty might soften around their childhood friend.

People are different with different people. Show it.

 TL;DR:  

Great characters = clear role + deep motivation + real emotion. 

Make them want things. Make them struggle. Make them human (even if they’re a dragon princess from space).

Want help building a specific character? Drop their name + vibe in my ask box. Let’s break them open together.

[joelslastofus]

[SUMMARY: Tess is jealous with how protective Joel is over you.]

“If me watching out for her is such a problem then maybe you don’t need to be around me anymore”

Angst smut

It was late in the evening as you sat in your room reminiscing the unexpected night you had with Joel. It wasn’t something you planned, hell, you didn’t even know he felt the same way. He worked with Tess a lot and you assumed they were together but Joel had told you it was the past. A complicated past he didn’t care to explain.

Nothing had happened with Joel before that night but you did feel a closeness with him, one that Tess made known she didn’t like. It was obvious he cared for you but his mind too distracted, nothing had ever come from it. Through it all, he constantly occupied himself with making sure you were ok. Tess couldn’t stand whenever he did anything that involved you, her jealousy was loud even with a simple look. You knew it was best to simply keep your distance from her.

He never liked the fact that you happened to live on a floor in his building where all the drunks would hang out. Every night he walked you to your door and made sure you were safe inside before walking off, but that night it was different. Joel noticed one of the guys staring at your door after he walked away, he watched from the stairway as one of the men walked up to it, silently placing his ear against it. Joel took a step closer not taking his eyes off him before he noticed his hand was on the doorknob and that’s when you heard Joel’s voice.

“What the hell are you doin’” the man quickly backed away not knowing he was being watched.

“Nothing man, just checking to see if that girl is ok, that’s all” you opened the door to find Joel staring down the drunk man a few feet away from you.

“Joel?”

“Get back inside” he spoke without looking back at you.

“What’s going on?”

The drunk man slowly walked away allowing Joel to turn to you.

“What happened-“

“I don’t like you on this floor” he responded roughly, he wiggled your door handle noticing how weak it was.

“He could’ve easily got inside.”

“What?”

“Maybe it’s best you come downstairs with me” his suggestion taking you by surprise.

“What? Joel, I’m fine here-“

“No you ain’t” For the first time his eyes were on yours, his tone colder than he meant it to be.

“I’m not going to stay with you and Tess, she doesn’t even like me-“

“This ain’t about Tess,” he snapped back.

“I’m not gonna have somethin’ happen to you up here when you could’ve been stayin’ with me all along. Just grab some stuff and let’s go”

“But-“

“Let’s go” he spoke sternly as he focused on all the drunk men around.

“Okay, okay” you whispered quickly grabbing a few things before following him out to his apartment.

Once arriving you were met by Tess in the living room who showed a clear dislike of you walking in.

“What’s goin on?”

“There was a problem downstairs, she’s gonna stay here-“

“Here?” She furrowed her brows.

“And where the hell is she gonna sleep if I have the bed and you have the couch?”

“She’ll take the couch, I’ll stay on the floor-“

“Joel, this really isn’t necessary-“ you attempted to intervene.

“It probably isn’t” Tess of course agreed.

“I ain’t leavin’ her down there and that’s final.”

He walked off as Tess glared at you angry with Joels decision.

That night it felt very strange, you didn’t feel welcomed by Tess in any way. She slammed the door loud when she went into her room not wanting to be anywhere you were. Standing in the kitchen awkwardly you watched as Joel poured himself a drink and finished it rather fast. He looked up at you as if he wanted to say more but you could see the hesitation in him..

“Is there a reason that you’re so persistent on helping me?” You whispered.

“I don’t trust them,” he responded flatly. Of course there were more reasons than that, but none he would express.

“I saw the way he was looking at your door”

“They’ve always been like that-“

“Till they do somethin’ and I won’t have that” he took a deep breath and walked off. You watched as he grabbed a pillow and threw it down on the floor beside the couch you would be laying on. His hands settled on his stomach as he closed his eyes and soon fell asleep.

After trying to delay yourself for a bit looking out the window you grabbed your bag and walked towards the couch. Joel hadn’t moved yet, it felt awkward walking beside him.

Laying on the couch you couldn’t sleep and so you decided to take out your tiny note pad and pen and draw a bit. The light of a small candle you had on the table close by helping you see in the darkness. Drawing seemed to be the only thing to help keep you sane, the only thing that felt normal. The pen falling out of your hand you cursed at yourself watching as it rolled right by Joel’s arm. Leaning half way off the couch you reached for the pen, slightly sliding your fingers against his arm when suddenly he awoke and in one quick movement flipped you on your back. You gasped and winced with how hard he slammed you on the floor, his eyes instantly softening when he realized it was you.

“Shit” he whispered panting as he looked down at you, his knee between your legs.

“Jesus” you placed your hand on your chest as it rose and fell quickly.

“You alright?” He whispered. You nodded silently when he unexpectedly caressed the side of your face with his hand. His touch somehow relaxing you, you lay still as he looked down at you before slowly brushing your hand up his chest. He took a deep breath feeling your hand slid up to his face, your thumb sliding along his facial hair.

“I’m fine” you spoke softly as he looked down at you, you could see him get lost in the sight of you until he focused on your lips. He wanted to kiss you, you could see it…he couldn’t hold himself back any longer and before you knew it, his lips were on yours. Joel’s hand slid up your outer thigh, squeezing your waist as his tongue dominated yours. The touch of a man who had wanted you for months. A soft sound escaped your lips sparking something within him, you felt him slowly begin to tug at your pants until they slid off. On his knees between your legs he looked down at you, his eyes visible through the candlelight, you lay eagerly awaiting his touch.

Unbuttoning his pants he slowly revealed a trail of hair that led to his aching cock. Your hips slightly squirming with excitement as he lay over you and placed himself at your entrance. It was as if you forgot the two of you were not truly alone but it didn’t matter. The sound of your breathing was all that could be heard until he pushed himself in with one thrust. You were already wet for him taking him in deeply as you grabbed onto his shirt. Leaning his hand close to your face he was reminded of the hard cold floor you lay on, not wanting to part from you he unexpectedly picked you up in his arms making you gasp.

“Where are we going?” You whispered confused. He lay you back on the warm couch, adjusting himself on you without saying a word. Of course Joel wouldn’t let you lay on a hard cold floor. You smiled as he kissed the side of your face before he continued thrusting his hips against you. Each stroke bringing you closer to a heightened level of pleasure you felt brewing within you. Your legs wrapping tightly around him wanting to feel him close on every level, he groaned against you feeling your nails dig into his shoulder blades…you didn’t want this to end….

You couldn’t stop thinking about that night, how quickly it happened, how intense it was. You remembered him laying back on the floor beside you after, smirking up at you as you lay on the couch looking down at him. Your hand in his he gently kissed it, you couldn’t help but wonder how Tess hadn’t woken up.

The next morning was a little awkward, Tess had come out of the room and as usual didn’t hide her feelings about you. Sarcasm in her tone whenever she spoke, you couldn’t stand it.

“Sleep good?” She asked walking past you.

“Mhm”

Joel looked over at you watching as you avoided eye contact. Focused on you completely he hadn’t realized Tess was speaking to him.

“Joel!” She yelled making you look up catching his eyes on you. He quickly looked away snapping out of it and looked at Tess.

“Remember we’re meeting with Matt today to help with what we’re doing. You ready to go? He should be at the spot already” Joel crossed his arms looking back up at you as you packed your bag.

“Um, I’m gonna go check out something. I’ll be back later. See you” you quickly walked out before Joel could say a word. Tess rolled her eyes noticing how uneasy he became when you left.

“What do you wanna go drop her off where she’s going to?” She spoke under her breath as Joel silently looked back at her and clenched his jaw.

As the day went on you attempted to keep your mind distracted from what had happened the night before, of course to no avail.

To your surprise you had come across Joel himself along with Tess and another man speaking together, must’ve been the man she was talking about. He hadn’t noticed you, maybe it was better that way. Keeping your head down walking past them you were quickly noticed by Tess who attempted to block you from Joel’s view. Of course that didn’t work, she quickly noticed how distracted he became and scoffed.

“We don’t have time for this now, Joel. Just let her go” he ignored her request not taking his eyes off you and walked towards you.

Just as you thought you escaped being seen, Joel stopped you in your tracks unexpectedly.

“Hey” he looked down at you.

“Joel…hi” you whispered.

“You alright?” He noticed how fidgety you became. All you could do was silently nod before Tess called out for him

“Are we doing this or what?!” He didn’t take his eyes off you as you pressed your lips together unsure of what to say.

“God dammit Joel! You can’t babysit this girl forever!” Tess had finally had enough, but more so, you had finally had enough. Not giving Joel a chance to respond you finally spoke up.

“What the hell is your problem?!”

“Are y’all still trying to figure out a way to Jackson or not?” Matt suddenly interrupted making you all turn his way.

“Jackson?” You whispered.

“Yeah Jackson, it’s where his brother might be” you looked at Joel with raised brows.

“I uh…I know an easy way to Jackson” you spoke hesitantly.

“Uh no, I think we’ve got this handled” Tess quickly shut you down. She turned away but Joel remained looking down at you

“Tell me-“

“You’re kidding me right” Tess cut in but he didn’t say a word to her, focused on you and anything you might say.

“Go on, honey” his voice was rough yet his eyes were welcoming.

“I’m not taking suggestions from a little girl who doesn’t know a damn thing.”

“Tess, enough!” Joel yelled looking back before turning back to you.

“Stay right here and give me a minute alright? Please” Joel whispered.

You watched as Tess and him walked off together, far enough where you couldn’t hear a word being said leaving you with Matt.

“Don’t worry about Tess, sometimes she could be a-“

“A bitch?” You whispered not taking your eyes off them. You couldn’t hear what was being said but it was clear they were in a heated debate. The vein in Joel’s neck pronounced as he got louder making you wonder what exactly was being said.

“This is ridiculous” you began to walk towards them as Matt watched.

The closer you got the more clearly you could hear them speak.

“She ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong” you heard Joel express.

“Nothing she does is ever wrong to you, Joel. I don’t know what the hell it is with her that-“ suddenly there was silence.

“You slept with her, didn’t you?”

Joel didn’t say a word, that alone giving away the truth.

“Unbelievable Joel. Aren’t you old enough to be her father?”

Joel’s nostrils flared, of course it wasn’t something he was proud but it wasn’t something he regretted either.

“Must’ve laid it on you good if you’re doing whatever she wants. Got herself a good deal, opens her legs in return for your help-“

“It ain’t like that and you know it” she could hear the anger build up in his tone.

“Oh, so defensive of her” she began to laugh.

“Don’t tell me you give a shit about her, Joel” you could hear Tess laugh as she continued to taunt him. The anger in her building the more she realized Joel had grown an attachment with you he could no longer ignore.

“Always checking on her like if she’s a damn baby, if she’s old enough to lay on her back then she’s old enough to take care of herself-“

“She was a moment of weakness, a one time thing” he abruptly stepped forward tightening his lip. Your heart sunk.

You had no words.

“She doesn’t matter to me the way you did”

Not wanting to hear a single word more you turned away running back.

“Hey, where ya going?!” Matt called out to you as you ran past him and back to your apartment.

“Is that what you want to hear from me, Tess?” Joel continued, looking directly at her.

“Is that what you want me to say? Cause it ain’t the truth.” She stood in silence, clearly pissed before Joel realized Matt was calling out to you. Looking over he could see you running off in the distance, he quickly realized you had heard what he said.

“Shit” he whispered before turning back to Tess.

“If me watching out for her is such a problem then maybe you don’t need to be around me anymore” She was left speechless and with those final words he left her sight.

Tears running down your face you rushed off inside your building not knowing Joel was close behind. You ran up the stairs past groups of people before hearing Joel’s voice. He called your name pushing through everyone but you ignored it only making him move quicker.

Getting to your floor lost in your emotions you hadn’t realized the same drunk man in front of your door. The same man who had been watching you over time, waiting for when you’d show up alone.

“What’s wrong, pretty girl?” Before you could even look up, you heard Joel’s voice.

“Don’t talk to her” you looked back to see him standing by the stairs.

“Don’t tell me you were the one who made her cry?” The man laughed before turning to you as you slowly put your key in the doorknob without taking your eyes off him.

“What your lil’ boyfriend do huh?” You backed up against the door as he got closer. Unexpectedly he brushed his hand across your face wiping off a tear as you flinched. Joel took a quick step forward before another man stood before him, blocking his way.

“We just wanna make sure she’s ok”, you could hear the slick tone in his voice. He moved towards you, ready to put his hands on you again until Joel elbowed the other man knocking him down the stairs. The fall distracting the man about to come towards you, you were able to kick him in the groin knocking him to his knees.

“You bitch!” He groaned, Joel quickly ran towards you, opening your door and pulling you inside.

You watched as he locked your door looking through the peephole before he turned to you. He was out of breath yet focused on you, you took a step back.

“What the hell do you want?”

“What did you hear?” He asked stepping forward.

“What does it matter, go be with Tess” you attempted to walk away but he stopped you by your arm.

“Who the hell said I wanted Tess?”

“You!” you yelled pulling your arm away.

“Cause I was just a moment of weakness right?!” Joel began to shake his head.

“No” he whispered.

“Listen to me-“

“How stupid of me to have slept with a man like you. Made me think you cared about me all along”

“I do!” He grabbed your arms giving you as light shake trying to get a word in.

“What you heard wasn’t what you think-“

“It was loud and clear. A one time thing, glad I was useful for that moment for you-“

“Listen to me!” He held your face in his hand forcing you to look up at him. Once your eyes stared into his it was as if he lost track of everything in a split second. He breathed deeply as you felt the grasp of his hand soften.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you”

“But Tess-“

“Forget Tess” his brows furrowed.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to feel you….how long I’ve wanted to be in you” his grasp slightly tightened on your face as he spoke.

“Joel..” you whispered as he leaned closer until he kissed you, savoring every taste of you.

“Come with me to Jackson” he spoke against your lips.

“Please, I don’t wanna do this without you”

You had no idea how you would be dealing with Tess through all of this but with Joel’s reassurance you gave in. A choice he would make sure you wouldn’t regret.

Tags (if you asked to be tagged and don’t see yourself on the list, some tags didn’t work, I’m not sure why!)

@moonpascal @katmoonz @joelsteinfeld @picketniffler @stcrrjoon @itsamandi @starry-eyes-love @theoraekenslover @psychoenergy @joeldjarin @bambisweethearts @baronessvonglitter @guelyury @mynameistokyo @harriedandharassed @locaparapedrito @untamedheart81 @rosaliedepp @illyanam1011 @hopefulatrocity @tikikiki @thewritermj @l0veang3l @manuymesut @katiemarieeee @unknownomgg @secretcheesecakenacho @missladym1981 @sunnytuliptime @xmaykeca @dendulinka6 @wintersquirrel @malfoycassimalfoy @scorpio-echo @orcasoul @mysteryhexgirl @locaparapedrito @alloftheimagines @mystickittytaco

[ramp-it-up]

Slow Burn

Summary: First he saved your life. Then he refused to leave. And there is the problem of the history between you. Nothing between you is simple anymore.

Word count: less than 4.2 K

Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader

A/N: Y'all know I need another AU like a hole in my head. So of course here it is! 🙃 This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. So here goes. Bucky is a firefighter and a burn survivor. This first part is a little brutal y'all, but tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns and pain. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Past greivances, slow burn romance, house fire, fire rescue, hospital recovery, a lil bit of language, mutual pining, Grumpy Bucky, Steve, Ari, and Syverson are also firefighters (warning!) Bucky is also a trained paramedic, protective Bucky, hurt/comfort, a teeny tiny bit of praise kink if you squint (it's me, guys). Bucky takes care of you.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

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

Bucky held your gorgeous body in his arms, every luscious curve of you molding against him as if you’d been made to fit there.

His gloved hands gripped your thighs, your hips, and the bare skin where your lingerie had shifted and melted away under the heat. For one breathless instant, he knew he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

It was so goddamn hot.

Literally.

This house was old, and probably optimal fuel for the fire that had started within it. You were unconscious and dead weight, but Bucky could more than handle you and he had to get you out of there.

As he approached the door, Bucky heard a crash which he hoped was created by his crew going through the roof to get to the fire. When you heard it, you started coughing and moaning and struggling against him.

“Easy. Easy now. You have to stay calm. I got you. Gonna get you out of here.”

You opened your eyes, lifting your head from his shoulder but all you saw was haze, and a giant form that had you in his grip. The voice that came out of it was distorted, sort of like Darth Vader. You dropped your head back down and decided that you were dreaming. 

“Never gonna drink a whole bottle of wine by m’self again. ‘M a lightweight.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He’d heard a lot of things in burning buildings, but that was a first.

You twisted in his hold, one hand fumbling for a pillow that wasn’t there. And then, realization dawned and your body went rigid. You started thrashing. Hard.

“Stop, hey!” 

He grunted, tightening his grip as you fought him. You weren’t too heavy, he could carry you all day if he had to, but you were panicked, limbs flailing, feet kicking against the door he’d been about to open.

A white-hot jolt of fear surged through him as your leg scraped the door’s edge and blistered instantly.

“Fuck! Hold still,” he ordered, voice dropping low. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

You bit your lip with tears in your eyes. It was time to woman up.

Bucky felt something sharp lodge in his chest. You were terrified, but you were still fighting.

“We’re going through the window,” he said, already shifting you higher against his chest.

“My guys have the lifenet ready. We’re gonna be fine.”

Your wide wet eyes met his, and even through the mask, he felt the way it hit him, something hot and protective and completely unprofessional.

A groan of splintering wood cracked above you and you flinched, burying your face in his chest. He looked up, saw a fissure spidering across the ceiling, and knew there was no more time.

He ducked his head to look you in the eye. 

“We gotta go. Now. Both arms around my neck.”

Your arms obeyed on instinct, looping tight behind his helmet. His grip flexed on your thighs as he stepped to the window, shoulder braced against the glass, testing. 

He backed up and tightened his hold, telegraphing what was about to happen. Terror filled you.

“Open the window!”

You thought he’d forgotten that important detail as he responded.

“The air will just feed the fire.” He backed up a step, his stance widening, every muscle bracing.

“We’re going through.”

You gasped and then coughed with a lungful of smoke. 

“Just hold on. A few scratches are better than the alternative.”

You clung to him, nodding, trying not to sob. “‘Kay.”

“I’m gonna count to three.”

His gloved hand rose with his axe poised over his shoulder. You pressed your face to his chest.

“One,” he said, rocking forward.

“Two,” he shot forward, and you closed your eyes as he swung the axe. 

You two jettisoned through the window as the glass shattered. There was a leap out into cool air, but also the slight vacuum tug of heat following you. 

For a moment, flight, then a free fall. You screamed as your stomach dropped, and howled as you landed on the net, the canvas scraping your burned leg raw and glass raining down all over you.

“Three.”

It was the last thing you heard before you blacked out from the pain.

—-

When you woke, it was to the steady beep of monitors and the low murmur of voices you knew, your parents, your best friend, and one you didn’t.

You turned your head, blinking slowly, and found him sitting there in the visitor chair, still in his turnout pants and a navy t-shirt that clung to broad shoulders and the defined planes of his chest, his face streaked with soot. You noticed the metal hand on his thigh and your eyes traced the prosthetic up to his elbow, his bicep, and his shoulder.

His blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver through your bruised, exhausted body. 

They were a little too familiar, like you’d seen them somewhere before.

Your voice scraped out, hoarse and raw.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For coming in after me.”

He exhaled, something easing in his shoulders.

“Anytime,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of you looked away. You knew him, but you were too exhausted to chase it down. There were more immediate things, like the ache in your throat, the exhaustion clawing at your bones, and the simple fact that you were alive.

Hours later, the room had emptied, your parents slipping into the hall to talk to the doctor as your best friend Amyra dozed in a chair. You were almost asleep again yourself when you heard it, your father’s low voice, warm but edged with fatigue, right outside the door.

“Yeah. Lieutenant Barnes just went in. He’ll be out in a sec.”

Lieutenant Barnes.

That old, unshakable teacher’s instinct, cataloguing every name and every face, flickered awake in the haze of your mind.

James Barnes.

You knew that name. Not from the firehouse. Not from any training.

From the district memos.

The reports you’d read a couple of years ago, when you were still at Jefferson High. The ones about a lieutenant who’d flagged repeated safety violations,  who’d stood in front of your principal, your mentor, Lloyd Hansen, with a spine of steel and told him he was risking lives.

Lloyd, who’d called that firefighter a nuisance. And who’d been demoted when it turned out the firefighter had been right.

Your heart gave a slow, stunned thump, and the monitor betrayed you, spiking with your recognition.

That was why he looked familiar. That was why you’d trusted him in that burning house. Even half-conscious, even terrified.

Before you could think better of it, you cleared your throat.

“Lieutenant Barnes?” you rasped.

He turned from where he’d been watching the monitor, his gaze catching yours. Even out of uniform, just dark work pants and a grey t-shirt stretched over muscle and scar and metal, and he looked every inch the man you now remembered. 

The man who didn’t back down, no matter who he was up against.

“Yeah?” he said, stepping to your bedside, voice low, handsome face soft. “You need something?”

Your voice shook.

“I… I think we’ve met before,” you said carefully. “Jefferson High. You were the one who…”

You trailed off, too tired to finish, but you knew he’d understand. And he did. Recognition sparked behind his eyes, something like surprise, and maybe even regret.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a minute. “I remember.”

Neither of you spoke, just looked at each other, the air between you heavy with everything that happened back then, and everything you’d barely survived tonight.

He sideyed the monitor, which told him that your heart was hammering. You didn’t have the energy to fully analyze the reason why.

Finally, you shifted.

“I guess you’ve been saving my life longer than I realized,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his expressions.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess so.”

And in that strange, quiet moment, you knew nothing between you was ever going to be simple.

—--

The next few days passed in a blur of pain and bright fluorescent lights. Every morning, someone came to change your bandages. It was excruciating, worse than the burn itself some days, and you clamped your jaw shut so you wouldn’t make a sound.

The burn specialist explained it over and over:

The burn needed to be thoroughly cleaned daily

The risk of infection was high.

Pain management wasn’t optional.

But you tried to prove you were stronger than this. You refused the stronger pain meds the first day, and the nurse just looked at you like she’d seen it a hundred times, like she’d watched other stubborn fools learn this lesson the hard way.

Bucky visited that night, unannounced and uninvited.

He stood just inside the door for a moment, watching you like he was taking inventory of everything you were trying so hard to hide. Then he crossed to the chair by your bed and sat, his hands braced on his knees, his broad shoulders tense.

“You don’t get points for suffering.”

“I’m fine,” you lied.

His gaze locked onto yours, blue and unflinching.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You hadn’t even realized you were until he said it.

The next morning, when the nurse offered you a dose before the dressing change, you didn’t argue. You swallowed the pills and stared at the ceiling until the pain blurred into something you could survive.

—---

The first time Bucky stepped into your hospital room, you were half-asleep, your face turned to the window. You looked so small in that bed, swallowed up by stiff white sheets, and an IV running slowly into your arm.

He’d seen hundreds of burn patients over the years. Kids, grandparents, families with nowhere else to go.

He’d told himself you weren’t different, that you were just another call. Another save.

But standing there, watching you pretend you weren’t in pain, he knew he was lying.

—---

Three days in, Bucky watched you grit your teeth through rehab.

Your parents hovered by the door, but you kept waving them away, insisting you were fine. Amyra cried once, quietly, and you looked mortified.

Eventually, they left.

They trusted him. God help him, he almost wished they didn’t.

He was the one who stayed when you shuffled to the parallel bars, every step a fresh agony you refused to admit.

He knew you were proud, knew you’d rather collapse than ask for help. But he also knew what it felt like to push so hard you tore yourself up inside.

When your knee buckled, he moved instinctively, one step forward, ready to catch you if you fell. But you didn’t. You caught yourself, your breath coming in fast, ragged pulls.

“Are you trying to prove something?” he asked, voice quiet and close.

You didn’t look at him. When you finally spoke, your voice cracked around the words.

“Maybe I am.”

He stayed behind you, silent and steady, even though his hands itched to touch you, to ease something he had no right to claim.

Then he watched you take another step.

And another.

And he knew. You were going to survive this.

But you’d rather bleed in private than let anyone see you weak.

—-

That night, when he stopped by after shift, Bucky saw the pill bottle on the tray. The edge had gone out of you, your face soft in sleep, one hand resting over your heart.

And even though it was selfish, and probably wrong, a small part of him felt relief. You’d finally started to heal.

He should have left; he’d already crossed too many lines.

Instead, he sat in the chair by your bed and let himself watch you.

When your eyes blinked open and drifted down to the glint of metal where his sleeve had ridden up, he didn’t move to cover it.

Your voice was soft, thick with exhaustion.

 “Does it…does it hurt?”

He hadn’t told anyone in a long time about the fire that took his arm. It had been easier to let people think he was born hard.

Easier to be the man who never flinched.

But looking at you now, he knew he wouldn’t lie.

He swallowed. Sometimes it did hurt; phantom pain was a bitch no one prepared you for.

“Not like it used to,” he said quietly.

Your gaze stayed there, on his metal skin.

 “Was it…fire?”

He nodded once, “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask more questions.But you didn’t look away, either.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“They tried a lot of shit to fix it,” he murmured.

“First graft failed. Infection. Then this…experimental tech.”

“Really?” you whispered.

“Yeah, in Wakanda.”

He let out a breath.

“Figured if anyone could build something that felt real, it’d be them. They are good people.”

You were quiet for a long time. Then your fingers moved, just a little, toward where his forearm rested on the side of your bed.

He didn’t pull back. But he couldn’t breathe.

When you finally drifted off again, he stayed there, your touch warm on metal that usually felt like nothing at all.

—--

It was over a week before they’d even consider letting you leave.

Eight days of doctors, dressing changes, antibiotics, and endless check-ins that woke you every time you drifted into something like real sleep.

Eight days of Bucky showing up at your door, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in jeans and a plain t-shirt, but always carrying something you hadn’t asked for.

Like food, or flowers.

Not from him, of course.

From the crew, he’d say, every time, like he thought you couldn’t tell he wasn’t telling the truth.

He never stayed long.

But he always came.

On the morning of your discharge you were sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, trying not to look as exhausted as you felt. You’d been upright for barely fifteen minutes, and it already felt like you’d run a marathon.

The nurse was flipping through your chart when Bucky came in, this time with backup.

Steve gave you a quiet nod, smiling kindly at you. He set a bag of takeout on the tray table without ceremony. Syverson followed, carrying a bouquet so large it looked ridiculous in his hands.  

Ari Levinson trailed behind, all, dark-haired, still in uniform, flashing you a crooked grin. His eyes swept over you in a slow, unhurried appraisal that made your face warm.

“Principal,” Ari drawled, smile flickering, “you’re looking better than last week.”

Your throat felt too tight to answer immediately.

“I’d hope so,” you managed.

Syverson smirked, glancing at Bucky. 

“She’s even prettier up close. You didn’t say she was pretty, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. He was staring at you, his jaw flexing.

“Not relevant,” he muttered.

You mind began to spin.

Bucky didn’t say you weren’t pretty. He said it wasn’t relevant. So did he think you were pretty, or just that prettiness wasn’t relevant to the situation? Holy shit, the drugs must be affecting your brain.

Ari’s gaze slid back to you, amused at his friend’s reaction.

“You sure you’re ready to leave? You could milk this for a little longer.”

You managed a tired laugh, “I just want to go home.”

Silence. Your face went hot.

“I mean a home,” you corrected quickly. “I’m going to Amyra’s.”

Your parents were nearly an hour away, and you couldn’t stay on your own.

Not yet.

“Then let’s get you there,” Steve said, his voice warm as he set the takeout on the tray table.

“Just waiting on the last form,” you said.

The nurse finally came in, flipping through your chart. 

“You have a ride home?”

Amyra’s voice came from the doorway, dry and affectionate all at once.

“Right here. I’ll go bring the car around.”

You pushed yourself upright, ignoring how your leg twinged. 

“I can walk.”

The nurse gave you a look.

“Hospital policy says wheelchair discharge.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Told you.”

Ari smirked, leaning closer, voice pitched low. 

“He’s just trying to impress you. Thinks it’s charming when he plays stoic hero.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed so tight you thought it might crack.

“Knock it off,” he growled.

Syverson let out a low whistle, tipping his head toward the hall.

“C’mon, Ari. Let’s go warm up the truck before Barnes commits a homicide.”

Ari lingered half a beat longer, eyes sliding back to you.

“If you are half this stubborn at your school,” he mused, that grin widening, “I don’t know how any kid ever gets away with anything. You need someone who can keep up with that spirit at home.” he teased.

Bucky took a step toward him, his shoulders squaring like he’d forgotten you were watching.

Ari held up both palms in mock surrender and disappeared into the hallway, Syverson chuckling behind him. Steve shook his head and then spoke to you again.

“Please take care. We’ll… “ He caught his friend’s glare.  “...I mean Bucky will check in on you.”

He smiled as he left, following his men.

You looked away from Bucky, but it didn’t matter, he was still watching you like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Hospital insists on wheeling you out,” he said. “I can do it.”

You blinked, flustered by the testosterone in the room.

“Since when does a fire lieutenant do the hospital escort?”

His gaze didn’t waver. 

“Since I’m a certified paramedic.”

You were surprised. And pleased. But you didn’t let it show.

“You…you don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, already moving to get the chair. “I do.”

When you reached the exit, Amyra was waiting in her car.

“You good?” she called, her eyes flicking between you and Bucky like she was trying to read something neither of you had said out loud.

You nodded, even as your throat went tight. Bucky bent, one large hand bracing your elbow as he helped you stand. 

His touch was professional. Almost.

“I’ll ride over behind you,” he said. “Make sure you get settled.”

Amyra lifted a brow. “I think I can handle it.”

He didn’t argue, just stated facts. 

“Yeah. But I’ll still be there.”

—--

Amyra’s little bungalow felt impossibly calm after the hospital with it’s natural light and lavender smell. She helped you to the couch, fussing with your pillow, and  making sure your leg was elevated.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice sounded thin in your own ears.

Her gaze flicked to the door just as Bucky stepped in, carrying your overnight bag and the takeout. He looked too big for the room, broad shoulders, heavy boots, that quiet, unshakable presence that made something in your chest pull tight.

“I was going to make sure your room has everything you need,” Amyra said, her tone so carefully casual it made you suspicious.

“Can you stay, Lieutenant Barnes?”

You opened your mouth to protest. Bucky cut in first, his voice low but unyielding.

“Yes, I’ll make sure she rests.”

Amyra’s brows rose.

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

He shot her a look that probably worked on everyone else. Amyra just grinned.

“Call me if you need anything,” she sing-songed, already drifting to the hallway. 

“Or if you need him removed.”

“Amyra,” you groaned.

“I heard that,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

She ignored you both as she slipped down the hall. Bucky stood there for a moment, just watching you. He looked tired.

“You really don’t have to stay,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said again, voice soft but final. “I do.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

He looked you in the eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you’ve got one anyway.”

He set the takeout on the coffee table and crouched to unzip the duffel.

“I’ll change your bandages after you eat,” he added, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your throat went dry.

“You don’t…”

“You’re not an inconvenience,” he interrupted gently, glancing up.

His gaze held yours, unflinching. Heat crawled up your neck, your heart thudding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, just a little.

And for one breathless second, you didn’t feel tired at all.

—--

Bucky unpacked the supplies efficiently, like this was something he’d done a hundred times and never thought twice about. He laid out gauze, antiseptic spray, ointment, and a fresh roll of the elastic bandage.

His hands were steady. Yours weren’t.

“I can call the nurse,” you said, though you didn’t mean it.

He gazed at you, blue eyes burning.

“I’m qualified.”

“I know.” Your voice came out too soft. “That’s not…”

You were lost in the ocean of his eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

It was such a simple question. And it shouldn’t have felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever asked you.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He nodded once, the line of his jaw easing by a fraction. “Good.”

Carefully, he lowered himself to the edge of the couch, close enough that your knees brushed his thigh. The warmth of him bled through the thin cotton of your borrowed sweatpants, and you had to look away.

“I’m going to lift your leg,” he said quietly. “Tell me if it hurts.”

His hands were large, warm, and shockingly gentle as he braced your calf. You hissed when he shifted the limb onto a folded towel, and his gaze snapped up, searching your face.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the unburned skin above your ankle in a reassuring stroke.

You tried. When he began unwrapping the bandage, you pressed your lips together keep from making a sound.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve got you.”

The last layer fell away, and cool air kissed the raw, angry skin. You swallowed, blinking fast.

“It looks good,” he said after a moment. “Healing clean.”

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it shuddered out of you.

“Still hurts,” you admitted.

His metal hand hovered for a second, then lowered to rest lightly against your shin, careful not to touch the burn.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve been there.”

Your gaze flicked to his arm.

“Do you have sensation in it?”

“Yes.” His thumb traced a slow line along your uninjured skin. “Not the way you’d think.”

You didn’t know what possessed you to ask.

“Can you feel my skin under your fingers now?”

His jaw worked, like he was sorting through a thousand things he wouldn’t say.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice rough. “I can.”

Your heart knocked hard against your ribs.

He set the clean gauze in place, the touch gentle but so precise it almost felt clinical, if it weren’t for the way he looked at you. 

Like he was memorizing every small sound you made. 

Like he’d never let anything hurt you again if he could help it.

When he finished with your bandage, he sat back on his heels and looked up at you, searching your face like he could read every unspoken thing you were holding in. He held your gaze for a second, and then looked away, moving to  pack the supplies away. 

You watched him in a daze, your cheeks still hot.

“Is this where you offer me a sponge bath, too?” you mumbled, trying to sound like you were joking, even though your voice was too unsteady.

He looked up, and his gaze pinned you in place again.

“I told you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel. “I’m qualified.”

Heat crawled up your neck so fast you thought you’d pass out. 

Maybe he mistook the look on your face for pain, or maybe he didn’t, because he said, “You should take something.”

“I’m okay,” you sighed, because you were always okay. 

Because you didn’t know how to be anything else.

His brow furrowed, and something about the way he looked at you, like he’d already decided you were his responsibility, made your throat close. His eyebrow raised.

“You keep saying that.”

He reached for the bottle of pills the nurse had sent with you and shook one into his palm. He held it out.

“Take it,” he said, steady and unflinching.

You looked at his hand, at the calluses and the faint scars along his knuckles, and at the way his metal fingers flexed against his thigh. And you realized you were too tired to argue.

Your hand brushed his as you took the pill. His fingers curled reflexively around yours, warm and sure, and for one heartbeat you didn’t feel like someone broken or in need.

You just felt seen.

He handed you the glass of water, watched you swallow the pill, and waited until you set the glass back down.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. The way he said that phrase made you feel things, but your eyelids were already heavy, the pain blurring at the edges, replaced by something warm and thick that made it hard to think.

You drifted in and out as he moved around the room, packing away the supplies, murmuring something to Amyra when she peeked back in.

When you opened your eyes again, it was darker and there was a ceiling fan spinning above you.

Amyra’s guest room.

The quilt tucked around your shoulders smelled like lavender and clean cotton. Your overnight bag sat neatly on the chair in the corner.

For a second, you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten there. 

Then you realized.

He’d carried you.

And even though you told yourself it shouldn’t matter, it did. 

It mattered more than anything had in a long time. 

Because it was the second time Bucky Barnes had carried you to safety.

——

Read Part 2: I’m On Fire

[suiana]

yandere! cheater and gn! reader who's in their villain arc...

you've suspected that something was up when your boyfriend started to get busy with his work, coming home late, hiding his phone from you...

of course you just wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt that he really was just stressed from his work. he was yourboyfriend after all. you had to trust him, didn't you?

well everything was shattered when you found one of his side chicks under your shared bed. she was naked, only wearing a pair of undies while holding in her pee.

"wtf why are you hiding under here?"

"your bf doesn't want u to know that he's cheating. told me that he'd kill me if i came out."

yeah, so the girl was an asshole to get with your man when she knew that he was in a relationship but at least she told it to your face straight up. also she pissed herself while getting out from the bed so there's that.

meanwhile, your boyfriend was sobbing and crying when he came home. you had found out of his side affairs, a side he never wanted you to find out about. to be honest, your boyfriend didn't know why he he got with others in the first place. he had everything he could ever want in you. you made him feel alive, all the good things you know. being with you was like a dream come true and he constantly felt like tearing out his skin from how happy you made him.

you were his god.

oh, yeah, thinking about it now that's probably it. he felt that you were too good for him and didn't want to taint you. which... was why he resorted to sleeping with others.

shitty move, yeah he knows. don't need to repeat it.

but you... why were you so forgiving? you welcomed him back with open arms, sobbed a little and told him how hurt you were! he thought you'd have up and left by now!

but you didn't.

he knew you were too good for him, he had to treat you better now. he just had to, this was obviously you giving him a second chance, right? oh he just loves you so much!

unfortunately for him, it wasn't a second chance. no, you were about to absolutely ruin this man.

it started with the small things. small rumours about him ranging from how he had a small dick to how he's a pushover... you needed to start your plan slow, you know. tear his reputation of a good and sensible man bit by bit. gotta build up that tension teehee >w<

then from the rumours, you started manipulating the people close to him. crocodile tears, white lies, and a whole pity party for yourself... telling his friends and family members how your boyfriend was an absolute shit of a boyfriend, how he didn't treat you right and how he was the worst an alive... well, it wasn't much of a lie. he did spoil you and treat you like a deity but if he really treasured you why would he cheat in the first place? there's no space left in your life to pity him.

the most important part was to constantly reassure him that you loved him and to make sure that he never finds out that you were the one ruining his life from behind the scenes. can't let him find out that his angel lover is the one that's bringing him to social death now!

by this stage, your boyfriend was completely dependent on you. everyone around him was looking at him like he was the absolute scum of the earth. where did the rumours come from? why was everyone avoiding him? he couldn't even go to work without his coworkers side-eyeing him like he grew an extra head! he's just lucky he didn't get fired-

oh and what do you know. he got fired.

he comes home crying, an absolute mess and a shell of the man that he used to be. what was once a confident and charming man is now a desperate and pathetic boyfailure.

"baby i got fired, i'm so sorry. i don't deserve to be with you."

his arms wrap aorund your legs, tears staining your pants as he seeks comfort from the only person still left by his side. yes, you're the only person left dying for. even his own parents desserted him, yet you stayed. he's so thankful-

"yeah, you're right. you don't deserve me."

it's like time stops the second the words fall from your lips. he slowly looks up at you, eyes widening in horror as his tears dry up. what? was he growing delusional? he must've heard you wrong. no way his beloved god just said that!

"haha... you're so sweet baby. joking around in a time like this-"

"i'm not joking. you don't deserve someone like me."

you slap his hands away, looking down at him as he remains on his knees on the floor. you had a smug smile, expression all cocky as you even started to laugh.

"haha! did you really think i wanted to stay with you? fuck no! i have standards okay? i really didn't want to stay with a cheater!"

your boyfriend didn't know what to think. what were you saying? he doesn't understand. is this a late april fools prank? the way his heart was clenching and the way he felt his face paled shows just how much he doesn't like your words.

"babe stop-"

"i hate you god damnit. i really thought you'd be the one for me but no! you just had to go ahead and cheat!"

but you didn't listen to him.

"let's break up."

oh yeah, you hear that? that's the sound of his heart shattering.

he quickly crawls over to you, face pale as he grips onto your pants tightly. his hands shook with each word he uttered, tone desperate as tears streamed down his cheeks once more.

he never thought he'd start begging for someone to stay when it was usually the opposite but... you were his god. the one he's devoted his entire life too.

so he'll gladly get on his hands and knees for you if he has too. you can't leave him. he doesn't want to be alone.

"please! forgive me! i know i did something wrong but i'm trying! you can't leave me too!"

he looks up at you, face completely flushed as he continues to turn himself into an even bigger pathetic mess. he doesn't care what he looks like now. he's practically lost everything. he has nothing left to lose.

"i promise i'll be better! i haven't cheated since you found out last time! d-doesn't that count for something?"

he gives you a shaky smile, as though that would convince you.

it wasn't.

in response to his words, you could only give a disgusted expression, kicking him away before walking past him to the front door. what a pathetic man he was.

"you know, you look best when you're like this."

you state, glancing at him with a smile before turning to leave his house. well, there's that. your plan was complete and your now-ex boyfriend was absolutely destroyed.

so why did it feel like... something bad was about to happen?

you quickly look back at him, keeping your cool and remaining nonchalant before you feel the blood drain from your face. your best friend?! where did they come from?! and the fact that your crazy ex was holding a knife to their neck-

"no... don't leave me... you can't leave... i have no one else but you..."

what were you supposed to do now that he was holding your best friend hostage?

[divinesangel]

— random details about your future spouse [PAC]

pm me for an affordable, in-depth personal reading! — 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞!

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏

they've been through some stuff and came out the other side with a calm, steady mindset. they're the type who doesn't get easily shaken or overwhelmed by life’s challenges.

when things get hectic or stressful, they stay chill and don’t panic. they can handle chaos without losing their cool, making them someone you can rely on in tough situations.

they’re not the type to rush into things. they like to take things slow, think things through, and make sure they’re making the right moves, whether it’s in relationships, work, or life decisions.

they probably have a strong sense of family and respect for long-held values. they believe in things like loyalty, commitment, and honoring what came before, whether that’s family traditions or their own personal principles.

they’re either spiritual or have a strong personal philosophy that guides their life. they probably reflect on the bigger picture and have a deep understanding of their own purpose or place in the world.

they're not afraid to step out of their comfort zone. they love exploring new places, trying new things, and keeping life exciting. they can be spontaneous and enjoy breaking out of routines.

always thinking outside the box. they might have a knack for coming up with new ideas or solutions, whether it’s in their work, hobbies, or just life in general. they love expressing themselves in unique ways.

they don’t take shortcuts. they put in the effort and grind steadily toward their goals, even if it takes time. they understand that success is built on consistent work and dedication.

you can count on them, no questions asked. they keep their promises and show up when they say they will, whether it’s for something big or small. they’re the kind of person you can trust with anything.

they’ve got their finances together. they don’t live paycheck to paycheck, and they know how to manage money responsibly. they’ve probably built a secure foundation for themselves and are smart about financial decisions.

once they’re in, they’re in for the long haul. they’re fiercely loyal and protective of the people they love. they’ll stand by your side through thick and thin, and you’ll always know they’ve got your back no matter what.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐

they’ve been through some tough stuff before (like heartbreak or betrayal), and they’re still working on getting over it. they’re in a process of healing, so they might be a bit cautious when it comes to love, but they’re definitely growing through it.

at times, they might feel a little lost or unsure about where they’re headed. they’re working on figuring things out, but they can get stuck in their head, trying to make the right choices. they may need a bit of time to get their confidence back before moving forward with big decisions.

they used to hold onto things too tightly, whether it was their money, their emotions, or their need to control everything. but now, they’re realizing they need to loosen up a bit and trust the process. they’re getting better at letting go of the things they can’t control.

they care a lot about building something real and secure for the future. they’re the kind of person who’s thinking about their career, their finances, and how to make sure they’ve got a strong foundation. they’re not into quick fixes; they’re focused on what lasts.

they can get caught up in the “what ifs” and feel like there are too many options to choose from. they might struggle with indecision or fantasizing about all the possibilities instead of making moves. they’re learning to focus and stop overthinking everything.

they’re someone who’s always looking for fresh starts. they might be starting a new chapter in their life—whether it’s career, relationships, or just personal growth. they’re focused on making things better and are always willing to work toward something new and more secure.

they’re ambitious and want more for themselves. they’re standing at a crossroads, thinking about what the next step looks like. they’re starting to plan ahead, but they’re also trying to figure out what path is the right one for them.

they’re soft-hearted and sensitive, not afraid to show their feelings. they’re the type to express their emotions and be vulnerable with the people they trust. they’re also really intuitive and can pick up on how others are feeling, offering emotional support when needed.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑

they’re someone who’s got their life together and doesn’t rely on others to feel secure. they’re proud of what they’ve built and enjoy the rewards of their hard work. they’re confident in their own abilities and don’t need validation from anyone else.

they know that good things take time. they’re not into rushing through life but are all about putting in the work and letting things grow naturally. they’re all about steady progress and building something real and long-lasting.

sometimes they feel unsure of themselves, especially when things aren’t going as planned. they may have moments of questioning their strength or abilities. they’re still figuring out how to trust themselves fully, but they’re working through it.

they can be a little guarded, especially when it comes to their emotions or what they’ve worked hard for. they like to keep control, but they’re learning to let go and trust more. it’s a process, but they’re getting there.

they’re the type of person who handles life with a lot of maturity. they take responsibility seriously and know how to manage their finances, their career, and their relationships in a practical way. they don’t take shortcuts.

they can be hard to read sometimes, and their emotions are deeper than they let on. they’re intuitive and sensitive, but they often keep their feelings under wraps. they might struggle to fully express what they’re going through, but they’re working on understanding themselves better.

they don’t like rushing into decisions. they’ll spend a lot of time weighing out their options and might even avoid making tough choices altogether. they want to make sure they’re doing the right thing, but they can get stuck in overthinking.

when they finally make up their mind, they’re sharp, direct, and won’t hesitate to go after what they want. they’re all about clarity and truth, and once they’re sure about something, they’re confident in their actions.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 !

hi! it's daphne here.

i'm currently offering personal readings for €8 and soulmate readings for €15 so don't hesitate to send me a private message if you're interested!

thank you for being here!

[trixierosewrites]

Biggest Mistakes I See While Editing

These aren't things that you should obsess over while writing your first draft, but if a scene feels flat, this could help:

Sentence length. Vary your sentence length, seriously; sometimes you can change a whole paragraph from flat to exciting by making one sentence only two or three words and by making another an extended sentence - a lot of people have a tendency, especially when editing, to make every sentence a first part, a comma, then a second part. Try changing it!

Dialogue tags. Have you perhaps obsessed over dialogue tags and now you have a hundred different ones? You don't need the word questioned. You really don't. Similarly, where someone might have used a hundred different dialogue tags, said can work better; sometimes you don't want a dialogue tag at all.

Vary paragraph lengths. Not every paragraph wants the exact same set of sentence lengths.

Take a hike. If it sounds terrible, sometimes it's not the sentence. Go on a walk, touch grass, read a book, watch a film; stop looking at the work and do something else. It will feel evil if you keep staring at it.

Wanting to be poetic to the point of being unreadable. Purple prose is real, but it's probably not the problem. Sometimes, however, you can say grass, and not "verdurous green malachite swayed like a dancer along the legs of the local children".

It's okay to tell the reader something. Often, the way to use telling instead of showing is a matter of pacing, so ask yourself is this action important? Opening a door to find a monster behind it can use suitably long retelling, that builds tension; opening a door to get to the other side mid conversation not so much.

Trust yourself. Don't go into editing thinking you're awful. Sometimes, you will know best. I'm not telling you to never take critique, but you don't have to take all of it. It's your story, and you know what you want to do with it.

Of course, there's no need to take my advice. Use what works for you and leave the rest. I hope this helps!

[sadboyeddie]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐨𝐛: 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

Summary: Bob has been acting different. You intend to find out why.

Warnings: (MDNI 18+) Fem!Reader, No Use Of Y/N, Blow Job, Sex Club, Smut, Dirty Talk

A/N: It’s been a hot minute since I have written smut so I hope it’s passable. Let me know tho.

WC: 6k

Series Masterlist

Something was off with Bob. 

He was acting strange somehow.

More secretive. More Suspicious.

You've gotten used to his many moods and behaviours since living together at the Watchtower. In fact with how many of the members of the team were trained to basically not feel shame you knew far too much about some of them. 

Walker on the other hand is just a dude who doesn't care. He's given up on shame.

But with Bob his day to day has become routine, a schedule he keeps to. He says it helps him manage the darker parts of his life, at first you thought he meant the Void; but he was also talking about his older habits. 

Bob has been clean for a long while now and there has never been an indication of a relapse, and honestly you're a little mad and disappointed with yourself for even thinking there might be. 

It's just Bob doesn't sneak out; he always tells at least someone, usually Yelena, where he's going. He doesn't clam up and start spluttering half baked excuses when asked what he did the previous night. He never blows off movie night, usually he's the first there in the common room with his blanket, waiting for you to arrive with the popcorn.

But he has been. He has been sneaking out, has been clamming up, he has been skipping out on movie night.

You try to casually ask around but for a bunch of spies who usually have no boundaries they seem very nonplussed about your queries.

Yelena assures you it's fine and to just leave it alone, Ava hasn't even really noticed and John says he's probably got a secret girlfriend.

You trust Yelena, you know how close her and Bob are. It once drove you mad with jealousy but after realising there was no romantic feelings between them the fogged cleared and you saw how good it was for Bob to have a best friend like Yelena.

Also you didn't want to be one of those people that got jealous every time a member of the opposite sex talked to someone you liked.

You do sometimes wish it was you though.

Anyway, since everyone was of so little help you decided to figure it out yourself. You were a pretty decent spy. 

--

Like Bob's normal routine of laundry on Sunday, grocery shopping on Wednesday and changing the bed linens on Saturday; his mysterious night time activity was also on a schedule. 

Twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday; leaving the tower at 7:30pm on the dot. 

You watch as he passes Yelena, offering her a small smile and a nod in greeting before getting on the elevator. 

She doesn't even ask where he's going. She must know something.

You decide against cornering her and asking again, you know there's no point. Not even Hydra would be able to torture the information out of her. Where's Bucky when you need him?

Okay, that was a little rude. Thank god there's no telepaths in the building.

You wait until you hear the door to Yelena's room close before heading towards the elevator, you watch as the numbers gradually countdown until reaching the first floor. You smack the button and wait for it to come back up, contemplating taking the stairs but there's no way you'd make it to the bottom in time. 

You should have planned for this. 

Before deciding to just base jump from a window the doors ding and you step inside, as you go to close the door you hear Walker calling for you to hold it. Feigning deafness you hit the 'close' button a few extra times and thankfully they shut before he makes it.

That last thing you see before the doors shut is John's annoyed yet confused gaze.

You impatiently tap your foot against the cool metal of the floor, why is this taking so long? Has the elevator always been this slow? What if there was an emergency?

When the doors open with a ding you let out a huff and speed walk over to the buildings exit, nodding to the security guard behind the desk. 

When you're on the street you frantically look around for the familiar flop of brown curls, the street is fairly empty this time of night but even with the street lights it's still dark.

"What way did Bob go?" you call back to the guard. 

With a slightly startled jump, he puts down the word jumble and points to the left, you give him a quick thank you before making your way down the sidewalk.

Thankfully you don't have to break out into a jog because a few meters up the road is Bob. 

You take a second to fall back a bit, getting a little too close in your eagerness to find him. 

He has his airpods in and is bopping his head a bit to whatever song he is listening to, a plastic bag swinging beside him as he walks. Did he always have the bag? 

Usually you'd find that cute and endearing but you're in work mode right now. No time for fun.

You're feeling immense guilt with each step you take. He's done nothing to truly make you doubt his trust and yet here you are stalking him. The man just brings this out in you. You swear before moving to the tower you used to have boundaries.

Bob is your friend, one of your closest. You spend the most time with him then anyone, hell, most nights he ends up in bed with you. 

When it started he'd make up poor excuses; glare from the street lights (50 floors up?), cold in his room, (he usually slept with the A/C on cause he runs hot), Alexei snores, that one you believed. 

But you could never find yourself to care because you quickly realised that you slept better next to Bob. Your nightmares weren't as frequent and you ran cold so you enjoyed having a personal heater in your bed. He's like a barnacle that attaches itself to you as soon as he hits the mattress and you find that his touch grounds you. 

He's told you that it helps him too, you did notice that after the first few times the dark bags under his eyes started to recede, and maintenance wasn't having to come up and change as many light bulbs anymore, when Bob would wake from his nightmares he'd let out a pulse of energy that was like an EMP. 

Much to your disappointment nothing sexual ever came of it, Bob being far too polite and shy. The closest you have ever gotten is feeling his hard on in the morning before he stutters out and apology and rushes from your room. You always felt a tad guilty wishing more did come from it, he saw you as a means of comfort and you wanted to climb him like a tree. 

You often felt he reciprocated your feelings, that was until you saw him interact with anyone else. All smiles and crimson cheeks, biting his lips and meaningful stares. Stupid Bob making everyone he interacts with feel special.

You thought you had made a new breakthrough with your relationship when it became more playful and sassy but you noticed once again he became like that with others when he had warmed up to them enough. 

Still you had your own things that you did together, apart from sleeping in the same bed, you had tv shows that just the two of you would watch, you'd wear his clothes and he'd put his hair up in one of your scrunchies when it would get into his eyes when reading. Sometimes when he was out shopping he'd buy you some clothes and trinkets, stuff he thought you'd like. 

You were even wearing one of the shirts now; grey with a small butterfly decal on the chest.

You're pulled out of your thoughts when Bob crosses the road, you wait for a car to pass before following, making sure to maintain a distance. 

You end up following him for a good twenty minutes before he makes a sharp right turn down an alleyway, you're grateful he walked, you would have never been able to catch up to him if he took a taxi or uber. 

But you know Bob likes to walk, he says it helps regulate his moods. Every morning he goes for a walk around the local park, sometimes you join but he does like to go alone, listening to music and getting his steps in is almost as beneficial as therapy according to him.  

You peak out from behind the brick wall of the apartment building and watch as Bob takes a quick glance around before knocking a pattern onto a metal door. 

Your heart sinks into your ass as you watch him enter the sketchy building, your fears being all but confirmed. 

You spend what feels like an eternity fighting with yourself, deciding whether or not to go home or go drag his ass out of whatever crack den he's found himself in. 

You know you don't technically have a right to do that, you're not his girlfriend or parole officer, but you promised him the last time he almost Voided out that you'll be there to pull him from the fire, no matter what. 

You know that the only thing that's holding you back is the obvious rage Bob will feel towards you when he realises you violated his trust but it's something you're willing to deal with. 

You march with purpose to the end of the alleyway and think back for a second, remembering the coded door knock. 

Shuffling awkwardly you wait with baited breath until the small socket slides across, a pair of eyes give you a once over before the door creaks open. 

You're instantly met with a wall of sound, loud music and a deep bass coming from behind the broad shouldered bouncer.

"You comin' or what?" he asks, clearly annoyed. 

You duck your head and slide past him, confusion hitting you like a truck. 

Walking through a dark hallway, you make your way towards the source of music, the closer you get the more your eyes start to adjust, there's small dim lights on the walls but they do nothing. 

When you reach the end of the corridor the doorway is covered by a heavy black curtain and another attendant is standing by. 

They barely pay you any mind, busy on their phone, as they lift it back for you to walk past. 

In all your years of espionage nothing could have trained you for this. 

You stand there, eyes wide as you take in your surroundings. 

The large room is better lit but still dark; mood lighting. All across the room is people in various forms of nudity and undress. Masses of skin and writhing bodies. The area is a deep red and almost all surfaces are velvet, various toys and lewd art decorate the walls, couches and booths are scattered around the room as well as stools and cushioned benches. A bar sits at the far end against the back wall.

You're no stranger to sex and intimacy but you are way out of your depth here. 

For a brief moment you watch what is happening around you and forget why you came. 

You take note of the bar at the back of the room, male and female waitstaff walking around naked with only black and white collars on their necks, if not for the trays of alcohol in their hands you'd think they were part of the activities.

Although judging by the waitress to the right of you being taken against a table perhaps they do join in on the fun.

The wanton moaning and sounds of completion are starting to get to you, your mouth going dry as your body heats up. You go to leave, this is all too much and you can't focus, but as you turn to go your eyes catch on a figure, a very familiar figure.

This time when you see Bob he's only wearing his jeans, top half completely bare, but that's not what stopped you in your tracks; the woman holding his hand and pulling him along looks like you!

You choke on the saliva that's filled your mouth as your mind short circuits. This woman features are far too similar to yours to be a coincidence. 

Same hair; length and colour, same build; height and weight, and if you had to guess you'd say she may even have the same eye colour.

You watch as he follows along obediently, the small plastic bag swinging by his side and a smile on his face as he's being lead from the room, through more curtained doorways. 

The burning inside you is no longer from arousal and embarrassment, you now feel very jealous. 

Anger and hurt also bubble under the surface. Why would he go out to a club and find someone who looks like you when you look like you?

Okay, that's not a smart argument but he already has you, so he doesn't need her.

"You're overdressed," a deep voice says from beside you; snapping you from your intelligent thoughts.

You turn towards the man but quickly avert your gaze when you realise how very naked and very turned on he his.

He lets out a chuckle at your innocence before talking again. "First time?" His voice is a little louder to cut through the sea of groaning.

"That obvious?" Your laugh is strained and forced but polite none the less. 

"Very," he chuckles, if not for his bare body and this entire situation you wouldn't mind talking to him, he kind of looks like Prince Caspian. "You want a drink?"

"Desperately," you reply without thinking, your eyes now landing on his face, strictly on his face, "but I'm curious as to what goes on behind those curtains." You point to the door Bob went through. 

"Private rooms," he points to he left, "glory hole booths," he grabs two glasses of brown liquid off a passing waiters tray and hands you one, "whiskey," he nods.

Your heart plummets at the information but you're grateful for the drink, though whiskey has never been your favourite it will do in a crisis. 

"Want a closer look?" his suggestive tone is deep and sultry and honestly if you weren't bat shit crazy about the ex meth addict that lived three rooms down from you, you'd probably take him up on his offer. 

"I'll have to take a rain check," you shrug apologetically, but the tall handsome man with seemingly black eyes seems to take no offense with your rejection. 

"Another time," he smiles as he leaves you to it, his attention already quickly being taken away buy a dark haired woman. 

You make your way around the crowd, nervous that if you walk through and get too close someone might grab you and pull you in. 

When you reach the curtain there's no attendant there to usher you through, which you're relieved about. The less people to witness whatever you're doing or about to do the better. 

This hallway is much better lit, there are sconces by each door which is adorned with a metal plate that labels the room. 

On each side of the hallway there are five doors, you're probably about to see a lot of stuff you don't want to but you're desperate. 

You place your ear against the cold wood of the first door on the left, hoping to hear voices or at the very least you hope might be able to pick out Bobs moans. He's got a pretty deep voice so you've always assumed his sounds of pleasure would be just as deep. 

Unfortunately the door is very thick and any sound or voices you hear are muffled and faint. 

You take a breath to prepare yourself before slowly turning the knob, cracking open only enough to see if the occupants are either Bob or the doppelganger - doppelbanger. 

You let out a small miserable chuckle at your stupid word play and a small relieved sigh when you see they aren't in here, that is until you hear the whip come down on the mans ass and thighs, you wince at the crack but the man makes a sound that you once heard on a nature documentary about tigers so you guess he's having a hell of a time. 

Good for him, at least someone is. 

You continue on with your pervy task of violation as you switch to the other door opposite to this one. 

- 

You're not sure how much time has passed but you're down to the last two doors.

You admittedly took a little longer as one of the rooms really intrigued you, a woman on her back with her head handing off the bed as a man quite literally fucked her throat. 

Maybe you were a bit of a voyeur.

Maybe you needed therapy.

But first you needed to find Bob. 

But what are you going to do when you find him? Burst into the room like some perverted knight in shinning armour? It's not like Bob was here against his will. Would you confess that you like him? Is this really the time and place?

The rational thoughts leave your head as quickly as they came when you hear a loud broken moan coming from your left, you let out a pitiful noise (and squeeze your legs together, what is wrong with you?) as part of you already knows that this is Bob's room. 

With practiced ease you crack the door open and hurt your own feelings when you confirm your suspicions. There lies Bob on the bed, red and covered in sweat as the copy of you slides off him and collapses on the side. You notice she's not even fully naked but your focus is not on her.

You're screaming in your own head to turn away, go home and cry into some ice cream - or better yet nachos, but you've already crossed so many boundaries tonight why not a few more?

Bobs eyes are closed, a very fucked and blissed out expression covers his face as he fights to catch his breath, thanks to the large angled mirror at the head of the bed you can see everything. His length, thickness, the veins, how it curves slightly to the left - and to your utter surprise; a stick-and-poke tattoo high on his upper thigh, is that Kermit (?), close to his dick.

Which now is starting to get hard again.

You remember having a rather detailed conversation with Alexei about the refractory periods of Super Soldiers, the conversation was funny until it wasn't. Yelena's obvious discomfort of the topic her father chose was humourous until he started to make it personal and then everyone was uncomfortable.

"You goin' to the booths after this, Robby?" Not You asks as she traces a perfectly manicured finger over his chest, making him tremble slightly. You have tp squeeze your fists to hold back the jealousy.

"Yeah," his breathing is back to normal but his voice is soft and slow, "will you be in there tonight?" he seems so hopeful and that causes your heart to crack open just a little bit more.

"Not tonight," she sounds almost sad, "but there's some good one's in there."

By now Bob is almost completely hard again and he goes to sit up on the side of the bed, Not You follows suit. That's when you notice it. Notice the clothes the Copy is wearing.

She's dressed just like you.

And not just in clothes you own and wear sometimes, no she's wearing almost the exact same thing you're wearing now. 

Same grey shirt with black sleeves and a small butterfly decal, the black jean jacket that has fallen down her arms is the same as yours, hell, even the white velvet scrunchy in her hair is the same. 

What in the Twilight Zone, Invasion of the Body Snatchers is going on here?

A brief glance lower and you realise even her underwear is the same, red lace! How did he know what you're wearing?

Whatever guilt you previously felt over violating Bob is gone because this perv is just as bad as you.

And the thing that should probably repulse or disgust you; is that you don't care. You don't care even a little bit. Bob is so desperate for you he basically replicated you. 

Even though you were right there!

Okay, so the anger is back. 

In your moment of realisation you didn't notice Bob getting to his feet and getting dressed, even the Replicant has changed back to her other outfit, which was easy - nipple pasties and black lacy panties. 

You close the door quietly and start to panic when Bob starts moving to leave. He can't catch you here now!

You hot foot it to the end of the hallway and out through the curtain, if you bravely risk your hygiene and safety by going through the Naked Sea you could probably make it out before Bob exits the hallway. 

But the sight of Yelena standing in front of the exit causes you to stop still and let out a far too loud "what the fuck!"

Thankfully the man jackrabbiting into the woman near you, and her sounds of tortured bliss, drown out your frustrated cry. 

The Jackrabbit man makes awkward eye contact with you - awkward for you, he seems to rather enjoy it. 

Before you can stop yourself you give him a thumbs up and a "nice form!" before turning to the glory hole hallway, not even waiting to hear the reply from the man.

This hallway is almost identical to the last, except there are double the amount of doors and each pair of doors are closer together. There's two signs above the entrance to the hallway; one with a large hole and a lewd drawing of a lower half; legs spread, the other more simple, a smaller hole with a penis coming through it.

You head down to the end of hallway and open the door to the right, the penis hole side.

Weird thing to say. 

Thankfully it's empty, you lock the door behind you and take a seat on the admittedly comfy cushioned stool and wait for this to all blow over. 

You have to admit, the sound proofing in this place is pretty spectacular, the small speakers in the corner playing soft music also adds to the ambiance, it's fairly clean and there's a box of wet wipes and a small bin in the corner. This place is kinda nice. Maybe that's why Yelena was here.

Wait! Why the hell is she here? Who else comes here? Is this a hangout place for the Thunderbolts to decompress? How come you weren't invited?

Unfortunately you weren't meant to find peace because your quiet moment is interrupted by someone entering the stall connected to yours. 

If you hadn't have been in such as rush you might have noticed the small lights next to the door that signified occupancy and that when you locked the door the light went from green to yellow, which meant the person inside was waiting for another. The light is now red, you guess that indicates that the booths are now occupied.

But your earlier gloating about being a good spy was now invalid because you are a terrible spy. 

You hear someone clear their throat on the other end followed by the shuffling of clothes. You go to rush out protests, putting your face dangerously close to the hole but that's when your eyes catch on something.

Hi-ho, Kermit the fucking frog. 

What was he thinking, honestly. 

"Is this o-okay?" his deep unsure voice cuts through the silent tension, Bob completely unaware of the conundrum you're currently facing. 

Whelp, when in Rome. 

You try to drop your voice an octave lower before answering in a whisper, you'd rather be strapped to a car battery again then face the humiliation of Bob finding you here. 

"F'course, sweetheart," you inwardly curse as the pet name you normally call Bob comes out automatically. 

The desperate whimper he lets out shows you that he didn't mind one bit.

"Like it-like it when you call me that," his voice is already wrecked but that could be chalked up to his previous activities.

A sour taste fills your mouth and you silently scold yourself.

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and you will not ruin this for yourself!

In your brief trance Bob has slipped his hardened cock through the hole, and you let out an audible gasp; not intending for it to be that loud you bite your lip.

"Like that, honey?" he asks, letting his pet name for you easily slip through his lips. 

Or maybe he just calls everyone that, you think bitterly before scolding yourself again.

Stop it!

"It's thick," you hum, "I like that," you move a little closer and Bob lets out a small shutter at your warm breath against his member. You could really have some fun with this. 

"Put it in your mouth, honey," he sounds desperate, pathetic, just like you feel, "suck on it, please."

His cock bobs in front of you, a small bead of pre come gathers at the tip and you find yourself utterly entranced. 

You lean forward and lick over the head, making sure to clean off all the salty liquid before wrapping your hand around the base.

His hips move closer to the wall giving you more to work with, suddenly you hear a slight thud above you followed by a muffled whine, if you had to guess Bob probably dropped his head against the wall in front of him.

A small breathy chuckle falls from your lips onto the underside of his cock, which in turn twitches in your hand. He's so sensitive. 

You slowly lick the vein at the base all the way up to the tip, repeating the action a few more times just to spread some saliva around. 

"Pl-please," you like when he begs, "I want more," he whines again. 

"Be a good boy for me, sweetheart" you whisper, you think he didn't hear you but judging by the small curse from the other side you know he did. You remember Bucky saying how the Serum enhances the senses. All the senses.

"I'll be good," he swears, "I'll be so good, I p-promise, honey."

You clench your thighs together, the deep vibration mixed with the desperation in his voice getting to you. 

You lean forward and take the head of his cock in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and adding a tight suction before taking more of him in. 

"Fuck!" he slams a fist down on the wall as you continue to suck him down, inch by inch, only stopping when he hits the back of your throat.

You hold him there for a minute, savouring the feeling of him, taking joy in the fact you're finally living out one of your fantasies. 

Unfortunately you never mastered the whole gag reflex thing and the burning in your eyes and throat is becoming too much, you pull off of Bob with a loud gag followed by a whine before going to apologise, Bob doesn't let you.

"Fuck, honey, do that again," his voice comes out rushed, "please choke on my cock again."

This isn't your first blow job but a quick suck and fuck with a few men who weren't even close to the size of Bob really makes a difference.

You gracelessly wipe your eyes and nose before spitting on your hand and giving him a few strokes, base to tip, he slightly stutters forward with a groan. 

You get higher on your knees and kiss the head of his cock twice before swallowing it down, making sure to cover your teeth the deeper you take him. 

Before you can make it all the way down Bob lets out a broken whimper as he thrusts forward, his cock hitting the back of your throat hard making you gag, you pull back to collect yourself as you hear Bob rush out apologies. 

You don't really hear him as you watch a thick string of saliva that's connected from your mouth to his cock, you watch mesmerised as it starts to sag down, before it breaks you lean forward and wrap your mouth around him again.

The words die on his lips and is replaced by a drawn out moan, deep and warm, one that you could find yourself getting used to hearing.

You don't shy away from the uncomfortable feeling of him at the back of your throat, instead you lean into the burn, with each and every gag Bob lets out a small sound of pleasure or a curse, every time you swallow around him; savouring every drop of pre cum that dribbles out of his cock as he hits the wall with his hand. 

He has his thrusting pretty much under control but each time one rough snap of his hips sneaks through, thankfully it's not hard enough to bring you to a stop, though you have tears streaming down your cheeks and your mouth and chin are covered in a mixture of drool and pre come. 

You're suddenly reminded of the woman on the bed getting her face fucked, how she barely choked.

You try to remember hushed conversations whispered between friends in the middle of the night at high school sleepovers; if you relax the throat and breath through your nose it's much easier. 

You tighten the fist that's still wrapped around the base of Bob's cock, too long to fit entirely in your mouth, and you rub your thumb on the underside, gently over his vein. A move you'd normally do when holding his hand while watching a move. 

"Oh, fuck," his voice is raw and full of pleasure, "I'm c-close," you think you can hear scratching against the wall, "honey, I'm so close."

You relax your throat as much as you can while trying to breath through your nose, allowing yourself to feel pleasure, you reach down and unbutton your jeans. 

"Yes, fuck-touch yourself," Bob whimpers, his sensitive hearing picking up on an almost soundless action, "come with me, honey."

You push past the waistline of your underwear and groan at how wet you are, the vibration sends a thrill through Bob's cock and he lets out a debauched moan at the feeling. 

Wasting no time you use two fingers to gather your slick before rubbing it over your sensitive clit, your whole body is wracked with a shiver at the feeling. 

You get to work catching up on your orgasm, honestly you're not that far behind, you truly believe that you would have been able to come from the feeling of Bob's cock and rubbing your thighs together alone. 

You match your fingers with the pace of your mouth, flicking your bundle of nerves when ever you flick your tongue over his tip.

"Switch, fuck, switch hands, honey," Bob pleads and you slow down just a fraction making him whine. "Want your slick on my cock," he begs.

A noise falls from your mouth that you never thought you could make, a moan mixed with a whimper, muffled by Bob's cock, you quickly follow his instructions and switch hands, but before you do you scoop up some of your wetness between your fingers. 

As you make the switch your eyes widen at the sticky mess coating your digits, you are far more gone then you thought. 

Bob cries out when he feels the warm wet heat of your other hand, he ruts against the hole uncaring of the protesting whines you let out. 

He babbles out apologies but makes no move of stopping. "Sorry, h-honey, can't stop," he's breathless and wrecked, "s'your fault, you did this," he blames, he sounds too far gone like he doesn't even know he's talking. "Drive me wild, love your sweet mouth, wanna feel your pussy."

You pull back with a moan, unable to keep up with his new punishing pace. You can already feel the the back of your throat bruising.

"Wanted this for so long, imagine it all the time." Your breath catches at his confession although you're not sure what he's confessing to exactly. "Get so hard in bed next t'you, honey, wanna come on your sleeping body, fuck! Wanna wake you up with my cock!"

The hand that was rubbing your clit stills as you listen to Bob, now terrified, but still very much aroused, that he's figured out it's you. You make the decision to go down with the ship, you might as well enjoy it in case you never get to do it again when Bob gets a clear head.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" you pull back and spit the saliva that's pooled in your mouth onto his cock, "desperate for me?" You ask before taking him back into your mouth, you resume the movement on your clit, feeling yourself getting closer to the edge.

"Ye-fuck, yes, honey," he slams in deeper again, hips stuttering as he's reaching his end, "wanna wake you with my cock buried inside you, wanna live inside you," he lets a choked moan slip out, "please, wanna come."

The depraved confession followed by the desperate plea sends you careening over the edge, your broken cry is muffled on Bob's cock and the vibration of your wrecked sobs paired with the grazing of your teeth on his sensitive skin is sending him right behind you. 

Loud groans fall from his lips, followed by a name that is unmistakably yours, as he paints your throat with his come. "Swallow it all," he begs breathlessly, "keep me inside of you, always."

You hollow out your cheeks as you milk him dry, making sure not to waste even a single drop, your fingers are still lazily stroking over your sensitive bud as you slowly come down from the high. 

Bob lets out another whine as you pull of his softening cock, the air still thick with tension, but this time it's a different sort of tension.

He pulls himself through the hole and you wait, like a coward, for him to talk first. Like a never ending torture he drags this out, zipping himself up and making himself more presentable. 

Finally, finally, he says something, "I'm sorry."

You're so caught off guard you make a small noise of confusion. That's not what you were expecting.

"I didn't mean to say those things," he says, his voice sounds a little guilty, "or call you by that name," he takes a heavy breath, "it's just someone I have a crush on." His small humourless chuckle makes you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

He doesn't know it's you!

Are you happy or disappointed? 

A bit of both, really.

"S'okay," you whisper, deciding to keep up the lie, at least for now, "I liked it."

His laugh now is breathy and a bit lighter, "good," there's a bit of movement on his side before you hear the opening of his door, "thank you."

Before you can answer he's gone. You sit back on your legs and take a second to wait for him to leave, you grab some wipes to clean yourself up as you try to wrap your head around what just happened. 

You sucked Bob's dick.

You sucked Bob's dick and he has no idea. 

Bob has a Kermit the frog tattoo. 

You're going to have so much fun with this.

As all these very important thoughts run through your head you're suddenly snapped back to reality when the door opens and closes again, part of you is excited, hoping it's Bob but when a heavy, gruff and familiar Russian accent fills the room you let out an undignified yelp and scramble to leave.

Does everyone come to this fucking club?!

- 

On the walk back to the tower Bob lets out a small smirk, his senses filled with your scent, a smell that's undeniably you. He couldn't believe his luck when he saw you peaking on him in the private room at the club, he's cock hardening as he felt your hot gaze on his body.

He's going to have so much fun with this.

Chapter One done Edited 5/7/25

[kenyummy]

guysssssgyuysss ok i never thought id post about neglevtful batfam ever but im lit rotting so hard

spidey reader who gets transported to an alternate dimension where you replace a different you—a you that's the "forgotten" child of the waynes. in this universe, you're bitter, quiet, not the wise-cracking hero your universe adores—most of all, you're not spidey here. spidey doesn't even exist.

(alfred is the uncle ben esque figure??? perhaps???)

you don't even know who your supposed family even is—you only find out through diary entries and searching through this other you's phone—so you barely give them the time of day.

you're too busy now to fret about their vigilantism—to annoy them—you have your own problems as spidey to try and form a bond. you just want to go home.

the fam on the other handdddd — they are confused. a new spider hero pops up out of nowhere—and you're suddenly as cold as ice. you don't bother to cook meals with Alfred anymore, nor bring them first aid kits and give them sad eyes when they shoo you away.

the house lacks the presence of normality you used to bring—now you're up till 3am doing God knows what (spidey stuff) and you're too busy to even try and start a conversation (not that it ever went anywhere, but still).

theyre all so confused and freaked out by your sudden change overnight that they start to miss you and how normal you were—not knowing how it grounded them all until you started to ice them out </3

you have far more pressing matters to attend to, like the strange influx of people from your world either already existing or being transported here—on top of keeping your secret identity safe from your suddenly overbearing and worrysome family members.

(you don't even want to know what they'd do if they found out you're the reckless spider hero that stopped a train from going off its tracks just last monday).

at some point (probably after they find out you're spidey) you tell them about how this isn't actually their you, and that you're from another universe—but they're so far gone they don't even care at that point—they love u and just want u back already!!!

they don't care you're not technically their [name], they love you more than anything and you're their sibling!! no way youll be going "back home" now. this is your home, silly!

give up that whole hero thing—they got it covered. you just need to go back to normal and they'll protect you (even though you need protecting the least out of all of them—but they don't see that)!!! they miss their slice of normal in their hectic life, you can't take that away from them!

im lit geekinggggvggg stop guys i

lowkey im thinking of love interests being some of my guilty pleasure spidey ships ahgaseHhhh but like it'll acc play a part in the plot trust

spideytorch and parksborne my lovesloves harry and johnny so badddd but i also love kon GAHHHN fml

but I could see them HATINGGGG johnny like they would want him GONE. esp if they see him (before ur reveal) kissing you on a rooftop as spidey, then walking around arm in arm with you at school—convinced that he's cheating on their baby sibling (you're the same age as tim, but okay) !!!! every time they hear you're going out w him they try their hardest to keep you away—you have no business going out w a guy like that 😒

they wouldn't want a womaniser player like him anywhere NEAR you!!! you may trust him, but they do notttt

theyd probably be a little more okay with harry... hes one of those gotham elites—but he chose to go to the "poorer" school with you for years because he just wanted to be w you and mj. he's a little snobby, but isn't every nepo baby? hes lowkey your damsel in distress like you end up saving him in all kinds of situations by princess style carrying him out of a burning building heheheer

(also his dad isn't crazy and green goblin... yet)

obviously the fam already has a lil beef with kon... being... kon (even tim wouldnt want his bestest buddy to go after his spider sibling). not as bad as johnny... but you shouldn't be dating guys, period. aren't they all you need?

anywayssss yes. this has been rotting me so bad I lowkey need to spill this b4 I go crazy stfhhhgrsgghh

SHOULD I WRITE THIS BC I HAVE SUCH BAD BRAINROTTT