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senditcolton · 10 months ago

Note

Request: Mean Marty smut. Because “we’re a bad idea” is completed (loved the character progression in that last chapter, by the way), there’s a good chance Lamoriello isn’t re-signing him and Clutter, and this entire off-season has hurt my heart. Dealer’s choice on the content.

- 💛

I'm Not Sentimental, but...

some information's not for sharing. use different names at hotel check-ins. it's hard to stop is once it starts

summary: being Matt Martin's sugar daddy isn't for the weak song inspo: billie bossa nova by billie eilish word count: 5k warnings: smut! sugar daddy!Matt Martin, bondage, sensory deprivation, oral (m receiving), sex toys, overstimulation, dirty talk, and just general depravity... i'm going to hell, it's fine. Disclaimer: Reading/creating content for married players isn’t for everyone. Please don’t read if you don’t vibe with it, but don’t attack me or others!

Aman. Premiere Suite. Ten o’clock. Sharp.

That was the four sentence text message Matt Martin had sent you earlier today. A text message that you had been repeating in your head almost religiously, as if being able to recite it from memory would make him forgive you for the fact that it was now 10:15 and you were still a block away.

Hell, being able to recite the message would most likely get you into even more trouble.

Instead of memorizing the now irrelevant text, you should’ve been practicing a rehearsed speech of excuses to tell him when you finally did arrive: your boss kept you at work for longer than expected, you had to stop at your house to get ready, dressing to the parameters that Matt had set in the text massage prior to the one rattling in your brain. Anything that would transfer the blame from you onto someone else. But you knew it would be pointless.

Matt loved reminding you that you were capable of anything. A reminder that was uplifting when brought up in conversations about the education he was helping pay for. A reminder that was shameful when he said it in that degrading tone that made you weak in the knees.

When the two of you had agreed to this dynamic all those months ago, you knew what you were signing up for. Being a sugar baby wasn’t for the meek. That statement was only amplified when you added Matt Martin to the equation.

After all, no sane person would willingly agree to trudge down New York City streets in a set of highly risqué lingerie, the only protection between you and indecent exposure being a long tan trench coat.

Yet… here you were.

A sigh of relief whooshes out of you when you see the neon sign of the hotel ahead, your pace quickening as if that would make up for lost time. You try to keep an air of confidence about you as you walk into the lobby, your heels clicking on the tile floor. The song-and-dance at the front desk is blissfully short – only the words ‘premiere suite’ needed to fall from your mouth before someone is escorting you to the private elevator. You step inside, the doors closing and you watch the LED numbers increase, your heartrate rising with it.

You were so late. You were in so much trouble. But, instead of the dread you should’ve felt at the thought of facing Matt’s disappointment, there was a thrum of excitement running through you.

It wasn’t anything to lie about. In fact, Matt often liked to tease you, asking if you broke the rules on purpose because you liked the punishment. Whenever he asked, both you and he knew that there was no denying the truth.

It was a deliciously predictable game of cat-and-mouse. You knew exactly how far you could push and he knew exactly how much you could take. It was a transaction, like every other part of your arrangement. And while some might think that knowledge would dampen the mood, it actually just made it even more intoxicating.

The elevator finally stops, the doors opening directly into the suite – an elegantly decorated room decked in the blacks and beiges that screamed bougie. You step forward, out of the elevator, your heels sinking into the carpet as your eyes dart around the room, looking for Matt. You eventually spy the outline of his tall frame in front of the opened bay doors, the cool air streaming in from the balcony, fluttering the curtains. He has his back to you, his arms crossed and you see an empty whiskey glass dangling from his fingers.

He knew you were there. He had to have known that you were there, the elevator ding when you arrived being anything but subtle. Yet, he didn’t acknowledge you – just kept staring out at 5th Avenue.

Perhaps against your better judgement, you decide to break the silence with a gentle whisper of his name but before you could add another word to the single syllable sentence, his voice cuts you off.

“What time is it?”

It’s a somewhat rhetorical question but one that demands an answer nonetheless. He knew the time but more importantly, he knew that you knew the time. But he wanted you to acknowledge it – admit your failings – and that delectable shame causes the heat to rise in your cheeks.

“10:28,” you whisper out and your quiet admission has Matt turning to face you. He looks good, like always. The white button-down shirt is cut perfectly to his body, the black of his slacks and his tan tie making it seem like he belonged in this room. Everything about him screamed power and luxury, from the Windsor knot still snug below his throat, to the Rolex on his wrist, to his cufflinks glinting in the low lamplight.

“10:28,” he repeats. He moves forward, quickly abandoning his glass on a nearby table, his now empty hands coming to grip your chin and tilt your head back to lock your eyes with his. “It’s like you don’t want to see me,” he muses, the dangerous sparkle in his irises only hinting at what was to come.

“Of course, I do,” you rebut, the pleading edge to your voice sounding almost too sickly sweet to even your ears. “But –”

Whatever words you had poised to fall from your lips are silenced by Matt pulling your face towards him to crash his lips against yours. You should hate how much you melt under his touch, how willingly you open your mouth to allow his tongue to have access. But you don’t. It was nearly impossible to hate Matt Martin, even when his lips disappear from yours.

“No excuses, sweetheart. We both know any excuse you have could be resolved if you just let me take care of you entirely,” he whispers, his thumb brushing along your jawline.

The proposal isn’t new; it’s one that he had casually suggested almost every night since your arrangement started. It was also pointless to argue with him because he was telling the truth. He had enough money to make it so you could exist to only be on his arm and at his beck and call. But that wasn’t the life you had envisioned. He knew that. He respected that.

This was your boundary for him; one that he liked to toy at but you knew he would never cross.

“I know,” you whisper, having no other answer to give him. It seems to be enough, that lazy smug smile appearing on his face; the one that had Islander fans cheer and opponents sneer when he was playing. One that occasionally appeared in press conferences he attended as Assistant General Manager. It signals an end to the conversation and acts as a segue into the inevitable.

His hands fall from your face, moving to your coat as he deftly unties the long belt from its cinched position around your waist. The material slips from your frame with a surprising ease, leaving you clad in the lingerie he requested – the set he bought you a week ago. The undergarments are more for decoration than actual function, considering the only coverage on your chest was a pair of satin ribbons and the fabric around your hips disappeared when it came time to cover your core.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, his hands delicately tracing the lines of your body, toying with but not undoing the bows on your chest and hips. The sharp breath that he sucks in between his teeth at the sight of you makes the heat pool in your lower stomach.

“Wanted to make sure I looked perfect for you.”

“Think that will excuse you for being late?” he asks, that smirk reappearing as his head cocks to the side. You quickly shake your head in a negative (even though you hoped that flattery would get you out of whatever torture was to come), an action to which his only response is a deep chuckle.

He walks away from you for a moment, the space between Matt’s heat and your newly exposed body allowing the coolness of the night air to hit your skin. You watch him pick up the pale pink leather cuffs that you only now realized had been waiting for you on the table next to the whiskey glass he abandoned a few short minutes ago.

“Wrists.”

The single word is all it takes for you to present your hands to him, watching with baited breath as he wraps the material around your joints, buckling the hardware securely against your skin. You let him guide your arms behind your back, the click of the restraints locking together seemingly reverberating around your ribcage.

“Knees.”

It is somewhat ridiculous how single syllable words are all Matt needs to utter to have you obeying him perfectly. The descent to your knees is easy, the plush carpet forgiving, and your eyes glance up, tracking Matt’s movement as he walks back in front of you, towering over your body more than he usually did. His hands come to his neck, elegant fingers undoing his tie, allowing the material to now drape down either side of his collar. He continues to deconstruct the professional façade he was wearing like a mask, unbuttoning the top buttons of his dress shirt and removing the cufflinks to roll up his sleeves. His hands return to the silken material of his tie, pulling one side until it falls from his frame. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize his intentions with said material, a pout forming on your lips as he takes the fabric in both hands.

“Don’t give me that look, darling,” he coos as he moves the material towards your face, the stretch of fabric between his fists the perfect length to wrap around your head, the high-quality silk covering your eyes and plunging the room into darkness. You feel his adept fingers loop the material, careful not to get it tangled in your hair as he tugs a secure knot against the back of your skull.

“Felt like you didn’t want to see me tonight anyway,” he muses, his voice now becoming your only guide as he continues, “since you were almost a half-hour late.”

“I’m sorry,” you whine, knowing that the plea, no matter how pathetic, would fall onto deaf ears.

“I know, sweetheart.”

His reply is pitying but firm – a staple in the dynamic established between the two of you. Rules had been laid out and it was only befitting that when one was broken, a punishment followed.

Although, the sound of his belt buckle coming undone combined with the snap of the leather as it slipped from his belt loops didn’t sound like the beginnings of a punishment to you.

Your mouth opens with practiced ease, outstretching your tongue and submitting yourself to him in what you were sure looked like the most perfect bow-tied present. He chuckles and you feel his fingers grip your chin again before his thumb is pressing against the pink muscle of your tongue.

“That eager for me, aren’t you?”

You only response is to wrap your lips around the digit, gently suckling – just enough to tempt him into giving you the real thing. He laughs, his thumb slipping out of the wet cavern of your mouth before the sound of him unzipping of his dress pants causes your mouth to open again.

It is slight torture, waiting for him, not being able to see him and not being able to know what was coming and when it was coming. But that only heightened the excitement you felt when the delectable weight of his shaft came to rest on your outstretched tongue. You feel the appendage slide against you, the tip of it disappearing into your mouth – shallowly at first but slowly increasing its depth. You press your tongue against the bottom of his length, a silent indication that you were willing and ready to take all of him, one that Matt reads and responds to by holding the side of your head as his hips begin to move, thrusting into your mouth. You relax your throat, allowing him to slip deeper as he takes what he needs from your body, the filthy praise rolling from his lips while yours are otherwise occupied.

“Never get tired of this,” he groans from above you. “Never get tied of seeing your mouth wrapped around my cock. Of feeling your throat constrict around me. Such a good girl – such a pretty perfect slut for me.”

You can hear his words become stuttered, feel the steady rhythm of his thrusts turn staccato and it isn’t long until his climax comes, the feeling of his release filling your mouth almost as intoxicating as the taste of him. You suck, cleaning him with an eager deftness that has him groaning, a trill running through you. You wish you could see him – see the post-orgasm glow that alit his skin, see the way he pushes back the strands of hair that always fell over his forehead. For the first time since he took your sight away, it felt like a punishment.

He finally pushes back, the silky smoothness of his length removing itself from your mouth until a single string of silverly saliva is all that connects you. A laugh emanates from his chest as he takes you in, surely looking like a mess with the sheen of sweat on your skin, the spit on you lips, the track of tears escaping from underneath the makeshift blindfold.

“Y’look so beautiful. Gonna take a picture,” he mutters and you gently nod your head in consent.

You hear the click of a phone camera before Matt’s hands are back on your body, this time lifting you up off the ground before trailing down your arms to unclasp the restraints. He doesn’t remove the material from your eyes, leaving you still blind as he guides you further into the room. You allow him to manipulate your body, letting him push and turn you until he is gently pressing you back against the mattress of the king-sized bed, the sheets gliding against your skin. He guides your arms up over your head and your once again hear the click of the restraints although this time when you tug, the resistance you are met with is not your own wrists but a wooden bedframe.

Another whine escapes from you, the previous act of having him in your mouth only succeeding in making you even more desperate; something that Matt most likely knew, hence why he still prevented you from touching him or even seeing him. You are simply forced to wait in deprived silence, listening intently to every noise that hits your eardrums for indication on what was to come.

You hear the rustle of fabric, the zip of a zipper, and what you think is a small chuckle from Matt before you can feel his weight sink onto the mattress. Your thighs fall open of their own volition but Matt doesn’t tease you about it, instead happy to drink in the sight of your soaked core.

“Oh, that wet already, aren’t you sweetheart?” he asks and judging by the dampness you can feel on your skin, you can only imagine how lewd the display must appear. “Got this desperate from me fucking your face? Such a perfect slut, always ready for me.”

Another whimper falls from your lips, the rolling of your hips acting as both a confirmation that you wanted him and a silent plea for him to give you more than just his words. The sigh that escapes you when you feel him trace down your thigh is blissful, until you realize that it is not Matt’s rough calloused fingers slowly trailing towards your core, but instead a soft silicone.

“No, please,” you whimper out as Matt moves the toy closer to the apex of your thighs, the rounded head coming to glide against your slick folds. “Want you Matt. Want your cock.”

“You already got it tonight,” he whispers, the toy trailing up until the tip of it presses against your clit.

“Want your cock inside me.”

“You want me to fuck your perfect cunt? Want to feel me stretching that tight little pussy open?”

Your only response is a desperate whine as your hips buck, the action forcing the toy to bump against your bundle of nerves, causing your breathing to stutter. Matt holds the wand in place and you can feel him hovering over you, his breath fanning across your cheekbones.

“Then you should’ve been on time,” he whispers, his sentence punctuated by the click of the power button, the sudden vibrations forcing a downright pornographic moan to fall from your lips. He keeps the vibrator pressed firmly against you, the buzz of it filling the room.

Your already desperate state accompanied by the low and steady hum of the vibrator means that your climax hits you faster than expected, the warmth of it washing over your body as you whine and writhe against the sheets. Matt waits until your body is no longer trembling to remove the toy from your core before turning it off, returning the room to its former silence.

That should have been the end of it, the deprivation of touch, of sight, and of him, seeming to you like punishment enough. But when the head of the vibrator is pressed against your sensitive core again, your mind is left reeling.

Your confusion allows Matt to roughly grab your leg, pulling it closer until the firm length of the wand is pressed against the supple flesh of your inner thigh. The sensation is quickly followed by another, the feeling of a different material wrapping around the toy and your leg. It takes a minute to recognize the light scratch of the fabric as the belt that used to be looped around your trench coat.

“Wh- ” you begin to ask, the simple question not even being completed before Matt shushes you, his hands still working to wrap the belt around your skin.

His hand tugs at your other thigh until you can feel them press together, the sensation of your skin fully sticking to each other impeded only by the wand firmly held into place by your limbs. But the intention behind those registered touches doesn’t fully hit you until you feel the cinch of the belt tightening around both of your legs.

“Matt, please, don’t,” you beg, the understanding of what he was about to do hitting you like a freight train. Your wrists tug at your restraints, a mantra repeating in your brain that says he couldn’t possibly be this mean.

“What are you whining about, darling? I’m about to give you more pleasure than you probably deserve.”

You whimper, knowing that he had a point. He could’ve switched the entire script, going with the torture of edging you but never allowing you a release instead of the painful bliss of overstimulation. But you needed him. Not a toy, not an orgasm – him.

“I know you can take it, like the perfect whore you are,” he mutters, his fingers tracing over the ridges of your face, that depredating praise making another zing of desire flow through you, the arousal gushing from your core even more noticeable to you because of the bindings on your legs. “But if you don’t think you can, all you have to do is tell me.”

He is giving you a choice to end it here, to have him untie you and let him take care of you. But as much as you wanted him to coddle you, you wanted to earn it. Matt knew that – you were always looking to prove yourself to anyone – hence his phrasing. Another trick in his arsenal.

So, instead of the safe-word, another plea escapes your lips, your begging consent for him to continue. You can’t see it, but that grin pulls across Matt’s features once again, a smirk of both power and admiration aimed directly at you. His hand falls from your face, trailing a torturous path down your body before dancing across your bound thighs.

The vibrations that hit you are expected and yet somehow manage catch you entirely off-guard, your core still sensitive from your previous orgasm. A high-pitched moan crawls its way up your throat as your muscles clench, your back arching.

“There she is. There’s my good girl,” Matt whispers, his praise the only thing strong enough to cut through the haze that you felt slowly enveloping you. “Feels good, yeah?”

A pathetic whimper is the only response that you can give, the sensations assaulting your body rendering you essentially speechless. Usually, that was sufficient but Matt’s mean streak seems to be never-ending, the click of his tongue sounding throughout the room.

“No, sweetheart, I need your words.”

There is a proper answer – one that you learned quickly after you once said yes and that agreement led to even more discipline. Now, the words were caught in your throat, not because you didn’t know what to say but because it was difficult to even form a string of syllables that was in any way coherent.

“Not as good as you,” you manage to choke out, your sentence rendered choppy by the hiccups of gasps that you couldn’t hold back.

You feel the mattress shift, Matt’s weight disappearing and you have no shame in letting your protest be heard, a pitiful mewl ripping its way out of your throat. You can barely hear Matt’s chuckle before you register the mattress dipping again, this time on either side of your head. It’s the press of Matt’s lips against yours that has your second orgasm crashing over you, unabashed moans falling from your mouth into his, all of which Matt greedily swallows. The orgasm fades only briefly before your body writhes again, the restraints around your wrists and your legs holding you and the vibrator tight.

Matt’s lips disappear from yours, another strangled groan falling from your lips, the sound now only hindered by your dwindling sense of self-control.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you hear Matt explain. His voice is cruelly casual; it was as if he was discussing the weather, as if he wasn’t leaving you bound with the wand still humming between your thighs, abusing your oversensitive core. “I can see you trying to quiet all those pretty little noises you want to make. Let them out, sweetheart. I want to hear you – want all of New York to hear what a good little slut you are.”

You aren’t sure whether it is his encouragement or your own desire that erases any lingering shame you have in your body, your moans now falling freely. The only praise that Matt gives you is a quiet ‘there she is’ before you can sense his presence disappearing from the room, the confirmation coming in the sound of the showerhead turning on.

When your third orgasm thrums through your body, you realize that your current predicament was more of a challenge than anything else. Not just to have Matt hear you over the crash of the water but to even stay coherent enough to do so, a test you were starting to fail as you feel the weight of your sub-space prick at the corner of your eyes. You try to ground yourself by listing every sensation: the way the sheets dampen with sweat underneath you, the way the supple leather digs into your wrists, the cool breeze coming from the window dancing over your skin. But everything is slowly drowned out by the incessant buzz of the vibrator between your legs, still pressed against your clit, that constant stimulation forcing your body to writhe, your thighs to slicken, your chest to heave.

The noises that do manage to fall from you are a jumble compilation of sighs, moans, and curses, each less coherent with every orgasm that passes through you. It is the most delicious torture, the relief of a climax followed swiftly by the borderline pain of the vibrations still going. There is no quantifying anything: how long you’ve been here, how many orgasms had been ripped from your body, how tears you’ve shed from the overstimulation. You’ve lost all sense of anything else but the hum between your legs and the torturous pleasure it brings.

Finally – finally – after yet another orgasm has crashed into you, the vibrations stop and you can’t help the absolute half-sob, half-sigh of relief that huffs from your chest. That sub-space that you had been fighting off, you now give into with a sigh, allowing the haze to sink into your body. It encompasses you, making you feel as if you were floating in the vastness of space, as if you were being smothered in velvet. The only thing that keeps you somewhat tied to earth is Matt’s gentle voice, the quiet praise falling from his lips. It takes Matt lifting you off the mattress and cradling you in his arms for you to fully come back to the present moment. Only then do you realize all the fabric that was previously tied along your body was gone, leaving you naked. You don’t care, choosing instead to nuzzle deeper into Matt’s chest as he whisks you away, your eyelids fluttering open and readjusting to the low candlelight of the bathroom.

Matt gently places you down into the tub already filled with warm water, the temperature feeling heavenly as it penetrates your muscles. A soft kiss on your temple is what Matt leaves you with before he exits the room, closing the door firmly behind him. You swear you hear hushed voices emanating from underneath the door but you are still too dazed to even bother worrying yourself over it. Eventually, Matt returns, this time with a small cart carrying a bottle of champagne and a plate of chocolate covered strawberries.

“Drink this first,” he quietly demands, handing you an ice-cold water bottle. “All of it.”

He doesn’t have to tell you twice, the chilled liquid never feeling more refreshing against your tongue, coating your sore throat. You give the empty bottle back to him, the plastic being replaced by smooth glass as he hands you a champagne flute, before leaning against the side of the tub with his own glass. You take in his appearance, hair still damp from his shower, only a pair of sweatpants on his frame. His own blue eyes appraise you similarly, the quiet concern mixing with a pure devotion in his irises. You finally decide to break the silence, your voice sounding terribly hoarse as you whisper.

“’M hungry.”

Matt just smiles before grabbing the plate of strawberries, setting them down on the small stool next to the bathtub, making it easy for you to reach them. You happily munch on the fruit, feeling a modicum of energy return to you as you lean back and let Matt take care of you. His hands move beneath the water, massaging your tight muscles before grabbing the soft cotton washcloth, dampening the material in order to wipe away the sweat still clinging to your skin. You only protest once with a small hiss when he brushes against your oversensitive core, the sound quieted with a hush. The praise that fell from his mouth might have just been repeated from earlier but this time you could register it and every word made your body warm.

Sounded so pretty for me. I knew you could handle it, my perfect girl. You did so well.

He eventually lets the bath drain, helping you out of the porcelain tub and drying off the water from your body. The plush complimentary robe is thrown over your frame and Matt takes your arm, gently guiding you back to the bedroom. You can’t stop the breathy laugh that falls from your lips when you spy the shopping bags, designer labels on all of them, now piled up by one side of the bed – a bed that had been stripped and remade with fresh sheets.

“For you,” Matt whispers in your ear, pressing a kiss against your temple. You reply by turning your head towards him to press your lips onto his. It is gentler than any other kiss you shared tonight and you melt into his embrace. He helps you slip underneath the sheets, his broad body not far behind as he wraps his arms around you, pulling your back into his chest.

“I could make it so that you would never have to work again,” he whispers to you, reiterating the proposal that he postulated almost every time he saw you. You are about to retort, a sigh of his name falling from your lips before he silences your protest by continuing. “I know, you like to feel independent. And I admire that about you. I just like having you by my side.”

You rotate your body in the bed, turning to face him, the sharp angles of his face highlighted by the lights of the city that never sleeps.

“I like being by your side,” you whisper, your heart soaring at the sight of his smile.

“I don’t want you to give up your life – become some sort of trophy or anything. I respect you too much to ask you to do that. Just… promise me you’ll think about it.”

He doesn’t fully elaborate what it is: whether he meant allowing your dynamic to expand to every aspect of your life so you could do what you wanted without the pressure of making money or whether he meant becoming his completely, without any monetary value placed on the relationship you shared.

But, the silence of the hotel room, you come to realize that there is little difference between those two possibilities.

Matt wouldn’t just stop taking care of you if he wasn’t bound by a contract. He was more than that. What you shared was more than that; more than a number in your bank account, more than the amount of designer product in your closet, more than a simple transaction.

It was something real.

a/n: considering the way I managed to write all of this in a single night I feels just proves how much I kind of missed writing smut. why is it always this man to pull me back to smut writing? the world may never know. inspired this ask from a previous thirst night and this proposal from @comphy-and-cozy, (not sure if you'll get the full epic, but here's a little taste)

#nicole writes #💛 anon #fic request #matt martin fic #matt martin imagine #matt martin smut #new york islanders fic #new york islanders imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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esote-rika · 4 months ago

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size difference with a hung af sub!spencer 🫣

him being all whiny bc he needs you so bad but he can’t make it fit

make it as filthy as possible my love, go berserk

Special delivery for you right here

#esote rika writes #esote rika asks #lover 💛#requests

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rafeandonlyrafe · 1 year ago

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sooo excited to post the fic i wrote on vacation when i get back on monday. it's pretty dirty but also dub/noncon so apologies if you're not a fan of that

#been so busy on vacay ive barely had time to actually relax and write #but i think im bringing my phone to the beach tomorrow #gonna tan and chill and write #okay requests are closed but maybe if youre still reading this drop a bit of inspo?? doesnt have to be smut #anyways love y'all soooo much #and miss my dearest mooties excited to be active again soon ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

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the-kr8tor · 2 years ago

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are fluffy fridays requests closed?? Just asking because I have a few things in mind!

Hi, angel! Fluffy fridays requests are closed unfortunately. But I think I'll be able to open requests again next week before the holidays for those holiday related requests! (And other non holiday requests too)

Thank you for asking first! 💛

#ask answered #💛💛💛#i have 2 more wips left then I'll open it knce again!#my other oneshots have to wait lol I'll write them in between the requests instead #katy updates

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thatstonedwriter · 2 years ago

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Thank you so much for the Loona Long Nose Post. That was so cute and funny! Poor Loona had to struggle for a bit. Glad she was able to get help fixing it. Hard to believe her nose rivaled the tallest towers in hell. Still, glad she's better now!

Aw I'm so glad you enjoyed! I ran through lots of drafts bc I wanted to make sure it was paced well and made sense

And yep! Loona's feeling much better. Hopefully that spell wears off soon lmao

#Loona's long nose post #anon request #lowkey insecure about the jokes/writing style #But I think it came out well enough!#i hope y'all can appreciate it 💛#helluva boss #Loona helluva boss #apollo-answers

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pink-booty-butts · 2 years ago

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feel free to send me some of these!! 😄

“say you won’t let go” - some touch starved scenarios

prompt list by @novelbear

heart pounding whenever the other does so much as to hold onto their wrist while guiding them through a crowd

one just casually sitting down on the other's lap and they start internally freaking the hell out

hesitantly tugging the other's fabric of their shirt or sleeve, testing the waters

^^ the other notices so they pull them into a hug, smiling as they just watch them melt

"wait, don't go, please.."

"is this okay?" "it's more than okay."

already barely holding it together as they're getting their hand held but then they feel that reassuring squeeze and they just can't

wearing the others' clothes so that it can at least feel like they're hugging them, even for just a moment

feeling so lonely that they have to call their lover/friend, just to get a sense and reminder that they're still there

^ trying and failing to hold back their tears as they do so

"can i have one more hug?" "aw, babe you don't have to ask, c'mere..."

when the other holds onto their waist briefly as they're passing by and it just send chills down their spine

breaking down mid-hug because they just needed this so much

their breath hitching whenever the other gets a little closer

^ feeling crushed when that action is taken as a sign of discomfort, and they watch them slowly back off

holding onto a stuffed animal/pillow, imagining that it's their lover in their embrace instead

one leaning their head onto the other's shoulder suddenly and they just freeze

"i wasn't sure how much longer i could have taken this..."

#writing prompts #feel free to request for someone i havent written for yet 💛

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parkersbliss · 3 months ago

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Girly, are you alive?? It’s been a while since you updated this account, just making sure you’re good? 💕

hi, yes I’m alive!! I’ve just been busy with college and midterms. appreciate the check up lovely 🩷

#gracie answers 💛#I might do some writing this week cause it’s spring break!#I don’t have any requests so I need ideas to form lol

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clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm · 12 days ago

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“Freak like me…,”

Batboys x reader headcannons

sorry yall😔i keep disappearing,i have like major writing block and my husband and i are going to renew our vows.We got married at 16(I DONT RECOMMEND) and we have been dating since we were 12, i turn 20 this year😭😭😭

ANYWAYS LEAVE REQUESTS💛

BRUCE WAYNE

🏛 Favorite Place:

-His master bedroom — but specifically the bed with fresh sheets and dim lighting. He’s private and a control freak, and intimacy is something he treasures deeply.

-However… he’s absolutely taken you in the Batcave. Against the Batmobile. Once. Maybe twice. But he’ll never admit it.

⏱ Quickies?

-Not his favorite. Bruce prefers drawn-out, sensual, controlled sessions.

-That said, if it’s been a rough mission or he’s overwhelmed, he will pull you into a dark hallway, growl in your ear, and lose his mind for 5 minutes.

-“This isn’t enough—but I need you right now.”

⸻

Dick Grayson

Favorite Place:

- Rooftops. Balconies. Anywhere high up with a view of the city lights. There’s something about the rush, the stars, and you.

-Also? Showers. He loves the intimacy of washing each other, and then not staying clean for long.

⏱ Quickies?

-100% yes. He loves them. Elevators, bathrooms, pulled-into-a-closet vibes.

-He’ll whisper something filthy in your ear during a gala and have you against the wall five minutes later.

- Very into spontaneous affection. “Hey, you looked too good. I had to.”

⸻

Jason Todd

Favorite Place:

-His apartment — couch, kitchen counter, bed, wall. But more than anything, his safe space is wherever you feel safe.

-Has a real soft spot for post-mission sex in the shower or while still half-dressed. There’s something healing about it.

⏱ Quickies?

-Loves them when they’re emotionally charged. Not a fan of purely mechanical quickies — he wants a reason.

-Angry? Stressed? Jealous? Then yes, he’ll have you bent over in a parking garage before you can say “Red Hood.”

-He’s rougher during those moments, but always with aftercare. “That was fast. But you still okay, baby?”

⸻

Tim Drake

Favorite Place:

-His office chair. That boy works too damn much, and nothing clears his head like you straddling him mid-research.

-Bonus: the Wayne Tower penthouse library. Something about the shelves, the silence, and you on the table just does it for him.

⏱ Quickies?

-He likes the idea of quickies more than he actually enjoys them. They usually stress him out unless he’s really in the moment.

-f it’s an early-morning before-you-leave-for-work kind of thing? He’s all in.

-But mostly he’s a slow burn kind of guy. Think intense eye contact, slow hands, whispered “God, you’re beautiful.”

⸻

Damian Wayne

Favorite Place:

-His room, with the doors locked and the drapes drawn. Damian is private, intense, and not one for public displays.

⏱ Quickies?

-Not a fan. He hates the rushed feeling — he wants full focus, precision, and control.

-But if you challenge him, tease him, or catch him off-guard? He might grit his teeth, grab your wrist, and make it happen fast, rough, and possessive.

-Afterward, though? “Next time, we do this properly. You deserve more than just that.”

#imagine #batboys x reader #damian wayne x reader #headcannons #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #bruce wayne #dick grayson #red hood smut #bruce wayne smut #damian wayne smut #jason todd smut #image #batboys

1K notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 19 days ago

Note

Hi lovely!! If you open to the idea, would you be able to do something where leclerc sister (maybe like 16/18) is adopted, but they were waiting to tell her. Then somehow a gossip page leaks it, which makes everyone go crazy. Reader is basically paddock princess so she has multiple people backing her up and protecting her?

paddock princess — ob87

smau + blurbs

charles leclerc x !adopted sister reader

ollie bearman x !leclerc sister

yn leclerc is loved by all— especially her family. however, they have been keeping a secret from her. what happens when a gossip page gets their hands on this and yn learns that she is adopted? will she run? will she stay?

fc : julia knezevic

(a/n) : love love love this idea. i made the reader 19 for just story purposes and i’ve had quite a few requests to write about ollie so i just added him as a comfort to the reader and love interest. thank you. hope you loveeeee

extra long my bad

—

yn_leclerc

monaco 📍

liked by arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, carlossainz55 & 3,090,002 others.

yn_leclerc : nasty 19 ft alex (the loml) and the cake she made me 🥺

tagged : alexandrasaintmleux

—

view 175,394 other comments.

alexandrasaintmleux : always my baby. im so glad you loved the cake — i love you!! happy birthday mon ange 🤍

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : i love you to the moon and back.

arthur_leclerc : all the love for alex but no love for your brothers?? 🙄 (i love you sm)

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : did you make me a jellycat cake???

↳ arthur_leclerc : no but i have given you unconditional love your whole life.

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : letting it slide because you promised a shopping spree tomorrow.

liked by arthur_leclerc

↳ arthur_leclerc : i am going to be POOR.

lewishamilton : Happy Birthday, little one. Keep shining the way you do. Proud of you always. 🤍

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you lew🥺

↳ arthur_leclerc : what is it like having THE lewis hamilton in the comments on your bday post? i never got this kind of treatment.

↳ yn_leclerc : he does not love you as much as he loves me

liked by lewishamilton

lando : happy birthday little leclerc! love you 🧡

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you sm lan. thank you for my gift !!

liked by lando

carlossainz55 : Mi dulce pequeño— there are not enough words to tell you how proud I am of you. Happy Birthday. Love you always.

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : mi carlitos!!!! love you forever n ever

liked by carlossainz55

lorenzotl : le plus joyeux des anniversaires à ma petite sœur! je t’aime!

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : je vous aime tellement!

lilymhe : alexandra deserves an award for the cake, you deserve one for being so cute! happy birthday lovely

liked by yn_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ yn_leclerc : love you sm 🥺 thank you for all the jelly’s sent to my door this morning. (tell alex i said thank you as well)

liked by lilymhe and alexalbon

↳ alexalbon : anything for the princess

maxverstappen1 : i blinked and you grew up. i absolutely hate that. but i love you. happy birthday, kleintje. (little one)

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you always maxie 🤍

liked by maxverstappen1

scuderiaferrari : Happy Birthday YN!! We love you!💛❤️🎂

liked by yn_leclerc

username0 : oh to have the grid in my comment section

username10 : happy bday queen!

olliebearman : happy birthday, yn! ❤️

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : thank u bearrr🤍

liked by olliebearman

isackhadjar : joyeux anniversarie à toi!! 🎈

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : merci beaucoup, isack :)

liked by isackhadjar

—

If I ate one more bite of anything, I was going to spontaneously combust in front of my entire family. The small chocolate cake that was just placed in front of me was a lot, to say the least—complete with a sparkler that looked like it was about to set fire to the wine list. Maman clapped her hands together like it was the most magical thing she’d ever seen, Arthur was making explosion noises like a child, and Lorenzo was scolding him through laughter. I couldn’t even be mad. It was one of those rare nights where everything felt still and soft.

“I’m literally full,” I groaned, leaning back in my chair. “Like really full. I might explode.”

“You say that now,” Charles smirked, “but just wait until we bring out the gifts.”

“Oh no,” I groaned. “Charles, if you bought me another scooter like last year—”

“I said I was sorry about the scooter!” he interrupted. “You looked like you wanted to try one.”

“I wanted to try one, not watch you crash it into a bush,” I said giving him a playful glare.

That made everyone laugh—Alexandra almost choked on her wine and Charlotte covered her mouth mid-giggle. It was peaceful and perfect and mine. And then it wasn’t just us anymore. Because the double doors to the private dining room burst open without warning.

“IS THIS THE AFTERPARTY?!” Lando’s voice rang out first, carrying over the sound of chairs scraping and shocked gasps. I blinked in complete disbelief as Pierre, George, Carlos, Lewis, Alex, and Esteban followed behind him in various states of gift-carrying, tux-wearing madness.

“What—what the hell—” I started, but I was already being pulled into a hug by Pierre, who lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PRINCESSE,” he shouted in my ear before promptly spinning me in a circle.

“Oh my god,” I laughed, tears already threatening. “You guys didn’t.”

“We did,” Lewis said with a warm grin, walking up and handing me a white Chanel shopping bag. “And this is just the beginning.”

I opened it with shaking hands—and my jaw dropped. It was the bag. The vintage, pearl-handle, mini Chanel bag I had drooled over in Paris two months ago. The one that had been sold out within hours. The one I thought I’d never even touch.

“I mentioned it once,” I whispered. “Once.”

“Lando tracked it down,” Lewis said casually, gesturing toward the Brit, who was smugly leaning against a wall and pretending to scroll through his phone.

“You’re kidding.”

“He begged a stylist in New York for it,” George added, not hiding the grin on his face.

Lando just shrugged. “Had to beat Verstappen to it somehow.”

I ran into his arms, bag clutched to my chest like a treasure. “You’re insane. I love you. You’re insane.”

“Happy birthday, princess,” he whispered into my hair.

And then came Carlos, cool and collected as always, dressed in black with a velvet box in hand.

“Oh, no,” I said, already emotional.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, opening it to reveal a dainty but breathtaking diamond necklace. The kind of necklace you’d see in Vogue editorials.

“Carlos,” I whispered. “That’s too much.”

“You’re worth more,” he said softly, and I suddenly understood what it meant to be speechless.

He stepped behind me and gently fastened it around my neck while I stood frozen, tears brimming in my eyes, trying not to break down in front of everyone.

“This is insane,” I finally croaked. “You guys didn’t have to—”

“We wanted to,” Charles interrupted, suddenly next to me with Arthur and Lorenzo behind him. “You make all of our lives better just by being in them, petite sœur. Of course we showed up.”

I couldn’t even argue. And as I looked down at the necklace on my collarbone, the bag clutched to my chest, and the grins surrounding me, I knew this was one birthday I’d never, ever forget.

—

By the time I made it back to my apartment, my feet were screaming, my necklace was slightly askew, and I was fairly certain I was still full from four courses and three desserts. All I wanted was to throw on sweatpants, wash the remaining makeup off my face, and sleep for fifteen years. But instead, I walked into yet another surprise. There, smack in the middle of my living room coffee table, was a massive bouquet—no, a floral fortress—of white hydrangeas, soft yellow peonies, and pale pink roses. It looked like something out of a royal wedding Pinterest board. Elegant. Expensive. Intentional. There was a tiny cream envelope nestled in the middle. I dropped my bag on the floor and blinked at it like it might explode. Before I could even touch the card, Charles’ voice rang from the hallway behind me.

“What is that?”

Oh no. I turned slowly. There they were—Charles, Arthur, and Lando—squished in the hallway, clearly having followed me home like nosy little puppies.

“It’s… flowers,” I offered weakly.

“From who?” Arthur asked immediately, stepping forward like an over-invested bodyguard.

“Why are there roses?” Lando added, already reaching for the card. I swatted his hand away.

“Back off, Norris.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Is it from someone we know? Someone we like?”

I sighed dramatically, plucked the card out of the arrangement, and read aloud.

“Happy Birthday, Princess. Sorry I couldn’t make it tonight—hope this makes up for it. x – Ollie”

Silence. Then— “Bearman?!” Arthur practically screeched, spinning around like he’d been personally betrayed.

“You let Ollie Bearman call you Princess?!” Charles demanded, face already morphing into Big Brother Mode.

“I didn’t let him—he just—it’s a nickname! Everyone calls me that!”

Lando was already flopped onto my couch, cackling. “Oh, you’re dead. You are so dead. Ollie’s never escaping this.”

“He sent roses,” Arthur said, pacing now. “He’s trying to flirt. That’s flirting. Is he trying to date you? Is this a date thing?!”

“He’s Twenty!” I protested.

“You’re nineteen!” Charles snapped.

“Exactly! It’s barely an age gap—”

“Oh my god,” Lando groaned from the couch. “You like him.”

“I never said that!”

“Which means you do,” Arthur concluded.

I buried my face in my hands. “I literally just wanted to go to sleep. That’s all I wanted.”

Charles grabbed his phone. “I’m calling Ollie.”

“You will do no such thing!”

Too late—Arthur was already speed-texting someone. Meanwhile, Lando was now examining the bouquet and the card up close.

“Okay, but… this is a really good arrangement. Like, props to him. He’s got taste.”

“Lando, you’re not helping.”

—

f1gossipgirls

1,283,009 likes.

f1gossipgirls : In a shocking turn of events, sources close to the Leclerc family have revealed that YN Leclerc—known as F1’s beloved “paddock princess” and younger sister to Ferrari’s Charles Leclerc—is not biologically related to the Monégasque driver. According to documents obtained, YN was adopted by the Leclerc family as a baby. While the Leclerc's have always presented a united and loving front, fans are now questioning why this detail was never made public—especially as YN’s popularity continues to skyrocket. Why was this kept a secret? Was YN ever told? Is there more to the story than meets the eye? Neither YN nor the Leclerc family has commented yet, but we expect the grid to go into protection mode fast. With half the paddock practically treating YN like royalty, this story is far from over. More updates soon.

—

view 350,384 other comments.

username0 : her and charles are literally identical— i never would’ve guessed this.

username15 : you’re telling me someone dug through adoption records to post this?? she’s literally 19. what is wrong with you people.

username30 : “not biologically related” and??? they are still her family. y’all are weird for this one.

username22 : the fact that this was leaked on her birthday week is so disgusting. someone really said “let me ruin a teenager’s day for clicks.” i’m sick.

username17 : i hope charles sues y’all into oblivion

username00 : so… she’s adopted. AND?? she’s still the paddock princess. still the sister of Charles, Arthur and Lorenzo. still our girl. NEXT.

username10 : y’all forgot she’s the grid’s little sister. max is about to say his first emotional thing ever.

username11 : it’s the way she literally brings joy to the paddock. she’s always hugging people, always cheering, always there. you really tried to knock her down? pathetic.

—

third person pov

Arthur was in the kitchen with Pascale and Alexandra, laughing as he scrolled through photos from YN’s birthday dinner the night before. The second Lorenzo’s voice broke—sharp, panicked—Arthur dropped his phone.

“They posted it.”

Pascale froze. “Posted what?”

Lorenzo’s voice was trembling. “The adoption. They leaked her adoption. It’s everywhere.”

Time stood still. Alexandra’s hand flew to her mouth. Arthur’s face drained of color. Pascale slowly took the phone from Lorenzo, her fingers shaking as she read the headline aloud in a whisper. The air left the room.

Pascale sank into a chair. “She doesn’t even know yet…”

Arthur was already pacing, muttering curses in French, furious in a way he hadn’t been in years. “How—how did they even find out? Who would do this to her?”

“She’s going to be devastated,” Alexandra whispered, blinking back tears.

Lorenzo was already dialing Charles. Charles didn’t even say hello when he answered—just, “I saw it.”

His voice was tight. Controlled. Scary calm.

“I’m going to her now.”

“Don’t let her see it yet,” Pascale said, standing up, voice firm despite the tears in her eyes. “Don’t let her read that article before she hears it from us.”

Charles’ voice cracked just slightly. “She trusted us.”

—

your pov

It’s crazy how much your life can change in twelve hours. Last night, I was blowing out candles. Laughing so hard I nearly choked on the cake Alexandra baked me. Lando handed me the bag I’d been dreaming about, Carlos gave me jewelry like I was royalty, and my brothers were annoyingly soft all evening. I felt so… loved. Safe. And now?

Now I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, phone in my lap, staring at an article that managed to make everything feel different. Like someone cracked open my world and spilled secrets I didn’t even know were mine. Adopted. The word is loud in my head. Foreign. Distant. Like it belongs to someone else. No one told me. Not Charles. Not Maman. Not Arthur. They all knew. And I didn’t. The silence in the house is deafening. I keep waiting to hear footsteps—his voice. Something. But it’s just me. Me, and a truth I never asked for.

—

I didn’t want to stay in my apartment anymore. The silence was suffocating, and every corner seemed to remind me of the secret I never wanted to know — that I was adopted, and somehow, that fact was now public. The leak felt like a knife twisting in my chest, and I just needed to get away. Without thinking much, I grabbed a bag — some clothes, my favorite hoodie, a journal I never leave behind — and headed straight to Max’s place. It was the one place that felt like home, no matter how chaotic the world got.

When I got there, Max opened the door before I even knocked. His face softened the moment he saw me, like he already knew something was wrong. Kelly was there, too, and she immediately wrapped me in a warm hug that felt like safety.

“Come in,” Max said quietly, guiding me inside. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

I just shook my head, sitting on the couch, my fingers trembling as I clutched my bag. Kelly sat nearby, giving me that quiet, calm support only she could. Max came over and wrapped me into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to my forehead. Just letting me cry, just letting me exist.

After some time, Max’s phone buzzed. He looked at me with a small smile. “Lando and Carlos are coming over. They insist on seeing you.”

When they arrived, Lando was first — his usual grin was softer, eyes full of concern. Carlos came in behind him, nodding at Max and Kelly.

Max left me in the guest bedroom to rest, but Lando and Carlos came in, settling next to me on the bed. Lando gently took my hand, fingers warm and steady, while Carlos wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then started to speak, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t understand why they did this. Why they thought it was okay to tear open my life like this.”

Lando squeezed my hand. “Because they don’t understand what family means.”

Carlos nodded. “We do. You’re ours. Nothing changes that.”

I let the tears come, finally allowing myself to be vulnerable. They didn’t say much — just held me, letting me pour out my pain and confusion. For hours, we stayed like that. I talked, cried, and they listened. Their presence was something I didn’t know I needed, a reminder that no matter what the world said, I wasn’t alone.

—

third person pov

Charles arrived at YN’s apartment, his heart pounding with worry. He needed to see her — to explain, to fix whatever had been broken. But when he pushed the door open, it was slightly ajar, creaking softly as it swung inward.

“YN?” he called, his voice tight with concern. The apartment was eerily quiet.

He glanced around the living room and kitchen, then made his way to her bedroom. His eyes immediately landed on the nightstand, her journal was missing. A knot tightened in his stomach. She had packed up. She had left.

His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone and called Arthur. “Arthur, YN’s gone. She left her apartment — her journal’s missing too. I don’t know where she is.”

“Stay calm, Charles,” Arthur replied evenly. “Where do you think she went?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, panic rising in his chest. “I don’t know. But I have to find her. I have to.”

He looked around once more, the weight of guilt pressing down. How had it come to this? And how could he make it right before it was too late?

—

your pov

After a while, Lando spoke softly, his voice almost a whisper. “YN, can I ask you something?”

I nodded, eyes still closed. “Anything.”

“Did you ever want to know?” His words caught me off guard.

“Want to know what?” I asked, my voice shaky.

“About being adopted. About your past.”

I took a deep breath. “I always felt like something was missing, like there was this part of me I wasn’t supposed to see. But honestly? I was scared. Scared that if I found out, everything I knew — my family, my life — would change.”

Carlos squeezed my shoulder. “But nothing about who you are changes because of that. You’re still YN, still the person we care about. Family isn’t just blood.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But it feels like my whole identity was a lie. Like I wasn’t real enough.”

Lando shook his head gently. “You’re more real than anyone I know. Being adopted doesn’t make you less than. It means you were chosen. And that’s powerful.”

Carlos smiled softly. “You belong with us. With all of us. And no gossip or secret can ever take that away.”

I blinked back tears, feeling the weight in my chest ease just a little. For the first time in hours, I felt seen truly seen and accepted. The fear was still there, but maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in this.

“Thank you,” I whispered, clutching their hands tighter. “For staying. For reminding me who I am.”

—

The next morning came too fast. I hadn’t slept much — just drifted in and out of shallow dreams that always ended with the same knot in my stomach. The ache in my chest hadn’t eased either, even with Carlos’s steady breathing beside me and Lando still curled up at the foot of the bed like an overgrown golden retriever. I was staring at the ceiling when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

(your bff) 💌 calling…

I sat up, quietly untangling myself from the warmth of my boys, and slipped into the hallway before answering.

“(your bff)?” My voice cracked a little.

“Oh, thank God. I was about to fly to Monaco myself,” she said immediately, her voice filled with the kind of love only someone who’s seen you through every awkward phase of your life could manage. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Like I’m floating above myself? It doesn’t feel real. I haven’t really stopped moving since it happened.”

She sighed. “I hate this. I hate that it got taken from you like that. You deserved better than a headline.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Yeah, well. Headlines don’t wait for permission.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I mean it,” she said firmly. “Come with me to the lake house. Just us. No noise. No social media. No press. Just trees, a fireplace, and the world leaving you alone for a minute. I’ll cook. You’ll cry. I’ll feed you again. We’ll yell into the void. It’ll be healing.”

I laughed softly, the sound surprising even me. “I don’t know…”

“You need air, baby. And space. And maybe wine and marshmallows and bad horror movies from 2005. Come hide with me.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t even know what to pack.”

“Nothing. Just bring your hoodie and that one fuzzy blanket you refuse to wash because it ‘smells like childhood,’” she teased. “I’ll handle the rest.”

I blinked away tears. “Okay. I’ll come.”

“I’ll be there by the afternoon. No backing out. I’m kidnapping you.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I know,” she replied gently. “Let’s get you out of the storm.”

—

By late afternoon, I’d finally worked up the courage to get out of bed. My head was pounding from the constant swirl of thoughts, and the emotional whiplash of the last 24 hours had left my body aching like I’d run a marathon. I padded into the kitchen, where Max was chopping fruit like a domestic god, and Kelly was sitting at the counter scrolling through her phone with her glasses low on her nose. Carlos was half-asleep on the couch, and Lando was rummaging through the pantry like he hadn’t eaten in days. I cleared my throat, instantly grabbing everyone’s attention. Max turned first, eyes softening the second he saw me.

“Hey,” he said quietly, setting the knife down.

“Hey.” I paused, twisting my fingers together. “I, um… I just wanted to let you guys know (your bff) is on her way. She’s picking me up.”

Lando frowned, abandoning the bag of chips in his hand. “Picking you up?”

I nodded. “We’re going to her lake house. It’s out in the middle of nowhere — no press, no people, no internet unless we climb a tree. Just… quiet.”

Carlos sat up straighter. “You’re leaving?”

“Just for a while,” I said quickly. “I need space. A second to figure out what I’m even feeling. I’ve been kind of… drowning.”

Max walked over and pulled me into a hug without a word, holding me tight against his chest.

“Are you sure this is what you need?” Kelly asked gently from the stool.

“Yeah. I think so,” I whispered. “I love you guys so much, but right now, even being around people who love me hurts. It makes it real.”

Lando crossed the kitchen and stood in front of me, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. “Just say the word and we’ll be there. You know that, right?”

“I know,” I smiled weakly. “I feel safer because of you. I just need to remember how to feel like me again.”

Carlos came over, cupping my cheek briefly. “Call us. Even if you just need to hear someone breathe.”

I let out a watery laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“Still true though,” Max muttered, and we all laughed, just for a second. It felt good.

A knock on the door broke the moment. I moved to open it, and there she was — oversized hoodie, sunglasses, and a messy bun. “Are you ready for your dramatic escape from reality?”

“You have no idea,” I said, hugging her tightly.

Behind me, the boys stood at the doorway like I was heading off to war.

“I’ll be back,” I promised. “I just need some time.”

“You better come back,” Lando muttered. “Or we’re burning the lake house down.”

“Good luck finding it,” She called over her shoulder as we walked to her car. “GPS gives up halfway in.”

I looked back one last time. Max gave me a thumbs up. Carlos blew a kiss. Lando mouthed call me with way too much drama.

—

f1gossipgirls

325,037 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Leclerc was seen leaving Max Verstappen’s apartment complex with her best friend, @/yourbff. The two were later seen boarding a private jet at a local airport. Seems as if she maybe did not know about the adoption news.

—

view 52,974 other comments.

username0 : she went to max’s apartment… that’s her safe place. oh she really didn’t know 😭

username5 : if charles wasn’t the one who told her and she found out from the internet i’m gonna SCREAM

username8 : this whole situation is SICK. media needs to back OFF. she’s not a storyline, she’s a human.

username15 : the second max got involved i knew it was serious. he’s not the “let me comfort you” type unless it’s life-shattering.

username20 : i hope whoever leaked this steps on legos for eternity. she deserved to hear it from her family

—

third person pov

“Max, she’s with you?” Charles’s voice was sharp, disbelief mixed with panic. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was a brief pause before Max spoke calmly, carefully. “She was, yeah. But she left a little while ago. Said she needed to clear her head.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, his voice cracking. “Clear her head? Max, she’s my sister. She’s been hit hard by all this. I should be the one helping her.”

Max took a steady breath. “I get that. But right now, she needs space from everyone—even us. She’s processing all of this in her own way. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

Charles’s voice softened, desperation seeping in. “I just want to be there for her. She can’t go through this alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Max said firmly. “We’re all here, waiting. Trust me—when she’s ready, she’ll reach out.”

Charles exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm inside. “Okay. I just hope she knows that.”

“She knows.”

—

yn_leclerc

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lando & 4,009,001 others.

yn_leclerc : mind over matter.

tagged : yourbff & olliebearman

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

I was curled up on the oversized couch in a hoodie that swallowed me whole, sipping lukewarm tea, when I heard the front door open.

Her voice rang out, sing-song and suspiciously cheerful. “I brought someone who’s guaranteed to cheer you up!”

I groaned into my cup. “Unless it’s a French bulldog or a bottle of wine, I do not care.”

“Nope,” she grinned, walking into the living room. “Better.”

Footsteps. A second pair. A familiar pair.

“Hey, sunshine.”

I looked up—and nearly dropped my mug.

“Ollie?!”

He was standing in the doorway with that crooked grin and warm eyes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking like he belonged here more than I did.

Before I could say anything else, I was on my feet and running straight into his arms. He caught me easily, arms wrapping tightly around my waist as he lifted me off the ground and spun me once, laughing. “There she is,” he murmured into my hair.

I squeezed him tighter, trying to blink away the sudden sting in my eyes. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“She bribed me with baked goods,” he said teasingly, setting me down but not letting go. “Also, you didn’t answer any of my texts, which was very rude.”

I laughed into his chest. “Sorry. Been a little busy having an identity crisis.”

“Well,” he said, gently pulling back to look at me, “you still look like my favorite person.”

I shoved his shoulder playfully. “You’re so annoying.”

“Still made you smile.”

(your bff) appeared in the doorway with two mugs and a proud little smirk. “I know my girl.”

And she really did.

—

The sun warmed my skin and the fresh lake breeze tangled through my hair as the boat cut smoothly through the calm water. I sat close to Ollie, his hand resting gently over mine, fingers lacing naturally like they’d known each other forever. Somehow, everything felt easy here — no pressure, no noise, just quiet moments that spoke louder than words.

Ollie’s smile was soft and a little shy, the kind that made my heart flutter without me even realizing. Every so often, his eyes would catch mine, and that quiet look between us said everything I needed to hear.

At one point, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light but sent warmth straight to my chest. I leaned into it without hesitation, resting my head against his shoulder. The steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek was the most comforting thing I’d felt in a long time.

“Perfect day, huh?” he whispered, voice low and steady.

I smiled against his skin. “The best.”

We spent the afternoon drifting in and out of conversation — silly jokes, quiet dreams, shared secrets. I loved how he listened like every word mattered, and how he made me laugh even when my chest still felt heavy.

As the sun started to dip lower, painting the sky with soft oranges and pinks, Ollie pulled me close, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I curled in, feeling safe, warm, and more hopeful than I had in weeks.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

I smiled, heart swelling. “So are you.”

And in that golden light, with the water shimmering around us, it felt like maybe this was exactly where I was supposed to

—

Ollie and I stood at the edge of the boat, the water shimmering invitingly below us. I couldn’t resist — a sly grin spread across my face.

With a quick push, I tried to catch him off guard and send him splashing into the water. But instead of falling alone, Ollie grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down with him. We both tumbled beneath the surface, laughing as we surfaced together, water dripping from our hair.

He looked at me with that familiar, warm smile, eyes twinkling in the fading light. “Guess we’re both swimming now,” he said, brushing a strand of wet hair from my face.

Before I could answer, he leaned in, and our lips met — soft, warm, and perfect. The world around us disappeared, the only thing I could feel was him.

From the shore, I saw her watching us from the porch, a smile tugging at her lips. Knowing she was there, sharing this moment quietly, made it feel even more special.

—

After our swim and showers, I slipped into one of Ollie’s oversized sweatshirts. It was soft and warm, and still smelled faintly of him—like a little bubble of comfort I could hold onto. The sleeves swallowed my hands completely, making me feel small and safe, like a kid again.

I made my way back to the living room where Ollie was already waiting for me. His eyes softened when he saw me, and without saying a word, he reached out and pulled me gently into his arms. I leaned against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the kind of calm I hadn’t felt in a long time.

We settled onto the couch, me resting my head on his shoulder while his fingers traced lazy, soothing circles on my arm. The silence between us was warm, like a quiet sanctuary from all the noise and chaos I’d been swimming through.

After a while, Ollie’s voice broke the stillness, quiet and gentle. “Hey… if you want to talk, I’m here. About everything. Whenever you’re ready.”

I hesitated for a moment, scared of what might come out, but looking up at him—so patient, so steady—I felt a crack in my walls. Maybe it was okay to open up.

“It’s just… everything’s different now,” I started, voice barely above a whisper. “I always thought I knew who I was—where I belonged. But now… this news, it feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me. Like the family I thought I had was just a story. I’m scared, Ollie. Scared of losing them, scared of losing myself.”

He tightened his arms around me as if to keep me from drifting away. “You’re not losing yourself. You’re just figuring out who you really are. And that’s okay.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing. “I don’t even know how to be ‘me’ anymore. How do you keep going when everything you thought was true suddenly feels like a lie?”

Ollie brushed a damp strand of hair behind my ear and kissed my temple softly. “One step at a time. And you’re not alone in this. I’m here, and so are all the people who care about you. You’ll find your way, I promise.”

I closed my eyes and let his words sink in. For the first time in days, the panic in my chest eased, replaced by something like hope. Wrapped in his arms, with his steady warmth holding me together, I felt like maybe I could breathe again.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He smiled against my hair. “Always.”

—

It had been a week and a half since we escaped to the quiet calm of my best friend’s lakeside house. The kind of place where the wind whispered instead of screamed, and the days bled into one another with the softness of a watercolor painting. It had been healing—slowly, painfully, but healing all the same.

Ollie and I were lying on the porch swing that overlooked the still, glittering water. My head was on his chest, and his fingers absentmindedly combed through my hair, lulling me into that rare space between peace and thought. The sun was starting to dip low behind the trees, casting everything in this golden, aching kind of light.

My phone buzzed on the table beside me. I thought about ignoring it. But something in my chest tugged at me.

When I saw her name—Alexandra—my heart twisted.

I sat up a little straighter and looked at Ollie. “It’s Alex.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just brushed his thumb across my knee and gave a gentle nod. “Answer it, love.”

With a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, bébé.” Her voice was soft, tentative, but unmistakably her. “I didn’t want to push or intrude… but I just—God, I needed to hear your voice.”

The moment I heard her, really heard her, something in me cracked open. My eyes welled up before I even said a word.

“Hi,” I whispered back, my voice breaking slightly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you so much.” She exhaled like she’d been waiting days just for this. “Are you okay? No pressure to answer that honestly.”

I laughed, watery and sad. “I don’t know. Some days I feel okay. Some days I feel like I’m just floating above myself.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

“I was wondering,” she said softly, “if maybe… you’d think about coming back. Just to talk. Not to fix everything, not unless you want to. But… I think your brothers would sleep again if they could just hug you. And I—” her voice cracked, “I want to hug you too. I hate not having you near.”

Tears spilled freely now, and I didn’t bother wiping them. “Did you know?” I asked, almost in a whisper. “About the adoption?”

The pause that followed felt like a century.

“…Yes,” she said quietly. “But not until after I’d already fallen in love with you as my little sister. And I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t mine to tell. God, YN, I wanted to so many times. But your family wanted to wait until the moment was right. They never wanted it to be like this. Never.”

I closed my eyes. I believed her. Somehow, it didn’t make it hurt less, but it made the ache a little less lonely.

“I don’t know if I can look them in the eyes,” I admitted. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“You don’t have to decide that today,” she said. “But just know that you are still their sister. You are still loved beyond reason. And I love you. Always.”

I felt Ollie’s hand find mine, our fingers lacing together tightly. I glanced at him, and he gave me the softest look—patient, steady.

“I’ll come back,” I said finally. “Not today. But soon. I think I owe myself that much.”

“I’ll be there,” Alexandra said, her voice thick with emotion. “Whatever you need.”

After we hung up, I just sat there, the ache still swirling under my skin—but now there was warmth with it.

Ollie squeezed my hand. “When you go… if you want me there, I’ll be there. Right next to you.”

I turned to him, eyes glassy. “What did I do to deserve you?”

He smiled, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Just being your perfect self.”

—

yn_leclerc added two posts to her story!

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{caption 1 : last day on the lake 😰} {caption 2 : when he knows your smoothie order by heart, he’s a keeper}

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—

I don’t know how long I stood there in front of the door—my door, technically. My childhood home. The place where I took my first steps, where I spent holidays and birthdays and Sunday mornings in pajamas too big for me, dancing around to whatever song Maman had playing. And now it just… looked different. But Alexandra opened it before I had a chance to knock.

“Mon bébé,” she whispered, eyes already misting as she pulled me into the tightest hug. Her arms wrapped around me like a life jacket, like if she just held tight enough, everything would rewind and be okay again. I melted into her, head buried in her shoulder, her soft scent grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I missed.

“You came back,” she murmured, brushing a hand through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t come alone.”

Behind me, Ollie stood close, his hand finding mine without hesitation. “She’s not doing this by herself,” he said gently, his thumb tracing soft circles over my knuckles.

And then came the footsteps. Lando, Carlos, and Max flanked us with a kind of quiet strength, each of them unreadable but exuding this palpable energy like: If anyone says the wrong thing, they’ll deal with us first. The house felt heavier with every step I took inside.

Charles stood in the living room, pacing. Arthur by the window, looking tense. Lorenzo and Maman were already seated on the couch, stiff and silent. I felt like a stranger in a house full of people who used to know me better than I knew myself. No one said anything for a moment. And then I spoke.

“You all knew,” I said, my voice somehow steady despite the tornado inside me. “All of you. And none of you told me.”

Charles took a step forward, but I held up a hand. “Let me finish.”

I looked around, taking in their faces.

“I don’t care about the fact that I’m adopted. That’s not what hurts. What hurts is that I had to find out from strangers. From a tabloid. I had to read about it, with the whole world watching me fall apart. And not one of you thought I deserved to know before that.”

“YN—” Arthur tried, but his voice cracked.

“I deserved the truth,” I said quietly. “I deserved that much.”

My voice broke on the last word, and Ollie’s grip on my hand tightened as he pulled me closer to him.

“I wanted to be angry,” I whispered. “I am angry. But I also love you. And that makes everything worse.”

Lorenzo’s voice came next. “We didn’t want to hurt you. We were waiting for… the right time.”

“There’s never a right time for something like this,” I replied. “You were just scared. And maybe I would’ve been, too. But I needed you to trust me with this part of my story. And now I don’t even know who I am when I look in the mirror.”

Max shifted behind me, clearing his throat. “She came to us because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not on her. That’s on you.”

Silence. Alexandra crossed the room and placed a hand on Charles’ arm. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, eyes rimmed red. “I tried,” he said hoarsely. “So many times. But every time I looked at you, I saw the little girl who used to sneak cookies into my room and make up dances with Maman in the kitchen. I didn’t want to be the reason you stopped smiling like that.”

“You weren’t,” I told him softly. “Lying was.”

He winced like I’d hit him.

Carlos spoke gently from the side, “You can be mad. You should be. But you’re still loved, and you’re still you. Nothing changes that.”

Lando stepped forward, hand briefly on my shoulder. “We’ve got your back. No matter what.”

Arthur finally moved from the window, coming to kneel in front of me. “I know I’ve joked with you, teased you, been the dumb older brother… but I’ve always, always loved you like my own blood. That part was real. It still is.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came like a storm—hot, aching, full of everything I’d bottled up. I sank into Ollie’s arms as he held me, steady and quiet. No judgment. Just warmth. Familiar. Safe. And slowly, one by one, the others joined. Alexandra wrapped her arms around both of us. Then Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Maman. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fixed. But for the first time since everything fell apart, I felt like maybe—just maybe—we could start putting the pieces back together.

—

I didn’t say anything when Maman gently reached for my hand and led me toward the garden. The sun was low, casting golden light across the patio where I used to sit with a juice box and coloring books. Everything looked the same. Except me. We sat down in the chairs across from each other. She didn’t let go of my hand.

“I used to sit here with you,” she said softly, “when you were so small I could still carry you up to bed after you fell asleep.”

I smiled faintly. “I remember.”

She sighed, eyes misty. “You were so full of light, ma chérie. Still are. And when you came into our lives, I thought I was prepared to love you. But what I didn’t know is that you’d teach me how to love differently. Fiercely. Selflessly. You didn’t come from me, but I chose you. Every day.”

Tears blurred my vision. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked at me, eyes wide with sadness and guilt. “Because I was scared that if you knew, even a small part of you might believe that you didn’t belong. That you weren’t a Leclerc. That you weren’t mine.”

I let out a shaky breath. “But I felt it anyway. I felt the distance growing for years. After Papa died… I didn’t feel like I had a place anymore.”

She squeezed my hand tightly, her voice cracking. “That was never my intention. I lost your father and I clung to your brothers, because I knew I had to keep the family together. And in doing so… I failed you. I let you feel alone in a house full of people who loved you.”

I stared down at our linked hands. “I think a part of me always knew. But I wanted someone to say it out loud.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am so, so sorry.”

And when she leaned over and pulled me into her arms, I let myself collapse into her. For a moment, I wasn’t angry or confused or lost. I was just her daughter. That was enough.

—

Later, after Maman went inside, I found Charles and Arthur sitting quietly in the living room. They looked up like I was the only person in the world who could either break them or put them back together. And I felt it — that ache of being their little sister again. Of wanting to crawl onto the couch and be safe between them.

I sat down. Silence fell again.

“I always looked up to you two,” I said, my voice small. “I wanted to be like you. Brave like Arthur. Thoughtful like Charles. And when things got hard, I watched how the two of you carried each other through it. But I didn’t feel like I was allowed to be carried. Like I had to be strong on my own.”

Arthur looked like he wanted to cry. Charles already was.

“I thought if I worked hard enough, if I was quiet and impressive and good enough… I could belong, even if something about me always felt different.”

Charles reached for my hand first. “You never had to earn your place. You had it. Always.”

Arthur nodded, voice low. “And we should’ve told you. Fought harder. We were just—”

“Scared,” I whispered. “I know.”

A beat passed. Then Charles moved closer, pulling me gently into his side like he would when I’d fall asleep on the plane rides.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he murmured, holding me close. “You’re my sister. Blood or not. You’re mine.”

Arthur wrapped an arm around my legs and rested his chin on my knee. “And you’re stuck with me, forever. Even if I annoy you. Especially then.”

I laughed through my tears. “You both annoy me.”

Charles kissed the side of my head. “Good. That means you’re feeling something again.”

And for the first time in weeks, I did.

—

yn_leclerc

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–

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—

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aleksatia · 3 months ago

Note

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

1K notes · View notes

houseofaegon · 14 days ago

Note

can I put in a request for Rhett Abbott x Reader? They’re in his truck since they were “star gazing”but a hot steamy make out ends up with reader riding him and before he finishes, reader goes down on him.

DEAD OF NIGHT ╱ RHETT ABBOTT X FEM!READER

"you wake me up, you say it's time to ride in the dead of night"

+18 MINORS DNI 𓏲 ◟ ♡ ˖ ࣪ no use of y/n, fluff, explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (m!receving), best friend!rhett, dirty talk, explicit language, praise kink, grinding, save a horse ride a cowboy!!!! mention of unrequited feelings, mutual pinning, sexual tension, friends to lovers trope, stargazing under the wyoming sky with rhett!! <3

SUMMARY: you didn't really plan on spending tonight anywhere but in bed, binge-watching true crime and savoring wine. but when your best friend rhett abbott texts you at 1 am asking you to come outside, your comfortable night in turns into a starry, intimate confession beneath the wyoming sky. the lines of friendship blur deliciously into something deeper and hotter—under constellations and blankets on rhett's truck. and he finally shows you exactly how long he's been waiting to make you his.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: aaaaahhhh!!! thank you soooo much for requesting rhett!! this is my first ever fic for him and i'm so excited to write more outer range stuff!! ughhh i love rhett so fucking much you have no idea!! i'm already through season 2 and oh my god?? it's soooo good!!!! literally obsessed with rhett and cowboys. head over heels for my favorite bull rider!! he just does things to me gahhhhh stargazing, confessions under the night sky, and riding rhett?? sign me tfff up!!! thank you for this ask, i loved the idea so much<3 i hope you like it! love, your friendly neighborhood cowboy-lover, bri.

You weren't really planning on doing anything tonight. Your warm bed awaited patiently, the cold sheets a welcoming embrace, while an unopened bottle of red Sauvignon shimmered in the silver glow of the moonlight streaming through your window. Netflix was paused on your TV—a true crime documentary glowing softly on the screen—waiting patiently to wash away the week's stress.

Your phone buzzed, jolting you from your cozy haze. You groaned softly—who the hell was texting at nearly one in the morning?

Rhett🤠💛: You awake, sweetheart?

You bit your lip, smiling softly. Your heart fluttered involuntarily at the sight of his name on your screen. Of course, Rhett Abbott would be the culprit. Always Rhett, your best friend since forever, your ride-or-die cowboy with that infuriatingly cocky grin and sky-blue eyes that always made your breath catch in your chest.

You: depends on what awake means

He responded immediately, almost as if he'd been waiting for your answer.

Rhett🤠💛: Eyes open, heartbeat steady. You missin’ me?

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm.

You: you wish, cowboy

Rhett🤠💛: I sure do. Come to your window.

Frowning curiously, your phone buzzed again—his picture lighting up the screen. You sighed, unable to hide your amusement as you swiped to answer.

"You're ridiculous," you murmured into the phone, padding across the floor and pulling back the curtains.

There he stood, propped against his trusty old truck, cowboy hat tilted just right, his smirk lazy and infuriatingly charming beneath the porch lights. He lifted his head to meet your gaze, and even at a distance, you could see his eyes shimmer mischievously.

“It’s almost one in the morning, Rhett. What the hell are you doing here?” you whispered into the phone, but he could hear the smile in your voice.

He chuckled warmly. “C’mon down, sweetheart. Don’t keep me waitin’. Got somethin' to show ya.”

“Fine, give me a minute.”

“Take your time, darlin’. Not like I'm freezin' my ass off or anything.”

“It’s barely cold, drama queen,” you scoffed, and he laughed lightly, a sound that melted into your bones.

You ended the call, grinning to yourself, excitement making your heart skip as you quickly shed your oversized shirt and slipped into a delicate white sundress, stepping into your worn, beloved cowboy boots.

You ran down, finding him exactly where you'd left him, the same stupidly charming smirk stretched across his face.

"Howdy, darlin'," he drawled, eyes flickering appreciatively over you.

“You’re obnoxious,” you teased, nudging his shoulder lightly.

“Ah,” Rhett countered easily, swinging open his passenger door for you, eyes glittering warmly beneath his hat. “But you love it.”

You hesitated dramatically. “You sure you’re not kidnapping me?”

Rhett grinned, eyes darkening playfully beneath his hat. “Kidnappin’? Well shit, sweetheart, sounds terribly hot.”

You scoffed, climbing up into the truck. "You're disgusting."

“Only for you,” he drawled, sliding into the driver's seat and firing up the engine.

As he drove, you stole glances his way. Rhett Abbott—playboy, flirt, and the keeper of your deepest secrets. He knew your favorite songs, your go-to midnight snacks, how you liked your coffee, and the names of every one of your childhood pets. He’d been there for your best and worst days, steadfast and irritatingly observant, noticing things about you no one else bothered to. Like how your brow furrowed when you were stressed, or the particular kind of silence you kept when something upset you. He noticed every detail. Every quiet shift.

God, you loved him.

You'd loved him—helplessly, recklessly, and quietly.

You’d loved Rhett Abbott for longer than you could remember, every stolen glance embedding deeper in your heart, every casual brush of his hand against your skin lingering long after he pulled away. Your love had become a secret you cradled close, hidden safely in shadows and subtle sighs, nestled in sleepless nights spent dreaming of what could be, wrapped in every heartbeat that stuttered at the mere sound of his laughter.

But confessing? Fuck no.

The thought alone terrified you. It was easy to joke with him, easy to laugh at his teasing comments and playful flirtations because that was Rhett. Cocky, charming, effortlessly alluring, the guy who could walk into any room and draw every eye. He had always been your best friend, your constant, your confidant. But turning this steady, beloved friendship into something else—something uncertain and dangerously delicate—felt far too risky.

And then there was Maria Olivares.

A shadow from high school, Rhett’s supposed ‘great love.’ You’d spent years watching him chase after her, hearing him speak her name like it was poetry he memorized. Though lately, you noticed he barely mentioned her anymore. Still, the echo of her presence lingered—a reminder that maybe you were just a placeholder, someone to distract him when the memories became too sharp. Maybe his lingering glances and softened touches were simply illusions your foolish heart conjured because you wanted them so badly to be real.

How could you risk it?

Because risking your heart felt like risking everything else too—every late-night phone call, every comfortable silence, every inside joke whispered conspiratorially between you two. Your friendship with Rhett Abbott was your safe place, a precious shelter built over countless nights spent laughing until dawn, confiding secrets no one else knew, sharing fears, hopes, dreams you trusted only to each other.

It was safer to keep quiet, safer to keep smiling and teasing, safer to pretend you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on you longer lately, the way his voice softened whenever he murmured "sweetheart," the way your heart skipped wildly, frantically, beneath his attentive gaze.

Because losing Rhett—even the smallest chance of it—would shatter your heart completely, leaving you lost and adrift without the boy you’d always loved quietly, desperately, hopelessly from the shadows.

So, you buried your secret deeper still, hiding it behind careful laughter and practiced smiles, behind sarcastic retorts and playful banter, hoping it would remain safely hidden—hoping, selfishly, that someday it might finally, mercifully slip free.

But until then, you'd guard it fiercely, keeping the love you felt safely, silently yours.

It was safer this way, even if it hurt.

And god, did it hurt.

“You’re definitely kidnapping me,” you teased lightly, noticing he was heading toward his ranch’s secluded pastures.

“Maybe,” he replied playfully, eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight. “Maybe I’m gonna murder you and hide your pretty little body somewhere out in these woods.”

“So romantic,” you deadpanned sarcastically.

He snorted softly, shaking his head. "Shut up, dumbass."

Beside you, Rhett’s heart beat quickly, his thoughts tangled and aching. He glanced at you—his best friend, his sweet torment. You were everything to him: your laughter, your teasing words, your stubborn kindness. He knew every hidden freckle, every quiet sigh, every favorite snack. He’d spent years drowning himself in meaningless distractions, Maria a distant memory that had long faded beneath your gentle presence.

He loved you desperately, fiercely, terrified that admitting it would send you running from him. Because if he lost you—he’d lose everything.

When Rhett parked in the open field, he hopped down smoothly, rounding to your side. Before you could protest, his strong hands gripped your waist, easily lifting you from the seat. You squealed in protest, and he laughed warmly, setting you down gently by the tailgate. Opening it, he revealed blankets and pillows piled invitingly.

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “If you wanted sex, Abbott, you could’ve just asked.”

Rhett leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. “Sweetheart, trust me—if I wanted that tonight, you'd already know.”

Your cheeks flushed hot as he chuckled, delighting in your reaction. His grip softened, gentle once more, easing you up to sit atop the truck bed.

“I remember you told me once—probably drunk off your ass—that you loved stargazin’,” Rhett said softly, almost shyly, glancing upward. “Thought you might like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He remembered. Always so perceptive, attentive to every quiet detail you'd shared, every fleeting whisper you'd half-forgotten yourself. Rhett Abbott somehow catalogued every secret part of your soul.

"Are you serious?" Your voice was breathless, touched.

"Dead serious," he confirmed softly, hopping onto the truck bed beside you, reclining back and patting his chest invitingly. "C'mere."

After a shy hesitation, you sank against him, head gently nestled over his steady heartbeat. The sky stretched out overhead, an ocean of glittering starlight, infinite, and breathtakingly beautiful.

Rhett pointed lazily upward. "Alright, stargirl. Which one’s that?"

“Orion,” you smiled.

He hummed approval, voice teasing. "Alright, what about that one over there?"

"Cassiopeia."

He chuckled warmly. “You’re real good at this.”

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

“Yeah,” Rhett murmured, voice softer. “So damn beautiful.”

Your gaze shifted, heart thumping, realizing he wasn’t looking at the sky—he was looking at you.

His fingers brushed tenderly along your cheek, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. His thumb traced your lower lip lightly, and he whispered huskily, eyes searching yours, “You're beautiful.”

“Rhett,” you murmured breathlessly.

In the breathless heartbeat that followed, he surged forward, cradling your face in his strong, calloused hands, claiming your mouth in a fierce yet tender kiss. Your world spun wildly as you melted instantly into his embrace, lips moving hungrily, passionately against his own.

He groaned low into your mouth, desperation and relief laced in the sound. “God, sweetheart,” he murmured feverishly between kisses, “wanted this—wanted you for so fucking long.”

His tongue traced hotly along your lower lip, teasing entrance until your mouth parted eagerly beneath him, allowing him in, tasting and teasing until you moaned breathlessly.

“You drive me crazy, darlin’,” he growled softly, gripping the back of your neck possessively, deepening the kiss until it felt like he was stealing the breath straight from your lungs. “Think about you all the goddamn time.”

“Rhett—” you whispered, clutching at his shoulders, fingertips sinking into muscle, holding him desperately close. “Me too—god, please…”

At your whispered confession, something snapped in Rhett, and his kisses turned frantic, heated, teeth tugging lightly at your lip, dragging delicious moans from your throat. His hands roamed possessively, slipping beneath your dress, tracing urgently over the curve of your thighs, your hips, grasping firmly to anchor you closer.

“C'mere, baby,” he rasped, voice rough with need as he pulled you onto his lap. You gasped sharply, thighs parting instinctively, knees bracketing his waist. Your dress rucked up high, pooling carelessly around your hips as his hands gripped and kneaded your bare thighs, pulling you tight against him.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart—” he groaned, head falling back slightly as you ground experimentally against the rigid, straining bulge of his jeans. “Just like that, baby—god, you feel so fucking good.”

Your hands tangled into his soft hair, tugging lightly to tilt his head back, exposing his throat for your lips to explore hungrily. Rhett shuddered beneath you, growling deeply in his chest, fingers gripping tighter, pulling you closer, hips thrusting upwards desperately, chasing friction.

“So good,” he whispered fervently into your skin, teeth scraping tenderly at your collarbone. “So fucking perfect, baby—wanted to touch you like this for so damn long.”

You whimpered softly, rolling your hips faster, grinding harder against his hardness. He hissed sharply, fingers bruising into your hips, guiding your frantic movements, desperate to feel you closer, deeper.

“Need you, Rhett,” you pleaded softly, breath ragged and trembling.

He surged upright, pressing you flush against him, kissing you deeply, fiercely, as his fingers swiftly undid his jeans. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. Always.”

When you finally sank onto him, stretching deliciously around him, he groaned loudly—unrestrained, wild with pleasure. “Fuck—sweetheart,” he gasped, voice strained with raw pleasure. “Look how good you take me, darlin’—goddamn—so tight, so fucking perfect.”

You moaned his name, tossing your head back, riding him slow and deep beneath the watchful eyes of the stars. He leaned back against the truck bed, eyes glued hungrily to your flushed face, awed by every gasp and whimper falling from your parted lips.

“You look like a goddamn dream riding me like that,” he praised roughly, hands gripping your waist, guiding you up and down, matching each roll of your hips. “Fuck—just like that, beautiful. God, yes.”

Your nails dragged lightly down his chest, back arching beautifully beneath his heated gaze. Pleasure coiled tight within you, spiraling, pushing you to the edge until your rhythm faltered, breath catching sharply.

“Rhett—fuck—I’m gonna—” you gasped desperately, riding him faster, harder, chasing release.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he urged roughly, his thumb brushing firmly over your sensitive clit. “Let go—I wanna feel you come undone.”

His words sent you spiraling, shattering instantly around him. “Oh fuck, Rhett—” you cried out loudly, moaning shamelessly, trembling as pleasure consumed you, shaking wildly around him.

“Good girl,” he groaned, voice thick and hoarse with adoration. “So perfect, sweetheart—fuck, you feel so good.”

Before he could tip over the edge himself, you slid off his lap with a wicked smirk, sinking down onto your knees between his spread thighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, eyes darkening hungrily as your mouth enveloped him completely, hot and wet and perfect. “Oh fuck—baby, yes—”

He trembled beneath your touch, hips bucking involuntarily as your tongue swirled and teased. “God, your mouth—fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart—gonna make me come.”

You hummed softly, the vibration sending him spiraling, fingers gripping your hair desperately, gently guiding your head, hips thrusting shallowly, lost in your wet, warm mouth.

“Fuck—I’m—” Rhett gasped raggedly, head thrown back, stars dancing behind his eyes as he came undone, spilling hotly into your mouth. You swallowed obediently, savoring him, your eyes locked wickedly onto his flushed face.

“Come here,” he rasped breathlessly, pulling you urgently back up, crashing his mouth onto yours fiercely. He groaned against your lips, tasting himself, tasting you, the intoxicating blend making him dizzy.

“Goddamn, you taste good, baby,” he murmured breathlessly, forehead pressed tenderly against yours, fingers still threaded possessively into your hair. “I love you, sweetheart—I’ve always fucking loved you.”

Your heart skipped violently at his whispered confession. “You do?”

Rhett laughed softly, tenderly, kissing you again, softer this time, almost reverently. “More than I know what to do with.”

You smiled shyly, your fingertips tracing gentle circles over his chest. “I love you, Rhett. Always have.”

He exhaled, relief flooding his eyes, expression growing boyishly sweet. “Thank fuck for that.”

You laughed quietly, settling comfortably against him, nestled safely in his arms. “Mmm,” you teased lightly, drawing lazy patterns on his chest. “I could get used to this.”

His grin turned mischievous, cocky smirk returning as he pressed a teasing kiss against your forehead. “Oh, you definitely will. I ain’t lettin’ you outta my sight now, darlin’. Especially now that I know what your pretty mouth can do.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, giggling softly. “You’re impossible, Rhett Abbott.”

He chuckled deeply, wrapping his arms around you possessively, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Oh, but you love it.”

You tilted your head, gazing up into his beautiful blue eyes, heart swelling with affection, softness overwhelming you beneath the starlit sky.

“Yes,” you whispered quietly, truth heavy yet freeing on your lips, “I do.”

Beneath the vast Wyoming stars, Rhett held you tighter, knowing for certain now that everything he'd ever needed—everything he could ever want—was right there, safe in his arms.

#౨ৎ ˖ ࣪ . houseofaegon's masterlist #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott #smut #rhett abbott outer range #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott smut #outer range #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott fanfiction #lewis pullman smut #lewis pullman

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paddockletters · 9 months ago

Text

secret's out | lewis hamilton smau

pairing: lewis hamilton x reader summary: lewis accidentally reveals his secret relationship with you in an instagram story, sparking fan frenzy. request: yes/ thank you so muchhhh! author’s note:hey anon, i really loved and enjoyed writing your idea! thanks for you request and hope you like it and and sorry it took me too long❤

lewishamilton

lewis' imessage

y/username

liked by lewishamilton, f1 and 2,467,095 others

yourusername: i guess our secret has been reveled bt none other than my husband...

comments...

georgerussell63: you guys definitely made that podium moment legendary. Wishing you both all the best! 💪🏼❤️

danielriccirado: You guys, first you hid your relationship and then your wedding and you didn't even invite us…. I'm hurt

user1: the fact that george is his teammate and he didn't even know that lewis was married 😭😭

user2: ok, we already knew that lewis was very private but this, THIS is another level

charles_leclerc: took you long enough, Lewis! Wishing you guys all the happiness! 🥳

user3: can we just appreciate the casual hard launch AND a kiss on the podium?? absolute power couple energy 💯

user4: he way Lewis looked at you during the podium 😍 He’s been in love the whole time!!

user5: he fact that Lewis called you his wife on his story and we all lost it 🤣🤣 Congrats on your not-so-secret love anymore!

y/username

liked by lewishamilton, f1 and 3,456,955 others

yourusername: this secret and announcement took us less time this last time

comments:

lewishamilton: Can’t wait to meet our little one. Over the moon with you, love

user6: BABY HAMILTON?! Oh my God, I’m crying. This is the cutest news ever!! 😭🍼

georgerussell63: Congratulations!! Can’t wait to meet the future world champ! 🍼🏆

landonorris: BABY HAMILTON??? Alright, I’m officially shook. Congrats, guys! The paddock just got a whole lot more fun! 😂❤️

user7: Lewis is gonna be a dad??? IM NOT OKAY!!! CONGRATS!! 🥺❤️

danielricciardo: A little racer on the way? YES! Can I be the fun uncle? 😎🍼

user8: A podium celebration baby??? 👀 Looks like we know how y’all celebrated that win! 🤭

user9: he timeline is connecting… podium celebration = baby Hamilton?? You sneaky lovebirds! 😂💛

charles_leclerc: Wow, huge congrats!! The grid’s about to get a little bigger 😄

user10: OMG this baby is about to be more stylish than all of us. Already living their best life before birth! 👶🏽✨

Lewis' podium

The energy in the paddock was electric as Lewis’s car crossed the finish line, securing him a spot on the podium for the first time in what felt like ages. I could barely contain my excitement as I watched from the sidelines, surrounded by a sea of cheering fans. The moment felt surreal, and my heart raced as Lewis climbed out of his car, a triumphant grin plastered across his face.

As he approached me, still wearing his helmet, I couldn't help but notice the way the crowd erupted in applause and shouts. The deafening cheers seemed to fade into the background as he got closer. “Honey, I’ve done it!!” he shouted, his voice slightly muffled but filled with uncontainable joy.

The adrenaline coursing through my veins made me feel invincible. I laughed, my heart swelling with pride as I reached up to remove his helmet. The instant his face came into view, I felt the warmth of his excitement radiate between us. The crowd’s energy shifted, anticipation crackling in the air as they sensed something special was about to happen.

Lewis leaned down, his eyes locked onto mine, and in that electric moment, he kissed me deeply, right there in front of everyone. The world around us disappeared; all I could feel was the warmth of his lips and the deafening roar of the crowd as they cheered for us.

From that day forward, we became the couple everyone adored. Fans began sharing videos and photos of the kiss, turning it into an iconic moment.

As the weeks passed, our relationship was the talk of the town. But it wasn't long before the news of our little family surprise came to light.

It was late, the dimmed lights in our living room casting soft shadows on the walls as I paced back and forth. The small plastic stick in my hand felt heavy, like it held the weight of the world. My heart pounded as I stared at the two pink lines that confirmed it—I was pregnant.

I had imagined this moment so many times, rehearsing how I would tell him, but now that it was real, my mind was a blur of emotions. Excitement, fear, happiness—everything at once.

Lewis had just gotten home from the gym, his usual easy smile lighting up his face as he stepped inside. He dropped his gym bag by the door, not yet noticing the turmoil in my eyes.

"Hey, love. Everything alright?" He asked, walking over to kiss me on the forehead, his hands automatically settling on my waist. But as he looked down at me, his brow furrowed in concern. He knew something was up.

I took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his hands on me, grounding me. "Lewis, I… I need to tell you something."

His eyes softened instantly, the worry easing away. He pulled me closer, concern still flickering in his gaze but now mixed with curiosity.

"You’re scaring me a bit, babe. What’s going on?"

I bit my lip, the words almost stuck in my throat. My heart raced as I reached for his hand, slipping the positive pregnancy test into his palm. He looked down at it, confusion crossing his face for a brief second before realization hit him like a wave.

His eyes widened, flicking from the test to me and back to the test again. "Wait… are you serious?"

I nodded, tears springing to my eyes as a nervous laugh escaped me. "Yes, Lewis. We’re going to have a baby."

For a moment, it was like time stood still. He stared at me, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Then, without warning, he scooped me up into his arms, spinning me around as a wide, joyful laugh escaped him.

"Are you kidding me?!" He was grinning from ear to ear, his excitement so contagious I couldn’t help but giggle, too. "We’re having a baby?!"

"Yeah… we’re having a baby." I nodded, my heart swelling as I saw how happy he was.

Lewis set me down gently, but his arms stayed wrapped around me, his forehead resting against mine.

"I can’t believe this," he whispered, his voice full of awe. "You’re going to be the most amazing mom, you know that?"

"And you’re going to be the best dad. Our little one’s going to be so lucky." I smiled, feeling the butterflies in my stomach.

He pulled back slightly, looking into my eyes, his expression soft and full of love.

"This is the best news I could’ve ever imagined. I love you so much."

"I love you too," I whispered back, my voice catching with emotion.

Lewis placed a hand on my stomach, still grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Our little secret," he said, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loud would make it any less real.

As the initial shock and excitement settled in, Lewis and I spent the rest of the evening curled up on the couch, talking about everything that lay ahead. The glow in his eyes hadn’t dimmed one bit; if anything, it had grown brighter with every moment.

"I still can’t believe it," he whispered, running his fingers softly over my stomach. "We’re actually having a baby."

I laughed, leaning my head against his shoulder. "It’s real, Lewis. You’re going to be a dad."

"You know, now that I think about it, when do you reckon we… you know, made this little one?" A playful smirk spread across his face.

I rolled my eyes at his cheeky tone. "Really? That’s what you’re thinking about now?"

"Well," he chuckled, nudging me slightly. "It’s not every day you find out you're going to be a dad. I’m just curious." He paused, tilting his head as if considering the options. "I mean, we’ve been busy lately…"

I snorted, shaking my head. "Busy is an understatement. We travel all the time."

Suddenly, realization dawned on him. His eyes widened, and I saw the gears turning in his head. "Wait… what about Monaco? You remember? After that podium…"

I froze for a second, my mind flashing back to that night. The celebration had been wild—Lewis had just gotten his first podium in a while, and we were on cloud nine. The champagne, the excitement, the adrenaline… and later that night, when we finally got back to our home…

I fele my cheeks flush. "Oh my God, Lewis."

He grinned like a Cheshire cat, clearly putting it all together. "That’s when it happened, didn’t it? The night of the podium celebration! No wonder the timing makes sense."

I covered my face with my hands, laughing as the memory came flooding back. "I can’t believe this! You’re right. That’s when it happened."

Lewis burst out laughing, clearly delighted by the connection. "No wonder I felt so invincible that weekend. Turns out, we had a little extra reason to celebrate!"

I playfully swatted his arm, though I couldn’t stop laughing either. "We’ll never live this down, you know. People are going to figure it out, and the teasing is going to be relentless."

He shrugged, still grinning like a fool. "Let them talk. They can tease us all they want. As long as I’ve got you and this little one, I don’t care."

I smiled, leaning into him, feeling the warmth of his words. "You’re such a sap sometimes, you know that?"

He chuckled, kissing the top of my head. "Only for you, love."

As we sat there, wrapped in each other and in the realization of what was to come, I couldn’t help but think about how crazy our journey had been so far. And now, with a baby on the way, it was about to get even crazier. But with Lewis by my side, I knew we could handle anything—even the endless teasing from our friends and fans.

"Just wait until the guys hear about this," he said with a wink, already anticipating the chaos to come.

I rolled my eyes again but smiled. "Oh, I’m sure they’ll never let us forget it."

1K notes · View notes

dawneternal · 9 months ago

Text

now my head's splitting at the seams

✴︎ in the labyrinth of my pain, would you find me?

✴︎ Azriel x Valkyrie reader, platonic Cassian x reader

✴︎ Summary: you miss a few days of training, down with a bad migraine. It turns out Cassian has a few misconceptions about your condition and, possibly, about pain itself.

✴︎ Warnings: mentions of nausea and vomiting (no descriptions), pain, toxic positivity and ableism, internalized ableism, Cassian's a jerk in the first half. Also I'm so sorry for the tense changing back and forth 💀 I would definitely not call this one a masterpiece

✴︎ Word Count: 3.4k

AO3 Link / Writing Masterlist

✴︎ Notes: somehow writing out my feelings about having a migraine turned into something pretentious about pain and ableism. I think a lot about John Green's "pain is the opposite of language" and how much that's changed my perception of pain

Also listen I love Cassian and I have no problems with him but I had to pick someone to take my feelings out on I'm sorry 💛 also just want to acknowledge that everyone experiences migraines differently and it's not a topic I'm an expert on so I'm sorry if you don't feel well represented by this.

Tbh I could write several essays about the way pain and disability are handled in the acotar books but that's for another time.

Letting out a frustrated groan, you squeeze your eyes shut tighter and twist your knuckle into the pressure point at the base of your palm, chasing the momentary relief it'll give you from your nausea. It works for a minute, and you're considering making your way to the bathroom before another wave hits you when your bedroom door flies open.

"You're late," Cassian's voice bellows through the room and he doesn't see you wince. He strides into the room, footsteps booming across the floorboards, and he's left the door open behind him, letting a traitorous amount of light into your dark room. What good were black out curtains if your darkness was going to be invaded like this anyways?

"Oh my gods you've got to talk quieter," You curl tighter around yourself, head clutched in your hands.

"So you're hungover?" He stops near your bed, arms crossed as he towers over you.

"No, I have a migraine."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

You squint up at him, scowling, swallowing every bad word threatening to spill off your tongue. Though maybe he deserves it for coming into your room without asking.

"Please leave," You say quietly, all the venom you could usually imbue into your voice completely swallowed by your current condition.

"You've missed three days of training." He says by way of answering, definitely not following your request to lower his volume. "You can't coddle yourself like this."

His words punch the air from your lungs. Coddle? Something terrible is rising in your gut, along with the desperate thought that you can't deal with this right now.

"I'm not - this isn't - I don't think you understand how much it hurts." You scramble for words, cheeks heated from pain and anger.

"You've gotta push through it," He says, no hint of sympathy.

"Cassian please."

"I'm not leaving until you agree to come with me."

You don't have time to respond before you're running to the bathroom and throwing up whatever you'd managed to keep down last night, head throbbing with every movement.

Breathing hard, you lean back from the toilet and clutch your head in your hands. The silence rings in your ears and you aren't sure if Cassian is still there or if he finally took mercy on you and left, until his voice makes it's way to you, with just a hint of remorse in it -

"I'd better see you up there."

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Cassian did not see you at training that morning, and you're assuming you've bruised his ego because the next day he doubles down.

The thing is, Rhysand knew of your condition. The other priestesses knew. It's only Cassian being out of the loop and if he understood what a migraine felt like, you're certain he wouldn't be dragging you up there. You were used to dealing with people who didn't understand, had worked hard to learn how to give yourself kindness no matter what other people said. But it's like he knew exactly what things to say, what buttons to press to undo all of that progress.

It was like he'd pulled off your armor, piece by piece, leaving you cold and exposed. Going back to that world where weakness was your given name and it hurt worse than stepping into the ring and fighting the pain. If you could prove him wrong, just make it through a couple of hours, you could return to your sanctuary of darkness. And at least then, you wouldn't hate yourself on top of everything else.

So you followed him up to the training ring, struggling to open your eyes all the way in the morning light, hunched over to make the pain down your shoulders and neck just a bit more bearable. You sway on your feet, but Cassian either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

When he moves aside, revealing your small, huddled frame trailing beside him, Gwyn gasps.

"Cassian!" She cries, her tone scathing, and the hint of smug triumph slips from his face. It disappears completely as Gwyn rushes to your side, folding you into her arms to block your eyes from the light. You groan into her shoulder and go limp in her arms, grateful for the support.

Azriel stands to the side, watching with narrowed eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest like Cassian's, but there is no determination or judgment in his posture or expression. There's angry, crackling flames as he watches the redheaded Valkyrie thread her fingers through your hair and murmur soft comfort.

"She missed training all this week," Cassian says, but he's not barking any more. He's feeling a little bit small underneath the glares that pin him where he stands.

"Yeah, we know," Gwyn says, and it's the closest she's gotten to snapping at him in the whole time they've known each other. She turns to you and her eyes soften. "Let's get you back to bed, love."

"No," You murmur, guilt and shame bringing your resolve to the surface once more. You gently push her away to stand on your own, raising your squinted eyes to meet Cassian's. "I can do it. I'll be fine."

She watches you take shaky steps to the nearest mat and begin stretching, body obviously stiff from a few days in bed. You're conscious of all the eyes on you, far too sympathetic for your liking. This is exactly what you hated.

"Are we starting or not?" You let out a stiff laugh, too aware that your words are lightly slurred. That is absolutely not helping the hangover accusations.

The other priestesses shuffle to get into place, bumping into each other as they move to find their positions. There was still a horrible silence, crackling with fierce anger, all rippling in Cassian's direction. He halfheartedly called a few orders, visibly uncomfortable with the energy in the ring.

And you tried. You tried hard. To move your body through the stretches like normal. But your muscles protested every move, threatening to lock back up, sending stabs of pain through your skull. It didn't take long for the nausea to take over, forcing you to the edge of the ring, doubled over and dry heaving.

"This is ridiculous," Gwyn scoffs before she's at your side again. "You're going to back to bed."

"I will not be weak," You growl at her, panting as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, "I am not lazy."

Gwyn's head snaps around to find Cassian, mouth dropped open in fury as she silently dares him to confirm that he may have suggested weakness to you.

"You're not and you know it," She says softly, hauling you up and leading you away from the training ring. “Don't do that to yourself.”

Cassian is feeling like he's surrounded by wolves, all the glares that are being sent his way. He understands by now that he's messed up, and in front of a group that may not be easily inclined to forgive him. He's sure every single one of them has experienced the disbelief that he foolishly shoved your way. For their pain, or for anything else.

He thought you would snap back to your normal self after a bit of warming up, shake off your symptoms with a bit of movement and sunshine. You were strong enough to, if you wanted to. He'd seen it before. He thought you just didn't want to.

A small, firm hand lands on his arm and he finds himself looking down at Nesta. There's sympathy in her expression, but her eyes twinkle with the threat of a nasty bite if he dares to say anything stupid.

"She gets them after particularly bad flashbacks," Nesta says, "Or sometimes they're just random. Madja says there's no fix for the pain but darkness and sleep."

Cassian's stomach twists so terribly he thinks he might puke, too. In the midst of attempting to instill resilience, he's understanding that he knows nothing of this kind of pain. This is something different, something that cannot be conquered in the same way as emotional pain, as every day aches and injuries. You are a soldier in a battle he has no strategy for.

He may understand the concept of emotional resilience, of getting back up and into the training ring when you don't want to. But this is different.

The final blow, the thing that makes him want to cower and hide, is meeting his brother's eyes. Seeing the fire there transports him back in time, sending flashes of a smaller Azriel pushing himself too hard, determined to show the world that he'd never be less because of the damage to his hands. Fighting against words far too similar to the ones his own brother had spouted to you this morning, desperate to become strong enough that no one would ever doubt his pain and live.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

It was not a surprise that Cassian found himself in Rhysand's office later, confessing how thoroughly he'd fucked up, desperate for a little direction in how to fix this mess.

"It has to be their choice," Rhysand is saying, eyes meeting Cassian's over his glass.

Cassian's mouth opens and closes as he tries to conjure a response. He knows that. Of course he knows that. But apparently, his brain had not wrapped around how far that concept might go.

Cassian let out a grunt as he sat back in his chair, arms crossed. Rhysand knew he didn't have to push any further, he recognized the conflict in his brother's eyes. So he sat with him, quiet, while he processed.

"Do you want to know what it feels like?" He broke the since after a while, as the idea came to him.

"What?" Cassian blinked, startled from his thoughts.

"A migraine," Rhys explained, "Do you want to know what it feels like?"

Cassian frowned, studying his brother's expression for anything resembling amusement, but there was none. So he nods.

Not even a full second later, his skull is attacked with throbbing pain, deep in the base of his neck. He hadn't even noticed the fae lights before, but now they overwhelm him, causing a dull pain to surface behind his eyes. Nausea curled up his throat, threatening ruthlessly.

"Oh gods," He leaned forward and clutched his head in his hands, finding that his limbs trembled under his own weight.

"Do you push yourself when you feel like this?" Rhysand asked softly, not taunting. Prompting.

"I don't really ever feel like this," Cassian grumbled out.

"Hm," Rhysand mused, his brows drawing together. He'd experienced episodes like these often, under the mountain. He knew that Azriel struggled with them through his teenage years, like his brain still struggled to process his senses outside of a dark cell.

Deep in thought, he only remembered to ease up on Cassian's mind when his brother whimpered.

"Some say pain cannot truly be described with language," Rhys says, gaze somewhere else as Cassian gulps down air. "And that your pain is one of the few things that is truly yours, that you can never share. Even if you manage to describe it, it will never be felt by anyone else."

"I thought she was just hungover," Cassian says, but he's not defending himself. Rhysand knows.

"What if she was, though?" He tilts his head to the side, watching his brother carefully.

And that is the thing that had begun to unfurl within Cassian as he stood surrounded by the priestesses he'd wronged. He understood that having true control of your body meant that dictating how pain is handled had to be yours, too. He understood that pushing someone to deal with pain in his own way was a violation in and of itself. He had stepped into the world that you had carefully balanced and re-built around your condition and dared to tell you that you may have done it wrong.

"Will she get better?" He asks, thinking of the agony he'd just experienced for a few short minutes. The same one that you'd been experiencing for three days, now.

"It's hard to say," Rhysand shrugs, "Madja says she will likely experience these off and on for the rest of her life, but she may have some periods of remission."

He tilts his head at his brother again, "You know that a majority of the priestesses have an invisible disability of similar kinds, right? They won't get better. They will be in pain every day until they die."

Rhysand sighs, thinking of the hundreds - possibly thousands - of tins of salve that Azriel has gone through, numbing the pain of his nerve damage. Trembling hands hidden in black gloves, tucked into his body and away from the world. And that is the reason he's bothering telling Cassian of any of this. Otherwise, he might let him figure it out on his own.

"But the healers-" Cassian begins.

"Are there to help them cope with their emotional pain and trauma," Rhysand nods, "But some of them, a lot of them, were disabled as a result of what they went through and will never get better. Like Clotho.”

Oh.

It clicks in Cassian's mind, then. Who else Rhys meant. Who else Cassian had insulted. He had never barged into Azriel's room, insisting that he still train even when he could not flex his fingers without wincing, without trembling too hard to hold a glass of water. But he'd done it to you, in front of him. And that pinned his disbelief on Azriel all the same.

Azriel's pain, your pain, were enemies that neither of you could defeat. And here he was, shoving a sword into your hands, and insisting that you try.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

A soft knock sounds against your door, so quiet you almost don't hear it. You stare at it, wondering if you should pretend that you didn't. But then the knob turns slowly and it opens just a crack, and a soft voice is saying into the darkness,

"Hey, it's Azriel. Can I come in?"

Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch his shadows dancing back and forth through the thin wedge of light he's letting in.

"Sure," You say, moving quickly to smooth your rumpled clothes and tangled hair before he steps in. You're not exactly sure what he thinks of you after this morning.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him. His eyes seem to glow in the darkness, an amber-honey color, and somehow you can still see his shadows, like they're even darker than your room with no light.

"I just wanted to check on you," He says, crouching down beside your bed so you don't have to sit up.

"I'm okay," You say, still getting over the surprise of the Shadowsinger in your space. It's true, though, you suppose. You're used to all of your other symptoms by now, and your heart hurts worse than your head.

"He's an idiot sometimes," Azriel says, basically spits. A smile begins to spread on your face so he continues, “Like, sometimes he's just an asshole, straight up. But this time, believe it or not, I think he actually meant well and was just an idiot.”

“I know,” You give him a sad smile and all of the anger melts from his face.

“I think he went to buy flowers if that makes you feel any better,” He sighs. You know he's just as mad at Cassian as you are, maybe even more mad. But he still can't help vouching for him. It's definitely going to take more than flowers to forgive him, but it's a good start. You also appreciate that Azriel has bothered to warn you ahead of time, in case you wanted to avoid Cassian's apology.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, so quietly. And you wonder who else has earned this tenderness from him.

“It's not too bad right now,” you say truthfully, though you know that sitting up or going outside might be pushing your luck.

“Still hurts?”

“Yeah. Still hurts.”

He nods. “I can try something that helps me, sometimes.”

You search his eyes for a moment, then nod.

“Can I touch your face?” He asks, almost a whisper.

Your heart leaps into your throat and you fight to keep your face neutral as you nod again, no idea what he's planning to do with you.

Slowly, leaving enough time for you to stop him, he reaches out. He's not wearing gloves, like usual, and in the dark you can just barely make out the uneven silhouette of his dimpled, scarred hands.

His fingers land gently on your forehead, and he presses his thumb between your brows. Gently at first, and then harder, circling a tender point under your skin. It makes the pain in your head sharper, and you let out a hiss.

“I know,” He says, “Bear with me a minute.”

You close your eyes, biting back a whimper, but after a moment the pain begins to ease. He keeps going for a few minutes and you feel your whole body relax, pain free for the first time in days.

You don't realize how much you've leaned into his touch until he gently pulls away and you find your head falling forward with him.

“What is that?” You open your eyes and blink at him.

“A pressure point,” He grins, and it almost looks like he's blushing.

“That's magical,” you say. You hesitate for a moment, and then, “you can sit on the bed if you want.”

Azriel smiles and straightens, and you move your pillow to the side to make space for him. He slides off his boots and sits on the bed next to you, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. You place your pillow next to his lap and settle back into it.

“Thank you,” You say, your body feeling lighter than it has in days.

“Of course,” he says.

A silence settles, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something in it that you understand. He's just keeping you company. Here to sit with you in your pain.

It's easy to relax in his presence, between his calm aura and the pain relief he's offered you. And you find yourself spilling the question that's been circling though your mind since this morning.

“What if I can't fight, someday? What if I can't be a Valkyrie anymore?”

Azriel stills beside you. It's a long moment before he says anything. You're tense beside him, and it makes you flinch when he brings his hand so gently to rest on your head. Not moving, just resting.

“First,” He says, in the same soft voice, “You'll always be a Valkyrie. Because you cut the ribbon. Because you sisters will never let you go. And because I know for a fact that the Valkyries did not strip their warriors of their title if they became disabled by an illness or an injury.”

“Really?” You breathe.

“Mhm,” He hums in affirmation. You forget sometimes that he knows the Valkyries from more than history books.

“And second,” His voice drops lower, like he's sharing a secret with you. His hand moves, fingers slipping gingerly through your hair. And it makes you realize that he came here with his hands uncovered as an offer of solidarity. Combing his scarred fingers through your hair, he is offering you vulnerability, like recompense for what you bared this morning. A trade. A truce.

“If you cannot fight,” He continues, “Then you will show the world that a formidable woman can be made from more than fighting skills. You will still be - will always be - something incredible.”

Tears prickle at your eyes, form a lump in your throat. You reach up to grasp his hand, the only thank you that you can manage in the moment, and he lets you.

There's another silence, as he holds your hand in the dark.

“Who helps you?” You ask, turning to look up at him. He watches your eyebrows knit together, so serious, and he swallows a smile.

“What do you mean?” He says.

You bring one finger up to tap the space between his own eyebrows.

“With your pain? Who helps you like you helped me?”

“Um,” He shrugs, “Sometimes Rhys if he has time. Otherwise, no one.”

That's what you thought, but it still makes your heart twist in your chest. It takes a deep breath before you have the courage to say the next words out loud.

“You should tell me next time you're in pain. And I'll help.”

Azriel stares back at you, something bewildered in his eyes. Because he sees your suggestion for what it is. The same thing he offered you. A trade. A truce.

A beginning.

“Yes,” He whispers into the dark, and his hand closes around yours. “I will.”

#relieving someone else's pain is strangely intimate???#idk what this is honestly #acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #azriel x reader #cassian x reader #platonic cassian x reader #Rhysand #Azriel #cassian #madja acotar #Gwyneth berdara #nesta archeron #disabled reader #chronic pain #hurt/comfort

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