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earpskeeper · 19 days ago

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part 5 to the you're spiralin again series part 4 can be found here trigger warnings remain the same for the whole series and are posted on the master list word count - 2.7k

The corridor outside the resuscitation room is ice cold, the sterile hospital lights buzzing quietly above. Beth stands pressed to the glass window of the room, eyes fixed on the chaotic scene inside. Her fists are clenched white at her sides, her whole body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. Through the transparent barrier, she can see Bailey, pale, surrounded by doctors shouting instructions and nurses scrambling with equipment.

Wires, tubes and monitors.

Beth doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

She barely registers Steph standing just behind her, or Kim to her left, both as tense and silent as statues. Kim had driven them there after the ambulance sped away, lights and sirens blaring. They hadn’t been allowed inside, it was critical, they were told. Critical.

And now

A long, flat beep pierces the air.

Beth’s breath catches in her throat. The monitor. The flatline.

“No,” she whispers. “No no no”

She bolts forward before either of them can react, hands slamming against the door.

"Let me in! That’s my sister! LET ME IN!"

Steph grabs her from behind, arms wrapping tightly around her waist to hold her back. Beth struggles, feet scraping against the tiled floor.

"She needs me! She needs me!"

"Beth, stop!" Steph snaps, breath ragged. "You can't go in there. You can’t help her!"

"Let the doctors work," Kim adds, stepping in front of the door as if to block it from view, even as her voice shakes.

Beth fights them both, body shaking with grief and adrenaline. But she's no match for Steph's grip, and finally she collapses back into her arms, sobbing.

Kim's eyes are fixed on the scene inside the room, lips pressed tightly together as the crash team continues working.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees movement down the corridor. Turning, she spots a group of familiar faces appearing at the end of the hall - Leah, Kyra, Caitlin, Katie, and the rest of the squad. All of them have come, their faces drawn and pale, eyes scanning desperately for answers.

Kim raises a hand to them quickly and calls out, her voice sharp but calm. "Over here!"

Then she looks back at Beth, still crumpled against Steph, tears soaking her sleeves, eyes locked on the window.

Kim turns to a nurse nearby. "Can we get some help? She needs to sit somewhere else. She can't watch this."

The nurse nods and brings over a wheelchair, but Beth waves it off, stumbling to her feet with Steph and Kim on either side of her.

"Please," she mumbles. "Please don't let her die. I can’t lose her too!"

"Come on," Steph murmurs, gently guiding her to the row of chairs on the far side of the waiting room. "We're right here. You're not alone."

Beth allows herself to be guided to a row of chairs across the room. She drops into one heavily, hands over her face, trembling. The others gather near her, a solemn, silent circle. The world around them is all fluorescent light and muffled footsteps, beeping machines, and the constant hum of dread.

Kyra leans slightly toward Steph, voice barely audible. "It happened before. At the flat. She collapsed. In the bathroom."

Beth doesn’t catch all of it, but the words hit her like a bus.

"What did you say?" Beth's voice is low, but sharp and dangerous.

Kyra freezes, instantly pale. "Back at the flat. Bailey, she collapsed. In the bathroom. A couple weeks ago."

Beth's heart lurches. Her hands drop from her face.

"What?"

"She came round quickly, I didn’t think…"

"You didn’t think?" Beth is on her feet in an instant, eyes burning, voice rising with every syllable. "You KNEW something was wrong with her and you didn’t SAY ANYTHING?"

Kyra looks like she might shatter on the spot. "I didn’t know how to"

"I could’ve stopped this!" Beth sobs. "I could’ve gotten her help! I could’ve…"

She steps forward and shoves Kyra, hard, her grief exploding outward in furious waves. "You should’ve told me!"

Kyra stumbles back, tears spilling down her cheeks. She doesn’t defend herself. She doesn’t move.

"Beth!" Leah's voice cuts through the tension like a whip, and she steps between them, hands on Beth’s shoulders. "That’s enough."

Kyra looks utterly broken. Caitlin and Katie are at her sides instantly, taking her arms, murmuring quiet reassurances, steering her away with gentle, steady hands. Kyra goes without resistance, her head hanging, shoulders curled in.

"This isn’t anyone’s fault," Leah says, trying to hold steady even as her own voice trembles.

Beth’s expression contorts with rage and anguish. "It IS! She should’ve said something! She let this happen, this is - ITS HER FAULT!"

"NO." Leah steps forward, firm, unwavering. "Enough, Beth. We tried to talk to you. You didn’t listen."

Beth blinks. The words hit like a sledgehammer. Her breath catches. Her mouth opens. Closes. Everything collapses at once. Her knees give out. Leah catches her just before she hits the floor, lowering her down slowly, arms wrapping around her as Beth lets out a sound that’s more scream than sob. She crumbles completely, face buried in Leah’s chest, wailing. Her body trembles violently with the weight of it all.

And somewhere in the dark, in the in between, Bailey is standing on a shoreline that doesn’t quite exist. Water laps at her bare feet, but she feels no cold, no wind. Only silence. A figure stands in the distance, familiar and glowing faintly. Bailey takes a step forward. Then another. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Mum?"

The figure turns, and it is her. Gentle smile. Kind eyes. Arms open.

"Hello, my darling."

Bailey starts to run. She crashes into the woman’s embrace and feels her mother’s warmth like a distant memory come back to life.

"I missed you," Bailey sobs.

Her mum runs a hand through her hair. "I know, baby. I missed you too."

They stay like that, pressed together, time suspended. Then her mum pulls back slightly, cupping Bailey’s face.

Bailey pulls back, barely able to see through the tears. “But… are you really here? Am I, am I dead?”

Her mum’s eyes glisten with sadness as she gently takes Bailey’s hand in hers. “Not yet. But you’re close.”

Bailey’s lips tremble. “So this is, what is this?”

Her mum doesn’t answer, only squeezes her hand, and suddenly the space around them ripples like water disturbed.

The light shifts. The darkness fades. And then:

They’re in her childhood garden.

Sunlight streams across the familiar patch of grass, slightly overgrown and messy in the corners. The old swing set creaks in the breeze. Flowers bloom along the fence line, her mum’s favourites: dahlias and foxgloves. A dog barks distantly. Wind rustles the hedges. Birds chirp. The air smells like summer.

Laughter rings out, bright and pure.

Bailey turns and sees her younger self (eight years old, hair in messy plaits, jersey two sizes too big) chasing a scuffed football across the lawn. Beth, only a little older, darts beside her, giggling and shoving her playfully. Their mum watches from a sun faded lawn chair, clapping and calling out encouragements.

Bailey stares. Her chest tightens. “I remember this day.”

Her mum smiles beside her. “You were happiest here. Free. You loved the game before it became pressure. Before it became pain.”

Bailey swallows, the lump in her throat growing thicker. “Before everything changed.”

The memory flickers like a candle in the wind, and then melts away.

Now they’re standing at Arsenal’s training ground.

Bailey sees herself again, older now. Freshly signed. Shirt pristine. Standing proudly beside Beth as their mum fiddles with a camera, telling them to smile. Bailey’s cheeks are flushed with joy, heart full, hand clutching her new kit like it’s the key to the world.

Beth bumps her with an elbow. “Better not outshine me, squirt.”

Their mum laughs from behind the lens. “That’s my girls.”

Bailey watches the moment like it’s on glass. She wants to press her palm to it. Wants to climb back inside and freeze it forever.

“I wanted to make you proud,” she murmurs.

Her mum looks at her. “You did.”

The warmth fades. The light changes again.

Suddenly, everything is too bright. Too cold. Too sterile.

They’re in a hospital room now. The walls are pale blue and humming with machines. Bailey’s own body lies still on the bed, tubes and wires snaking from her arms. Her skin is ghost-pale. Her lips tinged with blue.

Monitors beep erratically. Nurses move in frantic, rehearsed patterns. A crash cart is wheeled in. One shouts something indecipherable.

Outside the glass wall, her teammates are crowded—faces pale, eyes wide, expressions twisted with shock.

And Beth,

Beth is broken.

Held tightly by Steph, she’s sobbing into her shoulder, her entire body wracked with grief. Her face is red, tear streaked. Her mouth open in a silent scream. She looks like she’s crumbling from the inside out.

Bailey recoils. “Is… is this real? Am I going to die?”

Her mum doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she studies her daughter’s face, her expression unreadable. When she does speak, her voice is soft but unwavering. “That depends on you.”

Bailey shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t think it would go this far.”

Her mother’s gaze sharpens, not angry, but deeply wounded. “You’ve been hurting for so long, Bailey. And you’ve pushed away every hand that tried to pull you back. Why now?”

Bailey opens her mouth. Closes it. Her voice is hoarse when it comes. “Because I didn’t know what I was losing. I didn’t know they’d care so much. I didn’t think anyone would even notice.”

Tears pool again in her eyes. “But they do. Don’t they?”

Her mum steps closer. “Yes. They do. They always did. Even when you couldn’t see it.”

Bailey crumbles, her shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to die.”

Her mother gathers her gently in her arms again. “Then fight.”

“I’m sorry,” Bailey sobs. “I’ll try. Just… please. Please give me another chance.”

Her mum cups her face, her thumb brushing away a tear as her eyes shimmer with sadness. She doesn’t answer right away. Then she says, softly, "It might be too late."

Bailey flinches like she’s been struck. "No. No, it can’t be too late. Not when I finally want to try. I…I know I pushed everyone away. I know I hurt people. But I want to make it right. I need to."

Her mum runs her thumb across Bailey’s cheek, catching a tear. "It’s not about need, love. It’s about choice. You have to choose to fight. Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts."

"I am choosing! I’m here, aren’t I? I’m still here!" Bailey sobs, voice raw. "Please. Please! I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I didn’t mean for any of it to end like this. I just wanted the pain to stop. But not like this, not like this..."

Her mother takes a breath and cups Bailey’s face again, more firmly this time.

"You have to find a way to live without me now," she says, her voice both gentle and unflinching. "Because I can’t come with you. Not where you need to go. But I’ll be with you. Always. Watching over you. You won’t see me, but you’ll feel me when you need me most."

Bailey crumbles into her arms, sobbing. "I don’t know how to live without you."

"Then learn, sweetheart. One breath at a time. One step. You still have people who love you. Let them in. Let them help. Let yourself be forgiven." Her mum pulls back slightly, voice thick with emotion. "You don’t get to change the past. But you do get to choose what comes next. Right now. Before it really is too late."

Bailey nods through the tears. She can hardly breathe, but she manages to whisper, "I choose life."

Her mum kisses her forehead, holding her close one last time.

"Then go, my brave girl. And don’t waste a second of it."

The world tilts, and everything fades to white. The screeching sound of medical machines come back into play and the pain hits Bailey all at once.

Minutes stretch into an agonizing blur of silence, interrupted only by the distant murmur of hospital staff and the faint, rhythmic blip of machines from inside the room. Beth paces like a caged animal, her fingers twitching at her sides. Steph sits on the edge of a chair, elbows on her knees, head bowed. Kyra hasn’t spoken a word since Beth's outburst, she sits huddled between Caitlin and Katie, eyes red, guilt clinging to her like a second skin.

Nearly three hours pass.

Three hours of waiting.

Of fear.

Of not knowing if Bailey will survive.

Then, finally, the door at the end of the corridor opens and a doctor steps through, peeling off gloves. His scrubs are stained, face drawn but calm. Everyone rises immediately.

“Beth Mead?”

Beth nods frantically, pushing forward. “Yes. Yes, I’m her sister. Please, what’s happened? Is she…?”

“She’s stable,” the doctor says, and the breath leaves Beth’s lungs in a single, broken sob. “She was touch and go for a long time, but she’s stabilised now. We’ve managed to get her heart rhythm steady and her oxygen levels are improving. She’s not awake yet, and we’ll need to keep her in intensive care for the time being, but she’s alive. She made it.”

A stunned silence falls over the group. Shoulders drop. Hands cover mouths. Someone cries quietly. Kyra, maybe. Caitlin hugs her tightly. Katie sits down hard, like her legs have given out.

Beth sways where she stands.

“Would you like to see her?” the doctor asks gently.

“Yes,” Beth says instantly, without hesitation, but then her eyes flick sideways, silently searching.

Leah is already on the move. She crosses the space in two quick steps and slips her arm around Beth’s waist, grounding her. Beth grips Leah’s hand tightly, as if letting go would mean falling apart again.

The doctor leads them down the hallway. The others remain behind, huddled together, watching silently, barely daring to hope. Outside Bailey’s room, the doctor pauses, his tone calm but more clinical now.

“She’s unconscious, but stable. She won’t be able to respond yet, but we will continue to monitor her closely.”

Beth nods quickly, her heart hammering, but the doctor gently clears his throat, stopping her before she reaches for the door handle.

“There’s one more thing,” he says carefully. “Given the nature of the overdose and what we found in her system, we’ll need to follow protocol. That includes a full psychiatric evaluation once she’s awake. It’s standard in cases where intentional overdose may have occurred.”

Beth’s face twists, shaking her head immediately. “No. No, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t do that. She didn’t try to kill herself. She wouldn’t. Never.”

Her voice rises, hot and fast, as if saying it louder will make it true. “She wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t leave me!..”

“Beth,” Leah says gently, stepping in and placing a firm hand on her shoulder, anchoring her. “Nobody is saying that right now. Okay? No one’s making that call yet.”

Beth turns toward her, breathing heavily, her eyes wide and desperate. Leah holds her gaze, calm but steady.

“Let’s just go see Bailey.”

The doctor lingers a moment longer, but Leah catches his eye and gives him a subtle nod, understanding, quiet agreement to delay the harder conversations. The doctor gives a small, respectful nod back and steps away, disappearing down the corridor.

Leah squeezes Beth’s shoulder. “Come on.”

Beth swallows thickly and nods, following Leah into the room. Inside, the lights are low. Machines beep rhythmically. The air feels too still. Bailey lies in the hospital bed, pale and unmoving, a tangle of tubes and wires keeping her tethered to life. Her face is soft in sleep, but there’s a haunting fragility to her now, like she could disappear if Beth looks away for too long.

Beth crosses the room slowly, brushing a hand across Bailey’s cold fingers, her voice breaking.

“Oh bubba.”

Behind her, Leah stands by the door, silent and steady, watching over them both.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #earpskeeper #woso #you're spiralin again universe #beth mead x reader #katie mccabe x reader #caitlin foord x reader #steph catley x reader #leah williamson x reader #awfc x reader #awfc imagine #arsenal wfc #arsenal women #kyra cooney cross x reader

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earpskeeper · 19 days ago

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im thinking the next chapter of YSA will be released tonight

#earpskeepertalks #you're spiralin again universe

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earpskeeper · 21 days ago

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oh you are so so welcome

only took a couple months 🙄

probably so late to it but @earpskeeper has got me into station 19, lowkey obsessed with maya and carina even though im nowhere near the point where their relationship happens

#earpskeepertalks

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earpskeeper · 24 days ago

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you are so welcome 🤭

out here doing the lords work

meant to be packing for my holiday, and now i feel ill, i think my body is telling me to just not pack and hope for the best 💔

#earpskeepertalks

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earpskeeper · 24 days ago

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i just posted this and you can find it here

for lucy bronze idea could you do basically what happened yestarday and just do the reader in onas position basically so have like the whole r sitting on the floor and then lucy comes straight over and then strats crying and then all the way through until the spanish players left, obviously doesnt need to be the same you can switch up whichever bits you want and only if you feel comfortable ofcoure thanks!

ok i actually love this idea!!

i will do my best :)

#earpskeepertalks

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earpskeeper · 24 days ago

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word count - 1k trigger warnings - minimal sadness, angry Spanish woman you have just lost the final to England (and Lucy), and when she comes over to talk to you, both of your feelings get a little crazy i changed some bits to fit the style i wanted to take it so i hope everyone enjoys it

The final whistle had blown, and the deafening noise of the crowd had faded into a low, distant murmur. You sat alone on the pitch, hunched over with your hands hiding your face, the tears hot and angry as they streamed freely. You had given everything. Fought until your body had nothing left. And still, it hadn’t been enough.

Spain had fallen short in the Euro final to England.

This was supposed to be the last piece. The final trophy missing from your collection with Spain. You’d already climbed to the pinnacle with the World Cup. But this... this was meant to complete the legacy. To silence the doubt. To finally reclaim the joy that had been tainted.

As the weight of that reality settled, grief took its place. You might not get another shot. And that truth wrapped around your chest like a vice, unrelenting and sharp.

You heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching, deliberate but hesitant. You didn’t need to look up to know it was her.

Lucy stood in front of you, silent. You could feel her patient gaze resting on you. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her eyes. The anger burned in your throat (not really at her, but she was the one there) and that made it impossible to hold it back.

"You," you spat, voice bitter as you finally looked up. "Why did it have to be you?"

She didn’t flinch. She just looked at you with calm, sad eyes.

"I didn’t ask for it to be," she said softly.

"You could’ve…" you stopped yourself. The words didn’t make sense. What were you even accusing her of? That she should’ve gone easy? Let you win? You both knew it was nonsense. You were just hurting.

"You should go celebrate," you muttered, voice cracking. "Go be with your team. Go…" You almost said something cruel, something you’d regret. But it caught in your throat, burning with shame, and you swallowed it down. "Just go."

Lucy didn’t move. She knelt down slowly, still watching you.

"Just say what you need to say," she whispered. "Get it out. But you can’t push me away. Not this time."

You stood abruptly, fists clenched at your sides, and let yourself simmer in the silence. The rage swirled and twisted inside you, but it was fleeting. Words tumbled out before you could stop them.

"I hate you, but I don't. I love you and I don't know."

Your voice cracked on the last word, trembling under the weight of everything you were trying to make sense of. You felt yourself spiraling, the confusion, grief, and exhaustion colliding all at once.

Lucy moved quickly, without hesitation. She sat beside you and pulled you into her arms. You didn’t resist. You leaned into her, letting the sobs tear through you, your face buried against her shoulder.

"Hey," she murmured after a while, brushing your hair gently from your face. "You were incredible."

You shook your head, clinging to her tighter. "It wasn’t enough."

After a while, Lucy shifted slightly with a hiss, trying to reposition her leg.

You instantly noticed. You pulled back, brow furrowing. "What was that? Are you okay?"

Lucy winced and quickly tried to wave it off. "It’s nothing. You don’t need to worry about me right now. Let’s just, let’s go back to you."

"No" you said sharply. "Don’t you dare deflect. What did you just do?"

Lucy looked at you, caught. "It’s... I just hurt it a bit, that’s all."

You didn’t say a word. You just gave her that look, the one that always made her cave.

Her shoulders dropped with a sigh. "Okay, fine. It’s my leg. Fractured. Since June."

You gasped, hitting her arm without thinking. “que carajo!” “what the fuck!”

Lucy pouted dramatically and rubbed her arm where you hit her, eyes wide with faux innocence. "Ow," she grumbled, “that hurts”

You stared, mouth dropping open. "You played the entire tournament on a fractured leg? Are you serious?!"

She gave a sheepish shrug, guilt tugging at her smile. "Didn’t want to miss it."

"That is so stupid! What if you’d made it worse? What if you’d done permanent damage?!"

"But I didn’t," she said gently. "I’m okay."

But you weren’t finished. You launched into a rant in rapid Spanish (half scolding, half disbelief). Your words spilled out like fire, furious and full of concern. "Cómo te atreves a jugar un torneo entero con una pierna rota?! Podrías haber arruinado tu carrera por completo, sin mencionar tu capacidad para caminar! En qué estabas pensando, eh? Esto no es valentía, es terquedad!

"How dare you play an entire tournament with a broken leg? You could have completely destroyed your career, not to even mention your ability to walk! What were you thinking, huh?! This isn't bravery, it's stubbornness!"

Lucy didn’t interrupt, she had the sense not to. She simply sat there, nodding slowly, lips pressed into a pout, eyes cast down like a kid getting told off by their parent. She accepted every word, not daring to argue.

When you finally ran out of breath, you stared at her. Still furious, but softening.

Lucy peeked up at you with that sheepish grin she has. “Lo siento mucho, bebé.” “I’m very sorry baby.”

The words were soft, almost teasing, but there was something honest in her voice too. You tried to stay stern, to hold onto the anger but it cracked the moment you saw that ridiculous, guilty little smile. Your resolve crumbled and you let out a shaky breath.

You reached down and gently helped Lucy to her feet, mindful of her leg. She gritted her teeth slightly but leaned on you as she rose. Once she was standing, you pulled her into a tight embrace.

She hugged you back just as fiercely, and for a long moment, the two of you stood there (anchored to each other and unmoving) as chaos bloomed around you. Your teammates were grieving. Hers were celebrating. But in that small, silent space between you two, it was just stillness.

Just understanding. Just love.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #earpskeeper #woso #lionesses x reader #lionesses imagine #lucy bronze x reader #lucy bronze imagine #lucy bronze fanfic #lucy bronze #euros 2025 #england lionesses #lionesses #england women #Spanish reader #weuro 2025 #weuro25 #eswnt reader

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earpskeeper · 26 days ago

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Mary Earps x f1 driver girlfriend reader word count - 3k trigger warnings - unwritten smut (minors dni), hot hot Mazza you get a win taken away from you and Mary is quick to comfort and correct you

The champagne hadn’t even dried on your race suit yet.

Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Mary had her arms around your shoulders, face flushed from shouting over the roar of the crowd, and the team was a blur of orange and black behind you - cheers, hugs, hands clapping your helmet like you were a god.

You’d done it.

After a brutal, relentless race, after clawing back position after a chaotic safety car restart, you’d crossed that finish line first. No one could take it away. Not the doubters nor the other drivers. Or so you thought.

You didn’t see your race engineer at first. You were halfway through giving an interview to Sky, your helmet off, sweat still dripping from your hairline, a grin stretching across your face.

Then she appeared. Walked straight past the media, past your celebrating crew, her expression grim, eyes locked onto yours like a missile. She didn’t even have to speak for your heart to drop.

“What?” you asked immediately, voice clipped. “What?”

“There was a review of your re entry on the last lap,” she said, voice steady but tight. “Unsafe. They’ve added two seconds to your time.”

You blinked.

“No,” you said flatly. “No, I won. I…”

“You crossed first,” she confirmed quietly, her eyes flicking toward the cameras. “But the penalty puts you second.”

Just like that, the win was gone. Snatched from your hands. Undeserved. Unfair. Mary was at your side in an instant. Champagne bottle still in hand, her smile slowly fading as the words registered. You stood there in the pit lane like the air had been sucked out of the world.

They’d stripped it from you. After everything. After the perfect lap. After the risk you’d taken fighting your way back. After you have celebrated. You'd barely heard the interviewer trying to pivot the question. Or the awkward claps still echoing behind you.

Your jaw clenched. Vision starting to blur, not from tears but from fury.

Mary gently touched your back. “Babe…”

You stepped away from her hand. Then you threw your helmet. Hard. You didn’t even feel yourself move before the helmet left your grip and flew across the paddock slamming into the garage wall with a sickening crack. It narrowly missed one of your crew as they flinched and stumbled back.

The sound was deafening. The garage went silent. Everything else moved away from you.

“Fuck this,” you spat. “Fuck this.”

Someone (a young, kind intern just trying to help) stepped forward with a bottle of water, voice low and hesitant.

“Here, just try to take a minute, yeah?”

You smacked the bottle clean out of his hand.

“Don’t. Don’t treat me like I’m a fucking kid. I don’t want fucking water,” you snapped. “I got screwed and I’m the only one who seems to care.”

The bottle hit the ground and rolled, water splashing out over the asphalt. Silence settled in its place.

Everyone stopped. No one dared say a word. Mary stepped forward instantly.

“We’re done here,” she said firmly, voice cutting through the tension. “She and I are taking a breather.”

You turned to her, still fuming, but she ignored the look you gave her.

Instead, she gripped your upper arm (tight, but not rough) and started walking, practically dragging you out of the garage and away from the stunned silence and awkward stares.

“Mary, I…”

“No.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Not another word.”

You didn’t fight her. Not really. You were still burning from the inside out, but somewhere beneath it, shame was beginning to curdle with the rage.

By the time you reached the car, your hands were shaking.

And Mary still hadn’t let go of your arm.

The elevator ride was tense.

You could feel the heat of Mary’s hand wrapped tight around your upper arm, her grip like a warning that hadn’t yet been spoken. You tried to yank yourself free once, an instinct more than anything, but her fingers only dug in tighter, sending a silent message not to test her.

She didn’t say a word.

Not when you scowled at your reflection in the elevator doors. Not when you muttered under your breath about the FIA. Not when you cursed the stewards for “screwing you blind.” She let it all burn out in the silence, her expression unreadable.

When you reached the hotel room door, she didn’t let go.

She just shifted behind you, used her free hand to unlock it with a practiced flick of the keycard, and then shoved the door open, before using the grip on your arm to push you through it.

You stumbled forward a few steps, catching yourself on the side table with a muttered curse.

“Oi! What the…”

The door shut hard behind you.

“Care to explain to me,” Mary said, voice low and clipped as she folded her arms, “what on earth your behaviour was down there?”

You turned back toward her slowly, your chest still rising and falling like you’d just stepped out of the car.

“I got completely screwed over Mary, how about we start there.” you spat out.

Mary’s expression remained eerily unchanged. That only made it worse.

“You nearly concussed your jackman,” she said flatly. “Start there.”

You clenched your jaw, looked away, the shame threatening to crack through the rage simmering just under your skin.

“That wasn’t” you started, but the words stuck. “That wasn’t what I meant to do.”

“But it’s what you did,” Mary snapped, finally stepping toward you. “You lost control. You threw a tantrum and didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire. Now everyone else is scrambling to put out your fire while you stomp around like the world owes you something.”

“Fuck you, Mary,” you snarled, eyes flashing as your fists clenched again. “I won that race. I deserved to win.”

Mary stared at you for a long, frozen moment. Then she stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

You held your ground. Until she reached you.

And in one smooth movement, she grabbed your wrist and spun you, pinning you back against the wall with her hand flat against your chest.

“You done?” she said low in your ear.

Your breath caught. The anger inside you buckled, tripped on itself. Still, your pride lashed out.

"Are you done trying to be in charge?" you hissed, eyes locking with hers.

Mary didn’t respond with words. She just stared at you. Hard. Jaw tightening slightly before stepping in again. Closer than before and took every last bit of control from you. Then, without another word, she stepped forward, grabbed your wrist again, and spun you from the wall.

You barely had time to react before she guided you (firm and unrelenting) across the room before shoving you onto the bed. You bounced once, breath leaving your lungs in a stunned rush, palms sinking into the soft duvet as you looked up at her in disbelief. She stood at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on you, her chest rising and falling with slow, measured control.

“You think this is about control?” she said, voice like low thunder. “This is about you remembering who you are when the helmet comes off. Who we are.”

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to apologise, you weren’t sure. But she didn’t give you the chance before she was reaching for the hem of your shirt. In one swift movement Mary took hold and tugged it upward, pulling it up and over your head before you could protest.

You blinked up at her, your chest rising and falling, heat blooming under your skin, not from anger now but from something else entirely. Something that made your pulse stutter.

“Less talking,” she said, voice low. “More listening.”

Then Mary kissed you firmly, the kind of kiss that left no room for argument as her hand slid down. Not rushed or rough, but purposeful, landing just where she knew your resistance would crumble.

And in that moment, it did.

The fire in you gave way to something else entirely; an ache to let go, to be held, to be hers. Mary felt it. Knew it. She didn’t need you to say a word. Her lips hovered by your ear as her hand remained exactly where it was; light, steady, commanding.

“Are you ready to be my good girl now?” she whispered, her voice a breath and a promise all at once.

And this time, you didn’t fight it, you just nodded, everything in you softening under her touch.

The silence afterwards was thick.

Your body was spent, your limbs tangled with Mary’s beneath the sheets, your heart still thudding too fast in your chest. She lay beside you, warm and steady, her fingers absentmindedly brushing over your hip, grounding you in the quiet.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

Then softly “It’s okay to be upset,” she murmured.

You stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Your throat ached. Your shoulders were locked in tension, every muscle resisting the weight of what was threatening to rise. But you shook your head stubbornly, swallowing hard, forcing it all back down.

“I’m not falling apart,” you muttered.

Mary didn’t argue. She just shifted closer, her hand sliding over your stomach, anchoring you with her presence.

“You don’t have to hold it in with me,” she whispered. “You’re safe here. With me.”

You blinked up at the ceiling, vision going blurry. You still didn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she added, voice so gentle it cracked something in you. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

That was it.

The last thread snapped.

You turned into her, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as the sob broke through, and then another, and then another. You buried your face into her chest as it all came pouring out, the frustration, the helplessness, the rage you hadn’t known how to name. Your hands fisted into the sheets, your entire body trembling with the release.

Mary didn’t say anything else.

She just wrapped her arms around you tighter and held on, her lips brushing your forehead as you cried into her: unguarded, vulnerable, and finally letting go.

You’d cried until your body had nothing left to give.

Now you lay limp in Mary’s arms, your face pressed to her collarbone, breathing shallow and slow. Every now and then your chest hitched with the ghost of a sob, but even that was fading, worn down by sheer exhaustion. The adrenaline, the fury and the grief, all of it had bled out of you in her arms, leaving only the kind of tired that reached deep into your bones.

Mary shifted beneath you, brushing your damp hair back from your forehead.

“Come on,” she said gently, voice almost a whisper. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You didn’t answer, just curled tighter into her, releasing a small, pitiful sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. It wasn’t resistance, but it wasn’t cooperation either.

Mary exhaled softly, not frustrated, just tender.

“Alright, alright,” she murmured, and then she moved.

You felt her arms gather you up again, one under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you like it was the easiest thing in the world. You were barely aware of it. Your body slumped against hers, too heavy with sleep to even think about being strong.

She carried you into the bathroom, nudging the light on low with her elbow. The soft glow settled over the tiles as she set you gently on the closed toilet seat, steadying you when you swayed.

You blinked blearily, making a faint noise of protest, but Mary just shushed you quietly.

“I know, just for a second.”

With practiced hands she wet a soft cloth and gently wiped the dried tears from your cheeks, the salt from your lashes, the flushed skin along your neck and chest. You let her, you didn’t have it in you to argue anymore. Her touch was careful, reverent, and it made your throat tighten again, though this time from something quieter. Something like peace.

Mary then shifted down, wordlessly, and the cloth moved lower, cleaning you with the same gentleness. When you tensed at the sensitivity, your breath catching in your throat, she paused just long enough to soothe.

“Shh” she murmured, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She even dabbed at your under eyes, then reached for the familiar bottles on the counter and began doing your skincare for you. The routine you were normally militant about, now entirely out of reach.

You didn’t lift a hand.

She didn’t mind.

You were somewhere between asleep and barely conscious when she scooped you up again, carrying you back into the bedroom. You felt the cool fabric of your favourite pyjama shirt being pulled over your arms, then the gentle tug of soft flannel bottoms, your body limp in her care. You barely noticed the warmth of your fluffy socks being pulled up over your feet, but the comfort registered in some quiet corner of your mind.

And then she was pulling the duvet over both of you, her arms wrapping around you again, tucking you against her chest like she didn’t plan to let go for hours.

She kissed the top of your head once, then rested her chin there.

“You’re alright,” she whispered. “You’re safe.”

You let out a small, broken sound. Not quite words. But it meant thank you. Mary didn’t move and neither did you.

The morning sun filtered through the hotel curtains, golden and uninvited. You stayed curled beneath the duvet, face buried in the pillow, arms crossed like a sulking child. You hadn’t even changed out of your pyjamas. Your hoodie was still crumpled on the chair across the room.

“I’m not going,” you muttered, voice muffled in the sheets. “They all hate me. I looked like an idiot. It’s humiliating.”

Mary, already dressed, stood by the door silently. Then came the sound of her footsteps (measured and purposeful) as she crossed the room toward you.

“Get dressed,” she said calmly.

You let out a loud, stubborn whine, shaking your head. “Noooo, Maryyy, I can’t. It’s too embarrassing. They’re gonna stare. Just let me hide up here.”

She didn’t respond right away. But you could feel her presence at the edge of the bed; close, steady, stern. Then her hand came down on the back of your neck, firm and grounding, her fingers curling into the sensitive skin just below your hairline.

You froze.

Mary leaned down, her voice low and no nonsense against your ear.

“You are gonna march that pretty ass of yours downstairs and apologise to each and every member of your crew for your behaviour yesterday.”

You groaned, letting your forehead thump back into the pillow. “Baabbyyy, why are you so mean to me,” you whined dramatically.

“I’m not being mean,” she replied coolly, still gripping the back of your neck. “I’m holding you accountable.”

You stomped your foot against the mattress like a petulant child but still rolled out of bed with a dramatic sigh. Shoulders slumped, you dragged yourself toward the chair to yank your hoodie over your head, grumbling the entire time.

When you were finally dressed, Mary pointed calmly to the door. "Let’s go."

You huffed, dragging your feet toward it with all the attitude you could muster.

Behind you, her voice came firm and low. "Lose the attitude, baby, or you won’t like what happens next."

You straightened immediately, spine snapping to attention. “Sorry,” you mumbled.

Breakfast was painful. Stiff smiles. Awkward glances. But when you approached the table and gave your apology (quiet, sincere, eyes lowered) they nodded. A few offered kind words. One of the engineers even clapped you on the shoulder.

When it was over, your cheeks were flushed, your body hot with leftover shame and adrenaline. You scanned the room until you found Mary, sat off to the side with a coffee in hand. You trudged back to her, arms crossed tight over your chest, and collapsed into the seat beside her with a huff.

She didn’t look at you right away. Just reached out, slid her hand beneath the table to rest on the top of your inner thigh; warm and steady.

"Proud of you," she murmured into your ear.

Your muscles slackened instantly. The breath you let out was almost a sigh, almost a whimper. You turned your head and tucked it into the curve of her neck, letting your shoulders drop. Her scent, her calmness, her presence was everything.

Mary shifted slightly, just enough to press a kiss into your temple.

"I love you," she whispered.

Your chest squeezed. You nuzzled deeper into her arms, voice barely audible against her shirt.

"I love you too."

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