#Punched Shutter

[anotherwvba]

Finding Your Place, pt. 2

The intense lights of the WVBA Studios cast a bright halo around Sahara Sands. She stood confidently in the center of the room, fists clenched inside her bright yellow gloves. It was photo day, the day when all the promo pictures and videos for the upcoming card were shot. Some of the boxers loved it, a chance to be in front of the cameras and show-off. Others found it tedious, a necessary evil between them and the ring. Sahara was definitely the former.

She was decked out in her new blue and yellow ring gear, colors she picked for her new ring name. Razor Sharp. It was a tribute to her father’s beginnings in the sport, long before he was called Mr. Sandman. He was Tyrone “The Razor” Sands, a boxer so good that the establishment could deny him… until they did.

Things in the sport were different now. Now, the league that her father was a founding member of wasn’t a renegade outfit, it’s the major leagues. No doubt, the WVBA was still boxing’s isle of misfit toys in many ways, but now there were plenty of boxers around the world that saw the WVBA as their life’s goal, not their last resort.

Again, Sahara… Razor was the former. She worked her whole life to this point, first as an amateur, then turning pro. She fought in bingo halls and bars, wherever she could get a match. She wanted to earn her way into the WVBA, not get in on her father’s name. Twelve wins and eight knockouts later and here she was, taking promo pics for her WVBA debut.

Razor owned the room. She was in her stance with a look on her face that promised pain as the photographer flitted around her. The sounds of shutter snaps were interspersed with mutters of “nice” and “perfect” in a light British accent.

Colbi Shutters, a more appropriate name for a photographer you’d never find, moved to change the lens on her camera for the next series of shots. “Alright, Razor, for this next batch, let’s get confidence. Like you just know you’re winning.”

“Girl,” Razor popped her hip, resting one glove on it as she held the other loosely by her chin, “what do you mean like I know?”

“That’s what I’m talking about, sunshine,” Colbi smiled, snapping her new lens in place. “Did you catch Luna’s stream this morning? She was talking some mad shite.”

Razor laughed as she shifted to another pose, “Little girl thinks she’s got hands ‘cause she’s got three wins against YouTuber’s and Instagram models. She’ll learn.”

Colbi smiled as moved through various angles, “Show me. Give some fierce action shots, but like, pause at the end of each punch.”

“Fierce is what I do,” Razor shifted into her boxing stance, bouncing and glaring down the lens. “Luna’s gonna see. She thinks she can outlast me. Me? I mean, for real. Razor Sharp’s not just a name, it’s a warning. She act like she don’t know, but she will.”

The intensity gave Colbi a moment of pause. “Um, love? This is starting to sound a mite personal.”

Razor’s face softened into a sly smile, “You wanted fierce, remember? But, naw, it ain’t personal. Look, I ain’t gonna hate on a girl for her hustle, and Luna’s got plenty of hustle. There’s a reason she’s got the following she’s got. Hard. Work. Period. But, this is my world and I got a job to do.”

Shifting seamlessly back into fight mode, Razor threw an uppercut just shy of Colbi’s camera lens, stopping so the photographer could get a shot as if on the receiving end, “And that job’s to put these gloves on that girl and that girl on her ass. Her Luna-tics are gonna see their girl starched and ain’t nothin’ she can do.”

“Nice! Oh, let’s get a few like you’ve just knocked her down.” Colbi laid down on the floor, framing her shot.

Razor set her stance, pointing her right fist straight toward the camera lens with a menacing smirk, “Out. You mean to say ‘knocked her out.’ When a Sands lays you down, you go to sleep.”

“You are right and truly up for this, aren’t you?” Colbi smiled, shutter clicking away. “Uh, gimme another pose.”

“This good?” Razor shifted to look like she was walking away and giving her foe an intimidating glance. Colbi nodded as Razor struck the pose. “And yeah, girl. I’m so ready. I mean, I’ve had thirteen pro fights, but this just hits different. You know? People gonna look at me and have their doubts. They gonna think I’m a nepo hire. ‘Her daddy’s a legend, that’s how she got in.’ I’mma shut that down before it starts. Just sucks for Luna. Girl ain’t my opponent. She’s my proof.”

Just as Colbi and Razor found their rhythm, the door to the studio burst open, sounding like a gunshot. The light, playful energy of the shoot vanished. Replacing it was a voice that sent ice water through Razor’s veins.

“Yo! Let’s get this over with.” The Sandman, Andre Sands, walked in oblivious to everyone and everything. He was in his signature black ring gear, gloves in hand. “I gotta get back in the gym. Ain’t like Don Flamenco’s got a chance, but I wanna embarrass that fool. Bull needs to know who’s comin’ for him.”

Sandman, booming voice and all, slid his gloves on as he scanned the room. He first saw Colbi picking herself up from the floor, then he saw Razor… and passed her, taking in the rest of the room. The dismissive smirk on his face made Razor’s fists instinctively clench tight in her gloves.

“Andre,” Razor’s voice lost all humor as she fixed a hard glare on her brother.

His name, his real name, brought Sandman’s eyes shooting back to Razor. The look on his face was familiar to the younger sister. Contempt. Lifting an eyebrow and tilting his head, Sandman’s smirk returned, “Sahara, didn’t see ya’ there. And, you know better. It’s Sandman.”

“Sandman is our father, not you,” Sahara held his gaze, no reservation, no fear. “You? You’re just Andre and you’re early. This is my studio time.”

“Get out.” Andre’s jaw flexed. His eyes darkened. He never looked away from Razor for an instant. “I didn’t stutter. Leave. Now!”

Colbi, shaking slightly, looked to Razor, unsure of what was even going on, much less what to do.

“You good, girl.” Razor, like her brother, never shifted her eyes away. But, her voice was calm and reassuring as she addressed Colbi. “This won’t take long. We can wrap up in a minute.”

As Colbi quickly gathered her things and scurried out while the Sands siblings continued their staredown. The door closing behind the photographer did nothing to ease the tension in the room.

“Aight, big bro,” Razor stepped closer to her brother, voice low, tapping her gloves together with clear intent. “You ran Colbi outta here. You want somethin’?”

“Little girl,” Sandman looked down at his sister with hard eyes and a menacing sneer. “You don’t want the smoke. Step off.”

“Make me.” Razor popped her gloves together again, loud and deliberate.

Sandman chuckled softly and shook his head.

“Andre,” Razor’s voice was clear. Her patience was running thin. “You know when your shoot starts and you know who’s ahead of you in the studio. So… What. Do. You. Want.”

“I told you what I want, Sahara,” Sandman, too, dropped all pretense. “Did you think I was talking to the photog? Get out. Get out of the WVBA. Go back to your bar cards and your state fairs and wherever else they willing to let you fight. Just stay out of my ring.”

Now, It was Razor’s turn to chuckle, “I get it, bro. You scared. You scared that people gonna see me and see our legacy. Our family. What we mean to this sport. What our dad…”

“Our dad ain’t shit!” Andre’s voice no doubt boomed beyond the studio walls. “Tyrone Sands is a washed up, punch drunk, bitter old man that ain’t got the grace to walk away and I don’t need nobody reminding the world of who he was, especially his prized little princess.”

“And there it is,” Razor sounded so disappointed. “You hate dad, don’t you? The man that raised us, made sure we wanted for nothing. He could’ve kept fighting when the WVBA closed up the first time. He was in his prime. But, he walked away, for family. For us. For you.”

Sandman’s jaw clenched as his gaze dropped to the floor, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then what I said before stands,” Razor’s voice picked up a warmth with her brother’s reaction. She reached out with her glove and raised her brother’s chin, meeting his eyes again. “Make me. Please.”

For a moment, a long moment, they stood there. Their eyes locked. There were no ring names, no personas. For a moment, they were just Andre and Sahara, the oldest and youngest children of five children. The moment passed.

“I ain’t got time for this,” Sandman turned to go to the door.

As his back turned, Razor’s resolve hardened, “You can tell me or I can tell you. How you want it?”

Sandman stopped, but didn’t turn around. “You gonna tell me what?”

“Dad failed you on your pro test.” Razor’s voice was flat, matter of fact.

In one quick, angry move, Sandman wheeled on his sister, closed distance, right hand cocked, aimed at her jaw. “Who the hell told you that?! Answer me, girl, or so help me…”

“Or what?!” Her guard shot up, body coiled, muscles tensed, ready for anything. “What Andre? We gonna go?”

Razor stood her ground and her brother suddenly realized who he had raised his fist to. He lowered his hand. His face softened, slightly, but the anger was just below the surface. “I ain’t never told that to anybody.”

“Dad told me.” Razor lowered her guard as her brother’s fist lowered. “He was one of the judges for you to get into the WVBA when it reopened. He didn’t think you were ready.”

“He was scared I’d overtake his legacy,” Sandman spat.

“He was scared you’d get hurt, dumbass,” Razor spat back.

Sandman’s expression was a cocktail of confusion, anger, and disbelief.

“Look,” Razor started moving around the room. She was getting restless and needed to move, but her eyes never left for brother. “You walked into that pro test 22 and 0 with 18 knockouts. Everyone thought you were in.”

“All except a bitter old man.” Sandman folded his arms across his chest.

“All except a concerned father,” Razor stopped and mirrored her brother’s resting posture. “No one there had fought in the WVBA except dad. He knew. He knew you could rule this league, just not then. That’s all. He fought 450 pound ex-sumo, brawling Texan bull riders, and drunk Russian bar bouncers. And it damn sure ain’t gotten any easier.”

“Says the girl that’s fighting a Twitch streamer.” Sandman’s snark was unmistakable.

Razor chuckled, “A Twitch streamer that would run my ass ragged if she had any more experience. See, that’s the difference. I see game and recognize it. You see game and rag on it. You’re damn good, big bro, but you think you way better than you are.”

“Ain’t nobody better than me, baby sis,” Sandman smirked. “And it ain’t that I see game and don’t recognize it. It’s that I see chumps that call themselves champs and I’m gonna put ‘em all to sleep. Then, the only Sandman anybody’s gonna remember is me. Not the jealous has-been that tried to hold his own blood back.”

“And that’s the difference between you and dad,” Razor’s gaze turned to stone. “Flamenco can beat you. Bald Bull gave dad trouble in his prime. And yeah, Bull’s older, but he’s a better boxer than when he fought dad. Dad respected every opponent. You don’t.”

“Respect don’t win fights,” Sandman raised his gloves up. “These do.”

“These don’t lose fights,” Razor raised her own gloves. “Disrespect does.”

“Man,” Sandman shook his head, frustration mounting. He started pulling his gloves off and again turned to leave, “I ain’t got time for this. I got work to do.”

As Sandman turned to leave, Razor smiled. She won this round, but she couldn’t resist one more jab. “You know, bro, funny thing about you taking dad’s name. The people, the fans, his fellow fighters, they gave dad the name Sandman. He didn’t have to give it to himself.”

Sandman’s posture stiffened for a moment, but without a backward glance or another word, he left.

Colbi Shutters is an OC belonging to @cyrah-is-cool101 and is used with permission.

[blackberries45]

Watching Shutter Island makes me want to watch Sucker Punch just so I can see Blue Jones

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[myespresso]

attractive things they do while you're dating

pairing: batboys (plus clark lol) & reader ❀ׄ ꥈ

𓍢ִ໋☕ cassidy's note: for funsies. not edited. i love reading variations of these. i haven't written since 2020. if you can like this, reblog too.

bruce 🦇ᡣ𐭩˚.

navigating paparazzi: the careful way he guides you to block the flaring flashes from cameras with his broad shoulders.

bruce wraps his fingers to pull on your waist, tugging you further behind him, ensuring no shots of you are taken on what was meant to be a private night out.

despite the urgency of the situation--his face still stays controlled and imperturbable, but his grip is firm to reassure you, as he leans down and mumbles in your ear, "just a bit farther, the car's close," before his voice cuts through the cries and shutters lowly: "we're done here."

listens intently, and remembers every single detail about you, despite whether you think it's significant or not for him to know.

bruce stores your favorite shampoo and conditioner in his bathroom when you stay the night over.

and when you're sitting on the edge of his sink, removing his makeup from under his eyes, you notice it sitting amongst his own body-wash and pine scented soap.

but when you ask him about it, he simply shrugs and waves it off.

dick 🏙ɞ♥️*

teaches you self defense: his hands gently curl over yours to demonstrate how they should look before you throw a punch.

his touch is light, "keep your thumb on the outside", dick's finger taps the inside of your palm, "if you keep it inside, you'll break it--not fun."

he whistles when you hit him solidly in the side with a wide grin, despite the force of your blow, "better."

insists on helping you put on all your jewellery and shoes.

he turns you around, and pulls your hair to one side of your neck, before fiddling with the clasp. he's clumsy at first, but eventually gets the hang of it the more he does it. his hands linger on the slope of your neck for a moment longer than necessary.

later, as you reach for your shoes, he beats you to it, kneeling in front of you. dick's motions are all exaggerated as he does it.

your hand cards through his hair when he's looking up through his lashes after he's fastened the straps, and kissing the inside of your calf slowly.

jason ❤️‍🩹⋆｡

reads on public transportation: jason pulls out a beat up paperback he picked up from a secondhand bookstore from his back pocket. it has dog eared pages and a weathered spine.

there's a baby crying on the train, but he doesn't seem to notice as he flicks a ringed finger to the page he last read.

he pulls a pencil from his jacket pocket, and traces a line in a passage--a part he thinks you'd like. when he leans forward, his shirt rides up a bit so a strip of his skin is visible to you.

doesn't wipe your lipgloss from his cheek.

the shimmer from it stains his cheek after you pressed a kiss to it. you go to wipe it with a laugh, reaching with your thumb, and jason catches it mid-air. "you've got glitter on your face jay, people are gonna-"

"next time, wear red."

tim 🪽❥˚

gnaws at his lip as he concentrates.

the hum of the keys click in the batcave and papers rustle. tim's focus is sharp as he attempts piecing together his newest case, and his teeth catch in his bottom lip. an unconscious habit.

you can't help but tease him about it, "that's a terrible habit to have, you know that?" you lean against his desk."it helps me think."

sure enough, he does it again. "you're gonna chew your lip off your face one day." his lips curve upwards at your observation, but your gaze was now intense as you observed his lip in his teeth, and before you can state another snarky remark, he shoots you a knowing look before pulling your belt loops, and kissing you.

wears your hair tie on his wrist. it was never really ever a big deal. one day you handed it to him while getting ready for bed one night as you pulled out your ponytail and he snapped it onto his wrist without much thought. now, it's routine. it doesn't matter where he is exactly, if tim's at a gala or in a meeting or out in gotham on patrol, the hair tie is around his wrist.

you heard him cursing from the other room when he misplaced it once.

clark 🌟.*☆

saves you a seat, always: whether it's evenings in or out, clark always makes you feel like you're the most important person there.

it's not something that's said but understood, as he pulls the chair next to him, letting it be out long enough for you to get comfortable, before gently scooting it inwards.

when you eat, and when he thinks you're not looking--clark will adjust your plate, and glace over at your water glass to make sure it is filled. and if you want extra bread, don't even worry because he kept an extra piece on his plate for you.

pushing his glasses up. there's something kinda charming about the way he does it that you wish you could explain it better. it's absentminded, he does it a lot!

when he's looking over articles or reading or just talking to you. in the elevator, he'll lean forward to look over the numbered floors, and they won't stay in place, sliding down the bridge of his nose. you don't say anything, but smile slightly, and he'll return it goofily and with more teeth, before he asks, "what?"

tags: @retvenkos

[miiyas]

“will you wait for me ?” is the last thing satoru gojo asks you before leaving. before leaving the kids, before leaving the school, and before leaving you. all to save a future that he knows he won’t be in.

you stand face front from your husband with shaking, numbing hands, heart too heavy to hold in your chest. your bottom lip trembles as tears stream past, you head shaking as you hold onto satoru’s forearms with cold, static hands, grip loose yet so numbingly tight, like a ghost of a chokehold.

“don’t go,” you whisper, choking on your tears as your glossy eyes stare up at his with desperation so deep gojo almost listened. “you’ll get yourself killed.” you emphasize the last word, clenching your jaw as it slips past your lips, like you regret saying it.

but satoru’s hands meet your reddened cheeks and a gentle caress of his thumb to your cheeks made you breakdown and sob. despite your vision clouding with foggy tears, your eyes never leave his now dim blue ones and his refuse to leave yours.

��will you wait for me ?” he asks again, but with more emphasis. more press with the words, like he’s forcing out a promise he knows he can’t keep. his heart aches to see you like this, but he can’t turn away now.

gojo feels you shutter and hiccup under his hands and he drags the lump down his throat, wiping away your tears with a thumb as he brings soft lips to kiss your forehead. he shields the back of your head and brings you close to his chest, letting you stain his clothes. your hands come up to throw weak punches to his chest, sobs echoing in the small of your shared home. you hit him because you know that satoru gojo belongs to the world, not to you.

gojo tilts his head down to your ear, placing a gentle kiss on the shell before asking again and you want to refuse. you want to say you won’t wait because you shouldn’t have to, because he should be here with you for as long as time allows. here where you can watch his snow white hair turn into light shades of gray and where you can rest easy with the comfort of having one another. but with a heart full with tears, mended with the string of a promise you know will be broken, you muffle out your cries, clenching your jaw tight with a reluctant nod.

you’ll wait. you’ll wait as long as you need to. and you’ll wait knowing that satoru gojo was only ever used as the strongest sorcerer in the modern era, not as your lover. not as your husband.

[verstappenverse]

You Belong With Me / Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

Content Warning: This part contains explicit smut 👀

Author’s Note: This part got so long, I’m not even sure anyone will make it to the end, but honestly I think it might be my favourite thing I’ve written so I really hope you enjoy it. <3

9.3k words / Part 4 / Masterlist

The plane lands just past midnight.

Florence is hushed, blanketed in the kind of quiet that feels older than the city itself, bathed in a soft golden haze as Max steps out into the unfamiliar stillness.

There’s no media frenzy waiting. No team handlers. No blinding lights or post-race adrenaline. Just the low hum of traffic in the distance and a sky full of stars.

He doesn’t waste time. Picks up the rental himself, punches the address you once said in passing into his phone. His hands on the wheel and the dark hills unfolding in front of him.

The drive winds through narrow roads and moonlit hills, past sleeping vineyards and shuttered cafes, the kind of places that don’t make it onto maps. The further he goes, the more the world falls away until it’s just him, the engine, and the memory of your voice.

Eventually the road narrows to gravel, and the headlights sweep across the farmhouse, it’s exactly as you described it. Tucked between olive trees, terracotta roof faded and soft, shutters slightly askew, and as he pulls up, heart in his throat, there’s no sign of you.

No lights. No movement. Just silence.

He cuts the engine and climbs out slowly, heart already tightening in his chest. He walks the path to the front gate, stops with one hand on the wood, and listens for movement, for breath, for anything.

There’s nothing, but you were here. He can feel it in the air, like heat after a fire.

Your shadow is everywhere, in the wild lavender, the ceramic mug sitting abandoned on a low stone wall by the front steps, half-full of rainwater. One of the windows is cracked open, a citronella candle half-burned on the porch. All of it is too familiar, too deliberate to be coincidence.

He sinks onto the bench beneath one of the olive trees, worn wood groaning softly beneath him. The silence wraps around his shoulders, heavy and intimate. Cicadas drone in the distance, and the wind shifts through the branches above, carrying with it something that almost feels like memory.

Max sits still for a long time, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t speak. For the first time since that party where he first saw you, since the first look, the first laugh, the first slow fall, he feels like giving up.

Then he hears it.

Footsteps, slow, hesitant, crunching softly over the gravel path behind him.

He doesn’t move at first, afraid he’s imagined it. That his mind, starved and desperate, has conjured something it can’t have, but then a shadow shifts in his periphery, and he turns.

And sees you.

You’re in linen. Your hair is down, sleep-mussed and soft, no makeup, no armour. You stop the moment your eyes meet.

Time slows in that unbearable, impossible way it always does right before everything changes. Neither of you speak. The world shrinks to the space between you, wide enough to hold everything unsaid.

Max stands slowly. His legs feel unsteady, heart hammering in his ribs.

His voice is rough when it finally comes. “Hi.” he says, because it’s all he can manage.

You blink, like you’re not sure he’s real. “What… how did you—?”

“You told me once,” he says, voice shaking. “Where you’d go if you needed to breathe.”

You swallow, throat working and shake your head, like none of this makes sense.

“I thought you’d hate me,” you whisper.

Max steps closer. “I did.”

Your face crumples.

Then he adds, softer, “For about five minutes.”

You let out a breathy laugh that’s halfway to a sob. You’re trying not to fall apart in front of him, and it’s breaking his heart all over again. “Max—”

“Don’t,” he says gently. “Not yet. Just… let me look at you for a minute.”

So you do. You let him take in every part of you, the tired eyes, the sun-kissed skin, the part of your lip you still chew when you’re nervous.

He’s wanted this moment for so long thought about what he’d say, what he’d demand, he wants to ask a thousand questions.

Wants to demand why you left without a word. Why you didn’t call. Why he wasn’t enough to make you stay.

Wants to tell you he waited, that he searched, that he never stopped choosing you even when you couldn’t choose him. But that’s not why he came, and standing here now, with you in front of him and your eyes full of too many things to name, none of that matters. Not yet, because you’re here and you haven’t run.

So instead, he just says. “You look like home.”

Your lips part, trembling, and your eyes shine in the dark not from tears alone, but recognition. From that feeling you never let yourself name and Max knows he’s not too late.

You sit on the low stone wall just beneath the olive tree, above the stars scatter across the sky, sharp, ancient, impossibly far, and beside you Max is quiet, like he’s afraid you might vanish again if he moves too fast.

You speak first, voice rough from silence and distance. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods, slow and deliberate. “But you did.”

Your lips press together. You nod too, just once. “I know.”

The quiet that follows isn’t angry, it’s tired. Worn from being stretched too long between what you felt and what you couldn’t admit. You keep your eyes on your hands, fingers twisting in your lap.

Max finally breaks the silence again, his voice low. “Why didn’t you tell me it was over with him?”

“I didn’t know how.” Your voice is small, cracked. “I didn’t leave him for you, at least not entirely. I left because I wasn’t myself anymore, because I’d twisted myself into something I didn’t recognise.”

He’s still watching you, still listening in the way only Max ever has. Fully. Quietly. Without needing to interrupt.

“And the worst part,” you murmur, “is I knew you’d come. I knew that if I told you I needed you, you wouldn’t even hesitate.”

“I would have,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “In a second.”

“I wasn’t ready for that,” you admit. “I wasn’t ready to be loved like that.”

Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands dangling. He stares out at the dark, but his voice is steady when he speaks. “And now?”

You don’t answer right away. It takes you a moment to lift your gaze, to meet his eyes through the dark.

“Now I can’t stop thinking about you,” you say, and your voice splinters in the middle. “Every minute of every day. Even when I try. Even when it hurts. Especially then.”

His throat works as he swallows. “You think it didn’t kill me?”

“I know it did. I felt it Max. Every second you did… It tore me apart too.”

You pause, breathing through it. Then you add, “I left because I thought I was saving us from something impossible, but all I did was make it worse and ruin everything.”

“You didn’t ruin it.” He turns to you fully now, knees brushing yours. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

You glance up, startled. “How do you know?”

He takes your hand. “Because you’re still the only person I’d fly across the world to find.”

Tears slip down your cheeks and Max leans in, forehead brushing yours and everything stills. The world shrinks to this, his breath against your cheek, your fingers tangled with his, the way his presence makes everything feel like it might be okay again.

“Don’t run again,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Not from me.”

You shake your head, voice trembling. “I don’t want to.”

He closes his eyes, inhales your breath, your skin, your presence.

Then you whisper, “Come inside.”

You don’t go far once you're inside, just to the edge of the kitchen where the counter meets the low arch of the hallway, and his body still feels like it’s buzzing from being near you.

The air inside the farmhouse is warm, lived-in. There’s a faint scent of lemon soap and woodsmoke, like you’ve been trying to scrub out the ache. A book lies facedown on the arm of the couch. A blanket is half-draped across the floor. Max takes it all in with quiet eyes, like every object tells a story he missed while you were gone.

He doesn't touch you yet.

Just stands there, a few steps away, his hands hanging loose by his sides.

“I can’t believe you really came here,” you say. “I didn’t expect you to find me.”

Max looks at you for a long time. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t stop looking.”

You exhale slowly. The silence that stretches between you now isn’t empty, it’s full. Of missed chances. Of too-late texts and unsent voice notes. Of all the things you almost said and all the times he nearly said them back.

“I thought about this a thousand times,” he says softly, eyes searching yours. “What I’d say. What you’d look like. Whether it’d still feel the same.”

You blink, swallowing hard. “And does it?”

He breathes in, shaky. “It’s worse.”

You flinch, just slightly.

He notices and his voice gentles. “Not bad worse. Just… more real… before I didn’t let myself want it, at least not like this, but now? I don’t know how to breathe without knowing what we are. What we could be.”

You move first, walking toward the small kitchen table and resting your hands on the back of a chair. “I used to sit right there after sunset and convince myself I was doing the right thing.”

He follows you. “Did it feel like the right thing?”

You shake your head, staring down at the worn wood. “No. But I didn’t know how to stop running without ruining something else.”

“You really thought that’d work?” His voice is quiet but edged with disbelief. “That I’d forget?”

“I was trying to protect you,” you say.

He doesn’t respond at first just watches you like he’s trying to read your mind. Finally, he murmurs, “You could’ve called.”

“I typed out a dozen messages,” you sigh. “I just couldn’t hit send,” you whisper and continue, “I missed telling you things. Stupid things, like what I ate for lunch or what episode I was on or who annoyed me that day. I’d still type it out sometimes but I never sent it.”

“I would’ve read every word.”

“I know.”

Max leans on the opposite chair. “You thought you were protecting me?”

You look up, finally meeting his eyes. “I was trying to. I thought if I disappeared, it’d give us space to forget. To let us go.”

He doesn’t blink. “You really thought we could? I could?”

“I’ve spent every day wondering if I made the wrong choice,” you admit. “But this whole time it was always you. I just didn’t know what to do or what to say anymore.”

His voice cracks on the next words. “I thought I’d never see you again and I was trying to be okay with it. I really was but everything, even the good stuff, stopped feeling like anything if you weren’t there.”

“I thought disappearing would make it easier for both of us,” you say. “I thought that if I pulled away, it would fade.”

He shakes his head. “It never faded.”

You stare deep into his eyes, searching. “It didn’t me for either, not even a little bit. If anything I feel it more.”

Max straightens, walks around the table, and stops in front of you. He reaches out, slow and cautious, brushing his fingers down your arm. The touch is gentle. You press your palm against your chest.

“I didn’t come here for answers,” he says. “Or an apology.”

You swallow hard. “Then why did you?”

He leans in, forehead nearly touching yours. “Because I couldn’t spend another second wondering if you still felt it too… if you ever did.”

When you speak, it comes out like a confession. “Of course I did. I never stopped.”

Max closes his eyes for a moment, just breathing with you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead first.

You melt into him, your hands sliding up his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you need the proof that he's here, that you're allowed to have this.

“I missed your voice,” you murmur into his collar. “Missed being your person.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, to search your face like it’s a map back to everything he’s been trying not to lose.

“You still are,” he says quietly. “If you want to be.”

And when you nod not hurried or desperate but sure, that’s when it finally breaks.

He reaches for you, slowly, like he’s still asking for permission. His fingers brush your jaw, then slip behind your neck, his thumb resting just below your ear.

Your voice is steady when you ask, “Max?”

His eyes find yours, glassy and burning. “Yeah?”

“You can kiss me now.”

His whole body shudders like something unclenches deep in his chest. He leans in starved and reverent and yours. His mouth meets yours like it’s something he’s spent months studying from a distance, and when you finally kiss him back full and deep and with everything you’ve been holding in it’s not soft it’s trembling with the ache of what it took to get here.

His lips press to yours like he’s trying to memorise the feeling in case it’s all a dream, like he doesn’t trust it yet, not fully, not until you open for him and wrap your arms around his neck and he hears the sound you make when you finally let yourself have him.

His other hand finds your waist, pulls you closer, and suddenly you’re wrapped around each other like you don’t know how to not be. You make a noise in your throat, not quite a sob, not quite a moan, and Max swallows it like a lifeline.

It’s devastating.

His hands bury in your hair. Yours grip the hem of his shirt like you need it to breathe. The kiss is messy, gasping, months of longing crashing into the space of a single breath. You whimper into his mouth and feel him flinch, like even the sound of your need is too much. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and shattered, and you drink it in like it’s the only language you speak.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “Tell me this is real.”

You press your forehead to his. “It’s real.”

“I’m scared to lose this again,” he admits.

You shake your head. “You won’t.”

He nods once, eyes closed. His lips find yours again, not just a kiss now, but a claiming. A homecoming. A break in the storm.

Neither of you stops it, because finally, finally, there’s nothing in the way. Everything that comes next the heat, the hands, the aching need is no longer tangled in uncertainty.

It’s a choice.

This is where the rest begins.

The moment you reach the top of the stairs, everything snaps.

His hands are on you in an instant, your jaw, your waist, the slope of your back. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he doesn’t know where to touch first but needs to touch everywhere. You’re both trembling with it, months of stolen glances, near-confessions, and the ache of almost being something.

You gasp into his mouth, fingers fisting in the fabric of his hoodie as his thigh slots between yours, pressing up hard, deep.

“I can’t believe we almost missed this” he growls against your throat, voice raw and low and furious in the best way.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “I thought I was protecting you.”

He bites your jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but close. “Fuck that.”

Then he’s kissing you again, deeper now, teeth and tongue and need. Messier. Full of everything you’ve both been holding back. His tongue claims your mouth while his hands slide beneath your shirt, fingers trailing up your ribs until they find your underside of your breasts.

He pauses.

Just for a breath.

Like the weight of the moment catches up with him. Then he exhales, low and guttural, and cups you fully.

His palms mold around the soft swell of your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples, testing how you react, how quickly you fall apart under his hands.

You gasp, arching into his touch, a breathy moan slipping from your lips.

The sound makes him groan against your mouth, deep and rough, it cuts him wide open.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”

He squeezes gently, then again, making sure you’re real. Like he’s scared he’ll forget the shape, the weight, the way your breath hitches when he rolls your nipples between his fingers.

You’re burning now, every nerve on fire, body pressing closer, hips rolling instinctively against the hard line of him.

Max doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. His hands stay there, exploring, claiming, learning you.

You’re gasping, clutching at his hoodie like you need to hold onto something or else you’ll drown.

You stumble to the bedroom without breaking contact.

He backs you toward the bed slowly, fingers brushing over bare skin, and it hits you both at the same time.

This is really happening.

He steps back just enough to look at you, eyes wild, chest heaving, shirt half-off already. He pulls it the rest of the way off, then stands there for a beat, staring at you as if you’re the only thing in the world.

“You want this?” he says, voice hoarse, fingers tugging at the waistband of your clothes. “Tell me. Say it.”

“I want all of it.” you breathe. “I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

He strips fast, shirt first, then pants, his cock is hard and aching and he doesn’t bother hiding it. Doesn’t want to. He’s watching you the whole time like he’s daring you to look away.

You don’t.

At the foot of the bed, he pauses.

Only for a second.

Because seeing you like this, breathless, hair messy, chest rising and falling like you’ve already been fucked makes something primal kick in. He pulls your shirt off with a single rough tug, then strips the rest of you like he’s unwrapping something holy and already half-damned.

The second your clothes are off, he’s on you, his mouth on your chest, your stomach, your thighs. He kisses his way down your body like it’s holy ground, fingers sliding through your slick and groaning at the heat of you.

He kisses your neck, your shoulders, the space just beneath your ribs. Your fingers bury in his hair as he lowers himself between your legs, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh, testing what months of longing tastes like.

“Jesus,” he murmurs into your skin. “You’re fucking shaking.”

“I’ve needed you,” you whisper. “This. Max, please.”

That’s the first time he hears it, his name like that. Whispered from your lips, soft and pleading.

It nearly undoes him.

He swears, low and vicious, and kisses your inner thigh again, teeth grazing skin. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“Show me,” you whisper, and he does.

Tongue flattening against your clit, fingers sliding in, curling just right. Your hips buck, hands flying to his hair, moaning loud, too loud, and it only makes him more brutal. He wants to hear you lose control. Wants it messy. Wants you coming on his face and begging for more. Your hand fists in his hair, pulling, and he groans like it only makes him harder.

But when your thighs start to tremble, he pulls back, eyes dark and blown wide. “I want to be inside you when you come.”

You nod and he doesn’t waste another second.

Lines himself up, one hand anchoring your hip, the other tangling in your hair as he pushes into you all at once.

You cry out, not from pain, but from relief. From the ache that breaks loose in your chest. From the months of silence that collapse into this moment. From the way he fills you, presses into you like he’s trying to bury himself in your bones.

“Fuck,” he gasps, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut. “You feel—Jesus, So fucking tight—”

You wrap your arms around his neck, locking him there, pulling him deeper. “Move… please”

He doesn’t move gently.

He fucks.

Hard.

Deep.

Desperate.

The bed rocks under you, the headboard slamming against the wall in time with every snap of his hips. It’s overwhelming. Raw. The kind of first time you only get once. His pace is relentless, unyielding, every snap of his hips drives you higher, your back arching, mouth falling open in a cry that doesn’t even sound like your own.

He’s gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish again, rough and possessive, thumbs digging into the soft skin just above your hips. Pressing his forehead to yours, sweat dripping onto your collarbone, breath hot and harsh.

“You think I didn’t feel it every time you looked at me and said nothing?” he pants. “You think I didn’t know you wanted this too?”

“I know,” you whimper. “I know, Max—”

He cuts you off with his mouth, his tongue sweeping in to claim and consume and steal whatever apology you were about to offer. His mouth finds your collarbone, then your throat. He sucks a bruise there. Then another.

His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit with practiced pressure. You jolt, legs locking tighter around his waist, body arching into him, pleading for release. His hand tangles in your hair, the other gripping your jaw, forcing you to stay close, to take it.

You cry out, eyes fluttering open, and he groans low in his throat like the sound alone could make him come.

He’s close. You both are.

You feel it in the way he shudders, in the desperate thrust of his hips, in the way his lips find your ear.

“Come with me,” he groans. “Don’t leave me alone in this again.”

Your hands claw at his back, fingertips dragging over the tense muscles there. “I’m right here,” you gasp. “I’m not going anywhere—fuck—Max—”

The orgasm rips through you like a breaking wave, sharp and shaking, your whole body arched under him.

He follows a second later with a sound that’s not even a word, just a low, broken groan as he spills inside you, his entire body trembling from the force of it.

He stays inside you, chest pressed to yours, hearts pounding in tandem. His thumb strokes the edge of your jaw like he’s still trying to prove this is real.

You turn your face and kiss his palm. Your fingers find his nape, stroking gently.

His mouth presses to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, softer now, quieter.

“Mine,” he whispers, not even realising he said it out loud.

You pull him tighter against you.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

You lie there after, tangled and wrecked and silent. His forehead rests against yours. His hand finds yours beneath the sheet across his chest.

This time, you don’t let go.

The next morning the first thing Max registers is warmth.

Not the sun, though that’s there too, soft, and spilling golden light across the sheets, but you.

Tangled in the sheets beside him, your cheek pressed against his chest, your breath slow and even. One leg draped over his thigh, the tips of your fingers still resting against his ribs like you’d fallen asleep with your hand on his heart.

The second thing he feels is weight.

Not yours. That, he loves. No, it’s the weight in his chest.

Thick. Quiet. Wrong.

It creeps in before he can even open his eyes fully, a gnawing panic already curling in his stomach.

It crashes over him all at once, the way he touched you, the sound of your voice under him, the desperate force, the unforgiving rhythm of his body crashing into yours. The way he’d let months of silence and need and heartbreak pour out of him in one furious rush of skin and teeth and thrusts that had nothing soft left in them.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t what you deserved.

It was too much. Too fast. All teeth and ache and months of grief and silence shoved into one bed.

You’d said yes. You’d wanted him. You’d pulled him into you like you were just as starved, but still…

His heart stutters under your palm.

He should’ve been slow, should’ve worshipped you. Let it be a memory wrapped in gentleness. Let it mean something more than the way his hips slammed into yours like he was trying to erase the distance with force.

Instead, it had been raw. Messy. Borderline unhinged. Like losing you had broken something in him and getting you back shattered the rest.

Max closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose.

I didn’t savour it.

He should’ve.

He should’ve taken his time. Should’ve memorised every inch of your skin, every breathless laugh, every moment that should’ve been sacred after the year you spent apart.

Instead, he’d let all the pain, all the jealousy, all the love he didn’t know where to put turn him into something too rough. Too greedy. Too afraid.

He shifts, careful not to wake you, and stares up at the ceiling. His arm aches from holding you all night but he doesn’t move it. Not yet, because now that he has you, he’s terrified again.

Terrified this was it. That you’ll look at him in the daylight and realise last night was a mistake.

You finally had her. And you didn’t make it count.

You stir a few minutes later. He feels it before he sees it, the flutter of your lashes against his skin, your leg shifting, the lazy graze of your fingers against his side. Then your voice, sleep-warm and gravelly.

“Max?”

He tenses before he speaks. “Yeah.”

You blink up at him, lids still heavy. “You okay?”

He hesitates, he doesn’t understand how you always know when he’s drowning in his own head.

He sits up slowly, dragging a hand down his face. The sheet slips down his torso, cool air brushing against his skin, but he barely feels it.

“I think I fucked it up,” he mutters.

You push up on one elbow. “What?”

“Last night,” he says, still not looking at you. “That was supposed to be... I don’t know. Different. Better.”

“Better how?” you laugh like the thought is ludicrous.

Max runs a hand through his hair. “Gentler. Slower. I wanted to show you how much I care, not—” he shakes his head, eyes dark with guilt, “—not fuck you like I hadn’t touched a woman in years.”

You pause. “Max—”

“It was selfish,” he keeps going. “I didn’t think. I just—God, I was so desperate for you. I’ve spent a year waking up wishing I could hold you, and when I finally got to, I didn’t stop long enough to actually feel it.” His eyes are dark with guilt, almost afraid. “It was too much. Too fast. And I—I knew better. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t slow down. You were finally there, and I just... lost it.”

You sit up beside him, the sheet wrapped around your chest, watching the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for something.

“Max, look at me.”

He does. Slowly.

“I wanted that,” you whisper. “I wanted you. All that need and anger and love. All of it.”

“I didn’t give you what you deserved.”

“You gave me what we both needed,” you say, scooting closer, touching his cheek. “That wasn’t about being gentle. That was about finally letting it break. That was release. That was everything we never said finally said with hands and mouths and skin.”

He swallows hard. “I’m scared you’ll wake up tomorrow, or the next day, or next week and regret it.”

You shake your head, eyes glistening. “I won’t. And I don’t. Max—” you take his hand, lace your fingers through his, “—we were wound so tight for so long, there was no way that first time could’ve been slow. It was always going to explode.”

He lets out a quiet, shaky breath.

“And now,” you whisper, leaning in to press a kiss to his chest, “we have all the time in the world to make up for it. I’m not going anywhere. I swear. We can go slow next time. And the time after that. And the time after that. And every morning we don’t have to say goodbye.”

His throat works. He leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he murmurs. “I just wanted to prove I was worth all of this,” he says.

You kiss him. Soft. Solid. Final.

“You were,” you whisper against his lips. “You are. Max, you always were.”

He shakes his head slightly, still not fully convinced. “I was so scared I’d finally have you and still find a way to mess it up. That I’d touch you wrong. That it’d be too much. That you’d see something in me and change your mind.”

“Hey,” you murmur, fingers slipping into his hair. “I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I didn’t care how soft or slow it was. I just—” your voice falters, then steadies, “—I just needed to feel you. I needed to know you were real. That I hadn’t made all of it up.”

Max’s brow furrows, emotion flooding every line of his face.

“And last night?” you continue. “It was desperate. It was loud. It was ours. Every second of it. I wanted to crawl out of my skin from missing you and I didn’t know how to say it until you were on top of me.”

He lets out a broken laugh.

“I wasn’t waiting for perfect,” you say. “I was waiting for you. Whatever form that came in.”

His eyes shine. “But I didn’t slow down. I didn’t stop to check. What if—?”

“You didn’t,” you interrupt softly. “You didn’t scare me. I wanted it just as badly. You didn’t ruin anything. You made me feel again.”

Max nods, finally letting himself believe it, just a little. He leans back against the pillows finally, the fight slowly leaving his body. He still looks stunned, still looks like he’s bracing for impact, but his grip on you softens, hands curling at your waist like he might never let go.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you add, threading your fingers through his. “You don’t have to earn me. You already have me. Even when I left. Even when I lied to myself. You were it, Max. You are it.”

Then you push him back gently against the pillows, curl into his side again. Max closes his eyes again, because you’re still here, and he doesn’t have to chase anymore.

The next few days feel like something out of a dream.

Not just a fantasy, a full-bodied, aching dream Max hasn’t let himself believe in for over a year. One where you're real and close and his, where no one’s calling him to meetings or pulling him toward a plane. Just the two of you tucked into a crooked old farmhouse, the hills blooming soft around you like something out of a painting.

He wakes slow with you in his arms every morning, your body warm and loose against him, face buried in his chest like you’re trying to disappear inside him. He doesn’t move until you do. Sometimes he pretends to still be asleep, just to feel you shift, stretch, brush your lips against his shoulder.

The days are lazy and sunlit. He pads barefoot into the kitchen to find you already making coffee, hair mussed, one sleeve falling off your shoulder. He stands behind you at the stove, arms wrapped around your waist, chin hooked over your shoulder like he could live in that exact position forever.

You grin, hand him a chipped mug, and steal a bite of his toast even though you’ve got your own. He complains of course, but not really. He likes it, the easiness, the domesticity, the you in his space.

He watches you read on the couch in the afternoons, your legs draped over his lap like it’s always been yours to claim. Your fingers trace idle shapes into his skin, hearts, constellations, maybe a memory you're too shy to say aloud.

He presses kisses to your ankle, your knee, your thigh, not for sex, not always, but just because he can, because you’re here and letting him, and it makes his chest ache with something too big to name.

Sometimes you walk the olive groves together. He hates the bugs, but he loves how you roll your eyes and swat at him with a branch like he’s being dramatic. You trip once on a root and curse in three different languages, and he laughs so hard he almost falls too. You call him a menace. He calls you the best decision he’s ever made.

You make fun of his Australian accent. He pretends to be offended, then kisses you senseless until you're laughing into his mouth.

He holds you constantly. On the couch, in bed, and in the garden he holds you like your body is made of sunlight and he’s starved for warmth. He finds new excuses to touch you every ten minutes, a hand on your hip, a kiss to your shoulder, his head on your stomach while you trace lines through his hair. He watches you brush your teeth and thinks this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Like peace.

He makes love to you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. Sometimes it’s frantic, all gasps and nails and tangled limbs, like you’re both trying to climb inside each other. Sometimes it’s quiet his forehead pressed to yours, your breath shared like a secret, the rhythm of your bodies more prayer than pleasure.

Sometimes, you just lie there. Skin on skin. No words. Just your fingers interlaced across his chest as the light shifts slowly across the ceiling beams, and you both pretend, for just a second longer, that time isn’t moving. That the flight won’t come. That the ache hasn’t already started building in your chests, but he feels it too, the clock ticking.

Max doesn’t speak about leaving, not once, but he sees it in the way your smile dims a little when the sun starts to set. Feels it in how tightly you grip his hand when you think he’s not paying attention.

Still, you don’t talk about when he has to leave and Max clings to every single second like it’s oxygen, because soon, the world will start spinning again.

But not yet.

The night before he leaves, it rains.

Not a storm, not thunder or lightning, soft, unrelenting drizzle that taps against the farmhouse windows. It feels like the sky is trying to hold the moment in place, as if it knows something is ending soon and wants to slow it down.

You’re in bed wrapped in sheets that still smell like him, the room dim and quiet but not still, because Max is tracing soft lines down your back, and your fingers are moving just as slowly across his chest.

You’re curled into his side, face pressed into his neck, your legs tangled, because they always search for each other in sleep, and Max can’t stop watching you.

Neither of you says the word goodbye.

You don’t need to.

It’s there in the way you stay up too late, mouths pressed together under the covers, kissing slow and deep, with too much tenderness for something so temporary. It’s the kind of kissing that doesn’t lead anywhere or doesn’t need to. It’s not about heat or hunger tonight.

Max pushes your hair back from your face like it’s ritual, his thumb brushes your cheekbone, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You’ll forget what I look like,” you whisper, trying to keep it light.

He shakes his head instantly. “Never.”

He kisses you like he’s running out of time, and when he pulls your sweater over your head he stares at you like you’re something he can’t believe is real.

His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your bottom lip. You press your forehead to his and let him lie back, pull you into his lap, guide you down over him without rushing, without speaking. You move together like the rain outside, quiet, steady, and aching.

No one cries. But it feels like crying.

Max murmurs into your hair, “I hate that I have to go.”

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “Then don’t say it.”

The sun creeps in too early. It floods the sheets with gold. Warms your bare shoulders and neither of you moves, because it’s almost time.

You walk him to the car.

It’s early, low clouds veiling the hills, the air still thick with the scent of rain and lavender. The gravel crunches beneath your bare feet. Your arms are crossed tight over your chest like you're trying to keep yourself from falling apart. Your eyes won’t meet his, not for long.

His suitcase is already in the trunk. The door to the rental car is open. The moment is already ending.

Max runs a hand down your back before cupping your jaw with a gentleness that threatens to wreck him.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, but it takes you a second. Your throat works like the words hurt on the way out. “Not yet.”

He closes his eyes. Feels the ache settle behind his ribs, but he nods too because he gets it. You’re not hiding anymore, but you’re still healing and this time you're staying still for it.

He understands now, maybe better than ever, why you can't go back right away. Why you need a little more time in the quiet. In the light. In the safety of this place. He doesn’t love it, but he respects it.

You just need a little more time. Not from him, that’s not what this is. It’s the world you’re not ready for yet. The noise. The scrutiny. The way the paddock watches everything too closely and the media twists every breath into a headline. The whispers, the cameras, the weight of expectation.

Max knows it intimately and he knows what it would take from you to step back into that fire. He’d carry you through it if he could, but he won’t rush you.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. You stay close for a few more moments, foreheads resting together, neither one of you moving.

“I’ll be thinking about you,” he says, his voice thick now. “Every day.”

Your fingers trace the edge of his hoodie, tug once at the hem like you’re still not ready either. “Every second,” you murmur.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, long and steady. “Always.”

Then he lets go. He climbs into the car and shuts the door before he can change his mind. He doesn’t look back right away, doesn’t trust himself to, but when he does, you’re still standing there. In the mist. On the gravel

And somehow it hurts more than he expected, but it’s not the same kind of hurt he’s been carrying all year.

It’s not regret. It’s not heartbreak.

It’s hope.

It’s the knowledge that he gets to miss you now and be missed in return, and that when you’re ready…

You’ll come find him.

When Max steps into the paddock three days later, people notice.

Not because he’s louder, or sharper, or walking with that caged intensity that usually clings to him before a race.

It’s the opposite.

He’s lighter. Less tightly wound. Like something inside him has finally stopped screaming. There’s an ease to the way he moves, shoulders relaxed, jaw unclenched, eyes softer beneath his cap. Laughs, really laughs when someone makes a joke about the weather.

Even Christian does a double take during the morning briefing, brows lifting as Max scrolls through data on his iPad.

“You’re in a good mood,” he says slowly, suspicious. “Should we be worried?”

Max just shrugs, hiding his smile behind the rim of his coffee cup. “Guess I finally got some sleep.”

GP snorts. Max doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. His smirk says enough.

It isn’t long before the rest of the world starts noticing too. Photos surface of Max walking through the paddock, head down, but with a warmth at the corner of his eyes and a a curve to his mouth that’s too personal.

@f1girliex: okay but why is Max acting like he’s in love?? 👀💘

@chaoticpitwall: Max is glowing and I’m scared. what does he know that we don’t???

@softformaxy: did Max discover meditation or something?? why is he so zen.

@f1gossip_xox: Max Verstappen hasn’t stopped smiling since Thursday and I’m emotionally unwell about it

He sees it all. He doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t confirm it either because he doesn’t have to, but he knows.

And so does Lando.

They pass each other in the paddock. Lando glances at him, like he knows something’s changed. He can feel it in the air.

Max doesn’t speak to him yet, he just nods, not smug, but not apologetic.

Lando doesn’t look angry, he just nods back, but the tension hasn’t lifted. Max can feel it anytime Lando’s nearby. The way conversations hush when they pass each other. The glances. The weight.

And later, after quali, it snaps.

Max is coming down the stairs from media duties, jaw tight, mind already on strategy for the next day and he’s barely registering the voices around him as he rounds the corner.

Lando is standing just outside the Red Bull garage, not scrolling on his phone, not chatting with a mechanic. Just standing there, arms crossed, gaze locked on Max.

Max halts, just a few steps away. His eyes flick quickly to the left, then back. The corridor is quiet.

There’s a pause. Long. Sharp.

Then Lando says, voice low and unreadable, “You look pleased.”

Max’s eyes narrow. “You want something?”

Lando shrugs, pushing off the wall a little but not closing the distance. “Just wondering how long you plan to keep it quiet.”

Max’s pulse skips, but doesn’t answer.

Lando leans against the wall, arms still folded. “You didn’t tell anyone. But I guess you didn’t have to.”

Max still doesn’t respond.

“You’re different,” Lando continues. “The media can smell it, so can I.”

Max stays still, just watches him, waiting for the real reason he’s here.

Lando lets out a slow breath and straightens.

“You think I don’t know it’s her?”

The words land hard.

Max’s jaw tightens. “That’s not your business,” he says carefully.

Lando scoffs, bitter. “It used to be.”

Max stares at him. For a moment, they’re just two people who’ve shared too much and said too little. There’s history in the silence. Jealousy. Regret.

Quieter now, Lando says, “If she did this to me… what makes you so sure she’ll stay with you?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. There’s no venom in it, just a splinter of something painful that Max wasn’t expecting.

Still, it hits.

Max blinks, once. Slow. Then he straightens his spine and says, “She didn’t leave you for me.”

“She left because she couldn’t keep pretending,” Max continues, jaw tight. “And if you ever really loved her, you’d understand why she made that choice."

Lando’s expression twists.

“And what, you think you’re the answer, you're the right choice?”

Max holds his gaze. “I don’t think she needed an answer. I think she just needed space to figure out who she was when no one else was trying to define it for her.”

Then Lando speaks again, quiet but sharp. “You think that space will still exist when the world finds out?”

There’s a beat of silence, taut, bitter, years of friendship and rivalry suspended on a thread neither of them wants to cut.

Then Lando turns, shoulders tense, and walks away without looking back. Max stays rooted to the spot.

The next day he knows he should be thinking about tyre compounds or fuel loads, but all he can think about is you.

The look on your face when you said “You made me feel again...”

The memory knocks the air out of him all over again.

He exhales, slow and controlled, but it doesn’t do much to ease the thudding in his chest. His hands are still clenched at his sides when he walks off the morning interview platform. His answers had been quick. Polished. Automatic. But his mind hasn’t been in the room for a single second.

He walks straight to his driver’s room quiet, guarded by a single staff member who nods him through without a word.

He pushes open the door.

And stops cold.

You’re sitting on the edge of the small leather couch.

Red Bull hat pulled low, hands curled nervously in your lap, eyes flicking up the moment the door clicks shut behind him.

Max’s breath catches.

Just you. Waiting for him.

Suddenly, nothing else matters.

He crosses the room in three steps. Drops everything he’s holding, his water bottle, his jacket, maybe a whole year’s worth of tension.

You don’t speak. You just reach for him.

Max wraps his arms around your waist, buries his face in your neck and exhales. Your hands move through his hair, gentle and familiar, and for a long moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, soft, so soft, he murmurs, “You came.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” you whisper. “Not after that.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. “You’re sure?”

You nod, eyes glassy. “Not about everything. Not about the media or our friends or how we’ll make this work. But I’m sure about you.”.

You slide back onto the couch and settle into his lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders, forehead to his. It’s quiet in the driver room, just the hum of an overhead light and the muffled footsteps of the world moving on without you.

“I missed you,” you murmur, your lips brushing his cheek.

He nods, jaw tight. “Me too.”

Finally, he kisses you. With both hands framing your face, like he’s anchoring himself there. You melt into it, all warmth and relief.

When you pull back, breathless and close, he presses one more kiss to the tip of your nose, then your forehead, then whispers, “Let’s just stay here a little longer.”

You nod against his chest. “As long as we need.”

They don’t call it hiding.

Not out loud. Not to each other. Never in those words.

But that’s what it is.

A soft little secret carved out of the chaos. A world only they get to live in, tucked between race weekends and red-eye flights, between press briefings and podium champagne.

It’s the way your contact is saved under a completely unrelated emoji just in case. It’s the way he leaves the hotel door unlocked always.

It’s slipping into hospitality just after lights-out. Tiptoeing down the motorhome hallway, your face half-covered with his hoodie as you duck past cameras and night staff. It’s whispered hellos and slow kisses under the hum of fluorescent lights.

It’s risky.

It’s ridiculous.

And it’s the happiest Max has been in a year.

Because for the first time in forever, there’s something that feels real. Untouched. Sacred.

When he wins in Imola the media calls it masterful. Clinical. A champion’s drive.

He doesn't hear a word of it, because the only thing he’s looking for is that one darkened corner of the garage where you’re half-hidden behind a stack of tool crates, wearing a Red Bull cap that isn’t officially yours. Eyes wide. Hands clasped tight. Smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

It does hurt. It hits him in the ribs.

Because that smile? It’s for him.

All Max wants to do is grab your face in both hands and kiss you so hard the entire fucking world falls away, but he doesn’t. Not here.

He just meets your eyes and smiles back.

A private celebration.

Just for you.

Just for now.

That night he finds you waiting in his hotel room before he even gets his shoes off.

You just reach for him arms looped around his neck, body pressed close and your mouth is on his before he can close the door behind him. His jacket is still half-on, the zipper caught on your knuckles as he tries to shrug it off, but your kiss swallows everything else, his breath, his thoughts, the ache of the week behind him.

It’s all teeth and heat and celebration. All the adrenaline he hasn’t burned off yet, the pride he doesn’t know how to voice, the longing he’s been carrying in his chest since the second you slipped out of the paddock.

You meet him with the same fire. With your fingers tugging at his collar and your legs winding around his waist like you’ve been counting down the hours. Your mouth moves with his in a way that says I love you without ever needing the words.

For a few hours, the rest of the world disappears.

He lets you ride him on the balcony, under the hush of a velvet sky, slow and deep while the city hums below. He tips his head back against the glass door, hands gripping your hips, heart stuttering every time you grind down with purpose.

You smile against his jaw, warm and wicked. “You smell like champagne.”

He huffs a breathless laugh, cupping your face. “You look like trouble.”

He loves you so much it makes his hands shake.

The next few weeks slip by in pieces. He flies to you during off-days, two nights in Amsterdam, three in Florence, a stolen sunrise in a town neither of you can pronounce. You meet him in secret cities, always in the quiet between chaos. Sometimes in hotels, sometimes in apartments borrowed from friends, always behind closed doors.

You sleep in his shirts, stretch across his bed like you own it. You steal his hats. Riffle through his travel bag just to tease him about how many chocolate bars he carries.

You laugh with your whole chest when you’re tipsy on overpriced room service wine, and Max swears he’d give up most things in his life just to hear that sound again.

You trace the lines of his body in the dark, fingers slow over scars, lips pressed to old bruises and whisper, “This one’s my favourite.”

But the longer it lasts, the louder the silence becomes.

The media doesn’t know, not really, but they suspect.

He still wins. Still fights. Still storms into team meetings with strategy notes and fire in his gut, but there’s a calm to him now. A quiet steadiness no one can quite place.

Socials light up with speculation threads and edits and blurry photos of him in random cities. The way he disappears between races. The little half-smiles he tries to hide when he thinks no one’s looking.

Then one post goes viral:

@maxietaxi I really think Max Verstappen is soft-launching someone and I NEED TO KNOW WHO???

He shows it to you one night in bed, screen dimmed, laughter tucked between your bodies as you lie tangled in the sheets. You laugh, too, but when the sound fades, Max catches the flicker in your eyes. That split-second shadow.

He knows that look.

And it hits him all at once—

This bubble you’ve built, this little hidden life wrapped in late-night kisses and private hotel balconies won’t hold forever.

Not when it’s you the world will come for.

It’s Monaco.

A rare day off. The kind that feels like a gift.

You walk through the old part of the city, hood up, sunglasses on, hands brushing but not quite touching. He takes you to a little café tucked away on a side street, the one where he used to sit alone before he ever knew what it felt like to have someone like you waiting for him back home.

It’s risky being out in the open like this, even in Monaco with no paparazzi, but this café is tucked away on a quiet side street, the kind only locals know.

You sit across from him, your knees brushing beneath the table, fingers playing with the edge of his napkin. He watches you in the golden afternoon light, your laugh, the arch of your brow as you tease him, the way you press your tongue against your teeth when you’re trying not to smile.

He kisses you once, quick and soft, and Max lets himself believe the world doesn’t exist outside this moment.

Two days later, the world knows.

It starts with a blurry photo posted by an anonymous gossip account that specialises in just this kind of damage. The caption is low-effort but precise enough to strike a nerve:

@f1gossipfiles Max Verstappen spotted kissing a familiar woman in Monaco on Sunday afternoon — sources say it’s not just casual. 👀👀

So much for the café being safe, there’s always someone with a camera, always someone ready to spoil the one thing he was trying his best to keep untouched.

The picture is grainy, taken from across the street behind a cracked window, but even blurred, it’s you. Your hair, your hand wrapped around his wrist, your smile as he leans in. Unmistakable.

It’s not just a whisper. It’s a roar.

By the time Max flies in for morning media in Barcelona, the story is everywhere.

Twitter. Instagram. Youtube. TikTok. Reddit. Dutch tabloids. F1 fan forums.

By noon, your name is trending globally. The edits are brutal. The comments worse.

He sees them flood in:

@maxluvr33 that’s definitely her. check the video from lando’s birthday last year SAME BRACELET. 💀💀💀

@padcockwatch1 not to be that guy but didn’t she used to date Lando?????? messy if true

@wifey4lando i KNEW she gave “upgrades to the fastest car” energy 😒

@gridgossip44 she’s mid and gives nothing lol. why do they always fall for the ones with zero substance 😭

@max334ever max looks way too happy for this to be fake… god i hope she’s not just another fame leech 🥲 protect him pls

@wheelfangirl63 nah there’s no way she pulled both Lando and Max 💀 someone’s gotta be running PR fanfic on us

@mclarenmama so she dates Lando, disappears, and suddenly reappears with Max? this some calculated social climbing if I’ve ever seen it lol 😬

@paddockspytea lando’s ex? really? that’s who max is risking his peace for? the bar is in hell apparently 🤮

@f1xdrama someone said she’s been sneaking into red bull hospitality in his hoodie and i cannot BREATHE this is crazy

Max’s phone won’t stop buzzing. Neither will the team’s.

His manager wants clarification. His PR team demands a strategy call. The Red Bull comms group chat has exploded.

Christian doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at him and exhales like he already knows. Like he’s known for a while.

He scrolls once more through the post, through your smile, forever frozen on some stranger’s screen and his stomach turns, because he knows what’s coming next.

You’re no longer a person to them you’re a headline. The press will paint you as opportunistic, or calculated, or disloyal. They’ll call you a snake. A gold digger. They’ll accuse you of sleeping your way up the grid. Of ruining Lando. Of using Max.

They won’t see you.

Not the way he sees you.

And all Max can think, over and over, as the internet unravels and the fire spreads is:

This is exactly what you were afraid of.

Taglist - @armystay89 @lewishamiltonismybf @yara011 @rikersmunky @oddends @putherup @princessria127 @how-am-i-serpose-to-know @danielricroll @gahrcons @a-library-ofmy-own @hott1es @halleywrites @ymrereads @cmleitora @osclerc @lyapark @inmynotes63 @whistlef0rthechoir @2handsslan @f1allymgp @treatallwithkindness

[revelboo]

Tryna catch up with all the new updates!!! Everything has been fantastic hehehe 😘♥️ For the interlude, I can’t help but think of Kup and Ironhide, or, if you’re willing, Bayverse Ironhide and Optimus or Bayverse Ironhide and Ratchet- Little me had a crush on all three growing up, and I STILL have a crush on them to this day. Here’s an adorable picture of a Pallas cat kitten I found the other day as an offering!!!

Ahhhhh! He’s so cute! How about all three Bay-mechs then? 🔞 mass displaced mechs 🌶️

Shared

Bayverse Optimus x Reader, Ironhide x Reader, Ratchet x Reader

• Skin prickling at the heat radiating off the big truck as you move past, reaching out to let your fingertips glide against the side, you hear the low rumble of the engine and you meander over to brush a hip against the ambulance on your other side. Pausing at the door to the massive garage they’re calling home to look back at the three vehicles, fingers fisted in your robe. And as soon as you’re sure no one else is about, you flash that nothing is underneath and duck inside with a laugh.

• Engine roaring, Ironhide takes off after you and Optimus isn’t surprised when Ratchet’s right behind. Their little shared mate teasing knowing exactly what will happen. And Optimus rolls forward, transforming once he’s safely hidden inside and pulling the door closed. Not even surprised to find you already on your back, Ironhide mass shifted and his mouth sliding against you with a low growl as you hook your legs over his shoulder and look up at him with need darkened eyes. Loves watching you restlessly move, hips bucking on little moans and hitching gasps as Ironhide gets you ready, your little hands clutching his helm. And you arch with a cry, bucking as Ironhide presses a soft bite against your inner thigh, shifting over you and releasing his spike.

• Groaning as he slowly buries himself in your slick heat, Ironhide grips your hips, moving urgently against you as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Missed you,” you gasp out, back arching. Like they didn’t all take turns with you this morning. Not that he’s about to complain about you needing them, not when he needs you. Can’t stop thinking about you when he’s away from you, that little smile of yours, the sound of your laughter and the warmth of you sleeping against him. And he’s moving faster against you, strung so tight watching you, listening to you. “Please.” Smacking a hand down beside you as he overloads, whole frame shuddering over you, venting raggedly on a groan as he fills you.

• “Sorry. Little too revved up,” Ironhide growls, lifting a fist when Ratchet mass shifts and loudly clears his vents. The two locking optics before Ironhide reluctantly slips free of you, leaving you slick and trembling. Close. And Ironhide punches Ratchet in the arm hard enough to rock him as he stalks past to leans his hands on the crate you’re sprawled on near your head. ‘Impatient as always,’ Ratchet murmurs, servos sliding over your belly as he pulls the scent of you deep and frees his own spike. Pushing one of your legs up against your chest, he sheaths himself and you shiver under him. Optics half shuttered, he lazily moves against you, watching you move against him. Those addictive little noises you make sending his biolights cycling and you’re silken heat wrapped so tight around his spike as he rocks his hips. Smiling when you arch and come apart for him. Finally moving in earnest, hips pumping chasing after you as you fist him.

• Arching as Ratchet moves inside you and Ironhide carefully brushes the hair away from your face, both mechs looming over you, almost overwhelming you with their presence and your body is winding up again when Ratchet snarls, hips rocking as he overloads. Knowing by the time they’re done with you, you’ll be a slick mess. Heart racing as your head turns to look at your biggest mate, you whimper when Ratchet thrusts a handful more times, groaning and filling you again. Your big medic the neediest of the group, but you love taking care of him.

• Smiling behind his mask as you watch him, Ratchet pulls out and his optics dip to the sight of their excess making a mess of you. And he wants to add his own. Mark you as his, too. Because you’re all of theirs. Mass shifting when Ratchet moves to your side, Optimus reaches to stroke a servo against your cheek. “We missed you, too,” he says, voice serious and you laugh. ‘I can tell,’ you tease, drawing a leg up, heel against the container. Servos flirting over your soft skin, he flips you onto your belly, hearing your laughter falter into a moan when he frees himself and fills you. Always so tight and wet for them. Dimly aware of Ironhide cleaning his spike, before offering it you from the other side of the container and you don’t hesitate. Reaching to grip him, mouth sliding against the head as Optimus’s hips pump against you. Moving more urgently when Ironhide groans and vents raggedly, sinking his servos into your hair. Rutting against you, Optimus’s servos tighten on your hips, hearing your muffled moans mingling with his growls. Catching a glimpse of Ratchet fisting his own spike, stroking himself as he watches. And Optimus snarls, hips snapping as he overloads inside you. Claiming what’s his. Theirs.

[xoxolaw]

Can I request a Baku fic? Preferably hurt/comfort of any sort;)!!! Like maybe instead of Juntae in that one episode, it’s the reader? Thankku

+ I GOT THE LIST

in which she risks everything to steal the Union's darkest secret, gets caught, bleeds for it - and still manages to look Baku in the eye and say, "I got the list"

Park Hu-min (Baku) x reader

angst, fluff

Infiltrating the buyer's list was never supposed to go smoothly. It was reckless. Dangerous. Stupid, even. But someone had to do it. Someone who could slip in and out without leaving a trace, someone the Union wouldn’t expect.

And that someone turned out to be Y/N.

She wasn’t part of the Union. Never was. She was one of Baku’s—Eunjang’s. But she only managed to get out with one of the pages.

The rest? She couldn’t risk it. And she didn’t have to—one page was enough. Names. Transactions. Proof.

Only, she hadn’t realized that someone was watching. That Baek-jin had eyes everywhere.

And now, here she was, cornered on a dimly lit road, path blocked by a group of Union guys she didn’t recognize. Faces twisted with arrogance, all fake grins and clenched fists.

She didn’t scream. She fought.

The next thing she knew, she was being dragged into a garage at Daesung Corporation. Somewhere underground. Somewhere no one could hear.

She stood her ground—at first.

Baku had trained her himself. Every punch, every counter, every take-down. She fought like hell, but it didn’t matter. Six against one was never going to end well.

Eventually, they had her on her knees, arms pinned behind her back.

One of them brought a phone to her face.

“Baek-jin wants to talk.”

She spat blood to the side and sneered, “Tell him to fuck off.”

The slap came sharp and fast, her head snapping sideways, vision swimming. The two holding her down didn’t flinch. The other two started punching—controlled and targeted. Body shots. She bit down hard on her cheek just to stay conscious.

A door creaked open at the far end of the room.

“Damn,” came a bored, familiar voice. “You guys are loud as hell.”

The Union members paused, turning toward the sound.

Seong-je stepped into the light lazily, as if he’d just woken up from a nap. Hands in his pockets. Hair a mess.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the guys barked.

"Nice to meet you” He pulled out a cigarette and put it between his lips. "I'm Geum Seong-je."

"Motherfuckers."

The name made two of the men hesitate. “Didn’t he leave the Union?” one muttered under his breath.

Seong-je didn’t care.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said casually, glancing at her bruised face. “Didn’t know you were the type to kneel.”

Her jaw clenched. Blood was crusted at the corner of her lip.

“Just do what they want,” he said around the cigarette. “Or they’ll kill you.”

Her eyes flared. “No.”

He paused mid-inhale. “What?”

“I said no!” Her voice tore through the silence, louder than anyone expected.

He stared for a second. Then scoffed. "I get it. The reason Baku likes you. You are so much fun!"

"Okay. Loyalty passed." He took one last drag, blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Then, without warning, he moved.

The punch was fast. Precise. The first guy crumpled.

Chaos erupted. But Seong-je wasn’t someone you fought head-on. He moved like a storm—cold, quick, and cruel.

Within minutes, all six Union men were on the floor, groaning or unconscious. Seong-je shook his wrist out and kicked one of them aside lazily.

“You guys really have no manners,” he muttered.

---

The shutter door slammed open.

Boots on concrete. Ragged breathing.

Baku.

He skidded in, Gotak right behind him. His eyes scanned the wreckage—the bleeding thugs, the shattered glass, the bruises blooming across her skin like ink.

She was slouched on the sofa, her arms limp at her sides. Blood trailed down her cheek, staining the collar of her shirt. But she was awake.

Seong-je was seated across from her, calm, smoke curling upward like it didn’t matter.

“What happened here…” Gotak whispered, shocked.

Seong-je raised his hand in greeting. “You got here fast.”

Then, tilting his head toward her, he added with a smirk, “Come get your girlfriend.”

Baku didn’t respond. He rushed forward, falling to his knees in front of her, hands trembling as they hovered over her cuts, unsure where to touch without hurting her.

“Y/N…” he whispered, voice hoarse.

She blinked, slow and tired, and gave him a shaky smile.

“I got the list,” she murmured.

“Fuck the list,” Baku hissed, brushing blood from her cheek. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” His voice cracked. “You’re not. Look at you.”

“I fought them,” she said, proud even through the pain. “I didn’t give them anything.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t joyful. It was tight and broken and scared. “Of course you didn’t. You stupid, brave idiot.”

Then he pulled her forward, gently, tucking her face against his shoulder. She didn’t fight it. Just let herself be held.

“You were supposed to wait for me,” he said into her hair. “We were supposed to do this together.”

“You would’ve stopped me.”

“Damn right I would’ve.”

She let out a shaky breath.

Baku tightened his arms around her, careful not to press her injuries. “Don’t ever make me run like that again,” he whispered. “I thought—I thought I was too late.”

“I knew you’d come.”

His heart cracked open all over again.

Gotak turned away quietly, letting them have the moment. Seong-je stood up, stretching like he was bored again.

“Alright. I’m done babysitting.” He looked at Baku. “She’s tougher than you. Keep up.”

Then, with a final drag of his cigarette, he disappeared into the shadows of the garage.

Baku shifted to press a soft kiss to her temple.

“I got you now,” he whispered. “You're safe. Just breathe.”

And for the first time since the mission started, she did.

---

They were in a park, Baku patched up her wounds and gave her something to drink.

He hugged her, catching her off guard, but she didn't take long before burying her face in his chest.

“I was so scared,” she whispered.

“I was too,” he said quietly. “The second Gotak said you were gone, I—I lost it. I’ve never run that fast in my life. My lungs felt like they were gonna rip open.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing a tear-streaked strand of hair away from her eyes.

“You matter too much to me, Y/N. You get that? You’re not just part of this team. You’re not just someone who fights beside us.”

His voice trembled, his thumb brushing over the swelling on her cheek like he could erase it.

“You’re the part of me I can’t lose.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, tears still slipping down. “I love you, Baku.”

His heart stopped. No matter how many times he had heard it before, it always felt like the first time.

His eyes flickered down to her lips, swollen and bloodied, then back up to her tear-soaked lashes.

“I love you too,” he said, voice rough, eyes burning. “So damn much it scares me.”

He kissed her then—soft and reverent, like a promise, like a prayer.

Not rushed. Not heated. Just full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he’d been afraid to say.

She melted into him, broken and safe all at once.

And when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.

"I love you so damn much."

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

I hope you enjoyed this <3!! Gotta include Seong-je lmao.

TAGLIST

@heesexual74 @j4sont0ddswife @jihooneyluv @l5byrinth @coolasiangal123 @inom17 @rebwwca @mizxuqii @tesiitodulce

[ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes]

Man Behind the Myth

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

genre: neutral

requested? yes by @f1padfoot

el's thoughts: i really like this oneee hehe i hope yall like it!

bucky masterlist

Steve Rogers had talked to her after they found him washed up on shore, he had asked her to find Bucky. Steve said that he would’ve searched himself but he was tied up with Avengers stuff. Was she confused about his personal priorities… Yes. But who was she to question Captian America?

She finally arrived at the slightly rundown apartment building with broken shutters and water stains on the plaster walls. She half expected a fortress, booby traps, maybe a sniper scope on her the second she stepped onto the street. What she found instead was… silence. Before her arrival, all she had were a single set of coordinates. Y/N adjusted her grip on the sidearm tucked against her hip, her boots echoed on the steps up the stairwell. 

She had been tracking him for weeks—not just a trail of movement, but a man built from whispers. 

She didn’t lower her weapon as she approached the door, her breath shallow. The wood creaked under her weight. Slowly, she pushed the door open.

Inside, it looked more like a place someone lived than hid. Well-worn blankets were neatly folded on an old couch. Books stacked haphazardly in the corner. A bowl of stew on the table—still warm. He was close.

Then she heard it.

A low click behind her. 

Her blood ran cold.

“Drop it.” His voice was rough, low, like gravel grinding under boots.

Y/N froze. She felt the barrel of a gun at the back of her head. He’d gotten the jump on her. She had been tracked.

“Do it,” he growled again.

Slowly, she bent at the knees, placing her weapon on the floor. Hands raised, she straightened. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“That’s funny,” James Barnes muttered, stepping into her peripheral vision, the muzzle still trained on her. “Isn’t that exactly what they sent you to do?”

She turned her head slightly, studying him.

He looked different than the files. More human. Tired. His stubble was uneven, like he hadn’t cared enough to shave properly. His eyes were haunted, yet sharp and calculating. Not the ghost of the Winter Soldier. Not the myth. Just a man trying to remember how to breathe. 

“I know what they told me,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t sent to kill you.”

He stared at her, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“Because I was sent to bring you back.”

“To who? Where?”

“Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

He froze. “No.”

Y/N was struck with such a strong sense of confusion, she tilted her head. “Why?”

James still didn’t lower his gun and his cold stare didn’t rest up. “He doesn’t know me.”

She watched him for a moment. He clearly wasn’t the James “Bucky” Barnes that Steve described to her from his childhood. 

“He was the kind of guy who walked into a room like he owned it — all charm, a cocky grin, and a wink that had every dame in Brooklyn falling over themselves. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair slicked just enough to pass for clean-cut but wild enough to give his mother grief. But it wasn’t the looks that stuck with you — it was the way he made you feel like you belonged.

He could throw a punch, sure — and take one just as well — but what made Bucky different was that he always looked out for the little guy. Even before I had the serum, he never let anyone talk down to me. Said I might be small, but I was scrappy, and that counted for something. He had this big laugh, this easy confidence, like nothing in the world could touch him.

Underneath all that bravado, though? He had a good heart. Real good. Loyal to a fault. Brave as hell. The kind of guy who’d walk into fire if it meant getting someone else out.

He was my best friend. Still is, in a way. Even when the world moved on — I never really did.”

James picked up on the fact that she wasn’t making a move. She didn’t scan the room for a possible way out or new plan. She just looked at him. 

“You’re not taking me in?” He asked hesitantly. “Why?”

“Y/N shrugged gently, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because I see someone who’s running, not hunting.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, he lowered the gun.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

He studied her again—this time, not like a threat, but a puzzle. Something he couldn’t quite figure out. “You’re not scared of me?”

Y/N turned to face him fully now, meeting his gaze head-on. “No.”

He blinked, as if the answer stunned him more than any bullet ever could. “...Shouldn’t you be?”

She tilted her head. “Are you going to kill me?”

“No.”

“Then I guess not.”

Something in his jaw flexed. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

“You saw the files,” he said almost like a challenge. “You know what I’ve done.”

“I read the orders. I read between the lines. I also know what they did to you.”

He laughed dryly, shaking his head, his hand tightened around the gun. “That’s not how this works. You don’t just show up, hear a sob story, and decide I’m the victim.”

“Maybe not,” she said, stepping forward slowly, carefully. “But I know what monsters look like. You’re not one of them.”

His expression faltered — just for a second. Something cracked. Something softened.

“Why are you really here?” he asked.

“I was sent to find you.” Her voice didn’t waver, determination was evident.

His eyes searched hers, like he was still waiting for a trick. A trap. Some cruel twist that would make this make sense.

When it didn’t come, he stepped back, exhaling sharply.

“…I made soup,” he muttered harshly. “If you aren’t going to leave, you might as well eat.”

Y/N blinked. Then — the corner of her mouth twitched up.

“I could eat.”

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[gothamite-rambler]

Slade: You should get that kid fixed or something. He's weird.

Ra's al Ghul raised an eyebrow, glancing at his grandson, who was engrossed in playing Animal Crossing on his Nintendo Switch. Damian looked up briefly, then returned to his game, seemingly unfazed.

Ra's: Any oddities he has, I blame on how he’s been raised. The father is only kin due to siring him with my daughter.

Damian: Compared to the other ways you describe father, that was an accurate description.

Slade (shuttering): I bet he’s autistic.

Ra's (nonchalant): He is. I found out a few months ago. I don't quite understand it, but that doesn’t make him weird. He’s just… different.

Slade: Different? More like a freak. I’d beat that out of him if I were you.

Ra's stared at Slade, his eyes widening in shock. Not only was he taken aback by someone's suggestion to discipline his grandson, but he also felt a deep, buried anger rise within him at the insult directed toward his family member.

Damian merely shrugged, unfazed by Slade’s comment. Ra's took a steadying breath, nodded, and then, without warning, cocked his fist back and punched Slade directly in his good eye.

Slade: Ow! You bastard!

Damian's eyes widened in surprise as Ra's followed up with another punch, sending Slade reeling.

Ra's: Only I get to criticize my grandson, and it won’t be based on him being neurodivergent, you ass! Who do you think you are?!

Damian (confused if this a test): Grandfather, do you need me to step in?

Ra's (struggling to say the words): Habi- I can't believe I'm saying this... No, habibi. Sit this one out.

Damian (sincerely): Huh, okay. Thank you, grandfather.

As Ra's kicked Slade, snatching away the man's gun and flipping him to the ground, Damian watched with a mix of amusement and pride, realizing just how fiercely his grandfather would defend him.

[akawifeyy]

drive you crazy | fic (CS55)

description: short and sweet — you prank your boyfriend, carlos sainz jr.

tropes: lovers with secrets, he's absolutely obsessed with you, age gap (mid 20s and 30), girlfriend!fem!reader

face claim: none

trigger warnings: suggestive content, swearing

| note: hehehe i just know carlos would be adorable

You rolled over, facing your boyfriend, who was lying on the bed beside you. He was focused on a video that was playing on his phone, accompanied by an obnoxious laugh track. "Carlos," you whined softly.

He looked at you, pausing the reel, concern marring his beautiful features. "¿Sí?"

A half-formed plan embedded itself in your mind, and a small smirk grew on your lips. Carlos hadn't been very attentive to you all evening, which was understandable because of his enormous workload, but you were still frustrated, in more ways than one. And you knew just the way to pay him back.

"I was at the paddock yesterday and..." you huffed, hesitating for dramatic effect, twirling a strand of your hair in mock-agitation. "Don't kill either one of us." Carlos's eyebrows shot up like twin rockets shooting to space. "Uh, Lando asked me out on a date."

Carlos' face shuttered, his jaw clenching and his eyes turning into flint. "Lando asked you out..." he said, testing the words out and uttering them like they were poisonous. "Even though he knows you're in a relationship with me? Why? What did you say?" His questions were slow, betrayal and hurt shining through his words.

You averted your gaze, heat flooding your cheeks as you fidgeted with your fingers. "I don't know. I just thought it might be nice to see how other guys are, because I've only ever been with you."

"So you want to be with Lando?" Carlos laughed derisively. "Mi amor, he's been with so many women. He won't make you feel special, not like I do."

You shrugged one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. "At least he has experience."

"Princesa, why are you telling me this? Do I not pamper you enough?" Carlos pouted, confused. "I bought you that necklace you wanted, and as many books as you could wish for. What am I doing wrong? Why do you want to go to another man?"

The whole time you were holding onto the prank, adding more fuel to the fire, guilt had been building up in your stomach. Unable to hold it back any longer, you blurted, "This was a prank. I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry."

Carlos made a choking sound, his eyes widening. "You were joking? ¿Qué carajo? Why would you do that?"

"I know it was a horrible thing for me to do, I just feel super neglected," you confessed, shame sucker-punching you in the gut. "I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."

Carlos shoved off the bedsheet covers, suddenly stalking to the other side of the room. "I need space."

"What?" Horror sunk its claws into you, flooding with you with fear.

"I thought I lost you, princesa. To Lando, of all people. My best friend." Carlos winced, his pain evident. "You're the love of my life. I thought you didn't want me anymore and... I..."

You covered your mouth with your hands. "I'm really sorry. I do want you." You got up from where you were lying, walking to Carlos with shaky feet, and tugging him to your level so you could kiss him. "I love you, Carlos."

"Mhm," he murmured, deepening the kiss, all anger dissipated at the first second of your touch.

"I mean it. I won't ever abandon you, not for anyone or anything."

"Good. Somos solo tu y yo, por el infinito."

─── ୨୧ ─── THE END ─── ୨୧ ───

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 11

A/N: A little bit of wound-tending to make up for the wait of this chapter :)

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Gladiator Fights, Unnamed Character Death; Reader Tends to Rhys' wounds post fight (I know nothing about medical procedures, this is based off a Google search don't come for me)

Previous Chapter/ Masterlist

---------------

Torchlights flicker in monstrous shapes across the rough stone walls, the path beyond ominously dark. The rattling of chains and distant sounds of wheezing coughs lead me forward as I pull the hood of my cloak a little lower.  

If I don’t find them down here, I think I might die anyway.

The bond is a bleeding thing in my chest, the tether echoing with agony that feels like it might just rend my soul from my flesh. I can’t breathe beyond the pain that pulses through me, that compels me to move faster in the dark. Danger is irrelevant. My mates need me. Nothing beyond that matters. 

The path curves to the left and slopes, loose rock crunching under my feet with every step. I’ve never been so aware of how loud my own footsteps are until now. 

Once the path levels out, it goes straight for what feels like miles, I keep a hand on the wall as I inch forward little by little, until another torch finally comes into view. It’s anchored above a door, the wood old and faded, the iron edges covered in rust. Beside it, on a stool that’s seen better days, sits a guard. Not a Praetorian, which is the only reason I know this reckless decision of mine will work. A Praetorian will give word back to my Father, but this male? He’s human, round enough that he’s using his stomach as a table to balance a plate piled with bread and grapes. Crumbs cling to the patchy stubble that rims his round face, eyes glassy. There’s at least four empty bottles around his sandaled feet. Not drunk enough to be asleep, but not awake enough to remember I was here.

I slide a bag of coins out of my belt and toss it at him as he registers my presence. “I was never here.”

He opens the bag, nods to himself and hands over the key to the door with a chuckle. “Or you could stay for the company, doll.”

I ignore him as I jam the key in the worn lock and force the door open. The fact that it doesn’t creak when it opens tells me I’m not the only one that’s been sneaking through these tunnels lately. 

I lock it behind me and slide the key into a pocket on the inside of my cloak. I don’t need anyone sneaking up behind me. 

The room I find myself in is leagues taller than the tunnels, the roof stretching high out of reach, supported by massive iron pillars. We’re far beneath the Pit floor, but the smell of rot and decay and damp earth assaults me as soon as I step in. 

There’s a door to the right, locked with a padlock, probably a way towards the Pit, but no Guards on this side. Why waste them when you know the occupants can’t fight their way out?

My heart clenches so tightly in my chest I almost can’t breathe.

The Orc crawls its way up the boulder, meaty hands grabbing for purchase on the lip of the rock, just missing Rhys’s shoulder. 

My mate’s movements are terrifyingly slow as he manages to roll onto his side, pushing Cassian’s shaking frame off his chest. 

Azriel is screaming beneath him, throwing rocks and debris, trying desperately to get himself airborne, but his wings aren’t strong enough. The membrane shutters and twitches and Azriel is a deep shade of green as he keeps flapping them harder and harder, managing to get up an inch or two before they give out. He hasn’t had enough time to heal!

The rocks make the Orc chuckle as it gets another hand on the lip of the rock and begins hauling himself over the edge. 

I can’t do anything but sit there uselessly, my heart in my throat, watching in terror as Rhys manages to sit up, face twisting in pain. Only desperation has him throwing a punch into the Orc’s good eye, but the blow lacks the muscle he needs to dislodge him, he has to throw them again and again until the monster slips an inch or so down the rock. 

Rhys manages to twist so he’s sitting on the edge, using his heels to kick at the Orc’s hands and keep him from climbing back up, but it’s not doing enough. Cassian can’t yet help him, any attempt to sit up has his whole body shaking, the twitching starting all over again with each and every moment. 

I watch as Azriel’s gaze sweeps over the arena, looking for any remaining weapons, anything he can use to his advantage. There’s nothing, everything that had been left on that floor is ash. His gaze sweeps to our booth, past Amarantha and my Father, before settling on me. Without the bond it is hard to be sure, but that look, the way his lips droop, the way his hazel eyes turn pleading, it feels an awful lot like an apology.

There aren’t enough words to describe the terror that lodges itself in my throat as his shadows dislodge from behind his back, writhing through the air like a living breathing thing. 

“You said the gorsian would keep them at bay!” The Emperor snarls at Amarantha. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him find a flaw in her and it would be an entirely more unsettling experience if Azriel’s shadows weren’t pulling the Orc from his perch!

The crowd is in an uproar, booing and hissing and throwing things into the arena in outrage. The amount of money the crowd will lose has to be astronomical. And while they may lose the money on a technicality, Azriel will still have cheated. 

It’s like a bad dream, watching the Orc’s arms pinwheel as the shadows drag him through the air towards the yawning chasm of lava below. 

The Gamemaker’s mage flails his hands frantically, trying to shift the floor around in time to keep the Game going. 

Half a dozen of those disks come shooting out the walls, all aimed in Azriel’s direction, the buzzing loud enough to be heard over the screaming of the crowd. 

The ground splinters beneath Azriel’s feet, and even as he jumps to safety, a single shadow peels away from the writhing mass around the Orc, arching towards the Mage like an airborne snake. 

“Az no!” Rhys screams. 

But the shadows and their master pay him no mind as the tendril snags the Mage around the throat and hurtles him down into his own lava!

The crowd suddenly goes deadly silent.

The ground stops shifting, the loss of magic making the pieces of rock floating around the air come crumbling down. Rhys manages to get an arm under Cassian’s shoulders and hauls him off their descending perch so they don’t get smashed as it tumbles, their fall so hard I can practically feel the impact in my teeth. 

They land at the same time Azriel’s shadows bring the Orc down into the rapidly disappearing lava, the creature’s massive bulk just barely hitting the magma before the rock closes over his head, effectively sealing him in a fiery tomb. It all happens so fast there’s not even time for the male to scream before he’s gone and the world finally stops moving. 

The tether in my chest is finally reachable, leading me through the twisting tunnels, past cages filled with grizzly, slumbering males. The stench of decay and infection gets stronger the deeper I go, fighting against the heavy press of booze and opioid smoke. Can’t have rebelling gladiators if they’re too drunk and high off their winnings to fight back. 

At least it’s late enough that my sneaking doesn’t alert too many people.  I’m sure this whole place has been in enough uproar as is.

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” The Emperor snarls so loud I see Eris and Tamlin flinch in their seats.

I don’t let myself look at him, don’t fold in my shoulders and duck my head to try and make myself as small as possible. My attempts at playing the subservient little girl have failed me. Fainting like a weak-hearted child did nothing but piss him off. If we are to survive, we have to be smarter than this. 

I have to be smarter than this. 

So far, playing this Game by my Father’s rules has gotten us to this point. It has brought us nothing but pain and misery. 

I don’t want to play anymore. I want to win.

I told Azriel that I wouldn’t let anything come between us, and I meant it. Maybe that means it's time to do this another way. 

“Yes. I knew.”

The silence in the booth is deafening.

I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting every instinct I’ve ever had to run and hide. 

I am not weak. I am not helpless. I beat that Raven; I will beat its Master too. 

“I was curious,” I continue, drawing a deep breath to steady myself as I turn to face him. The playing field was never going to be level between us. He’s spent my entire life making sure that I would always be small and weak and too scared to move. “They seemed so eager for the opportunity I presented them. I wanted to know how far they would take it.”

“And yet you did not consult me on this?” The Emperor snarls, not buying it. 

“It needed to look real. I needed them to think I was vulnerable.”

“And what have they shown you?” The contempt in his voice is clear. 

Almost as clear as the confusion Eris is trying really hard to keep off his face. At least for now, he keeps his end of the bargain. 

“They’re trying to get close. See if they can use me. The Shadowsinger slipped up with the shadows one night. I told him I’d keep his secret in hopes of finding what else they’re hiding. It is a long game. One I need more time in, but I assure you, Father, it was never for ill intent. I am only acting on the good of the Empire. You can have the twins look into my head if you’d like confirmation.”

Maybe that’s too much of a lie, but I’ll find a way to use it to my advantage. Whatever I need to do to ensure my mates walk out of this; whatever roll becomes necessary for me to take on I will take it. 

He runs a hand over his mouth, thinking. If this had happened in the Senate Meeting during one of his episodes, I’d be dead already, but he’s in a good mood today, far clearer headed than he was then. It might save them. 

At least for today. 

The Emperor stands. It’s customary for him to give a judgment before a death, the crowd is waiting to see what he will do now that one happened before his intervention. 

“You truly expect me to believe that you’re capable of handling this sort of thing?”

I bite back the bile rising in my throat. There is only one way I get him onboard with this; only one way I ensure he doesn’t kill them right here and now. “Weakness must be purged from the Empire.” The words stick like tar in the back of my throat. “You told me that story every night as a child.”

He goes very, very still. Only he would know which story I’m referring to; I doubt he’d tell anyone else that the gods cursed him with a mate. 

“The Shadowsinger thinks he’s your mate?” 

I raise my chin, hoping he can’t see how hard it is for me to swallow, how hard it is to even get air down. He will not kill them for this. No, this is grounds for him to test me, to see if I can purge the supposed weakness he has always seen in me and rise to the occasion, or if he can finally get rid of me. 

It’s my last card. 

“They all do.”

Romulus swears beside me. I don’t look at him. Only at my Father, who suddenly looks a little green. He has to know what mates were considered before the Empire changed the story, has to know that legend says mates are to be equals. I’ve just put a giant fucking target right over my chest.

But I’ll take it. It means the arrows are pointed in my direction, instead of there’s.

“You can’t be serious,” Amarantha starts, but the Emperor raises a hand to silence her.

“This is a grave weakness, child.”

“And an advantage to your cause. Illyria doesn’t share your sentiment with mates. They think it can be used to turn me against you. With enough time, they’ll tell me everything, and I in turn, will report it back to you. This rebellion nonsense can finally be put to bed, and the Empire will have the peace it deserves.”

“And when the time comes, you will kill them, as your Emperor demands.”

Red tints my vision, even as I bow my head. “That has always been the plan, Father.”

He smooths his hands over his robes. “Then they live to see another day.”

I have to clench my hands in my skirts to try and hide the shudder of relief that rolls through my body. I’ve bought them another day. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

The Emperor turns to face the crowd, the Guard flanking him, just in case Azriel’s shadows decide they want to try and yank him out of the booth this time. Before he reaches the railing to address the crowd, he says to his Captain, “Instruct the Gamesmaker to bring out the posts. I want them flogged for their disobedience.”

My stomach pitches. No no no!

“I said they’d live. I didn’t say this behavior would go unpunished. We can’t have the other gladiators thinking they can cheat and get away with it.”

I find Rhys first, his cell cramped and dark, his body dumped onto the dust covered floor like he’s nothing, no better than an animal. I can see the rust covered chain tied to the wall, looped around a new collar. The Emperor made sure the gorsian was stronger this time around. The edge of it juts farther out, scratching back and forth across his shoulders with every wheeze of a breath he draws. The metal has to be scraping against the gashes carved into his bare back. 

There’s no more mirthroot in my system, I never went home to give Anise the chance, and without it, the bond becomes a roaring, living thing in my chest. Darkness leakes from my fingers, hissing as it slithers out my skin.

How could I let this happen?

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess, every bit of my Mother’s training to keep my powers from tearing the doors off their hinges. My hands shake as I slide the key through the lock and slip inside.

The iron door screams on rusted hinges as I open it, and Rhys groans as he tries to lift his head off the floor to see who’s coming for him. 

My heart might just bleed out my chest as I kneel beside him, gently running my hands through his hair, matted with sweat and blood. They’ll pay for this! Every last goddamn one of them.

“Shouldn’t… be here… Princess,” his voice is raw from screaming. There was no tuning out the sound of it as they tore through his flesh with a metal spiked flagrum over and over and over again. I hadn’t needed to pretend to be lighthearted, I’d grabbed a pale and vomited twice before they were done. Much to Amarantha’s glee and Eris’s evident pity. 

“I’m sorry.” This is all my fault! This is so much worse than the brand. I could blame Rhys for that one, but this? This one’s on me. I hadn’t done anything to stop it! “I’m sorry.”

Rhys rests his forehead on my knee and I can’t stop my hands from the frantic patterns I comb through his matted hair, trying in vain to soothe him. “You didn’t…” he grunts, trying to find a more comfortable position and blood falls freely from one of the deeper wounds that spans from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. “Didn’t make Az do that.”

The pack of supplies I’d brought with me feels inadequate at best, but the sight of fresh blood knocks some sense into me and I start grabbing gauze and some oils I’d found at a small market in the street. An old Elvish healer has said olive oil and honey would help keep out infection, I’d bought out every bottle she’d had.

“I should have done more.” My hands shake as I try to find the best place to hold the gauze to stop the bleeding. There isn’t a patch of undamaged skin, any pressure at all will be horrific. It takes a solid thirty seconds of reaching for one spot, then changing my mind and searching for another, before he mumbles out something that sounds like “above my hip, love”. I settle my hand as lightly as I can as directed and even then the noise he lets out sounds like a cat being stepped on. 

Tears drip down my cheeks, I have to turn my head to make sure they don’t accidentally land on his ruined flesh. “I’ll fix this. I’ll find a way to make this better.”

He draws a shaky breath beneath my hands. “How… are we alive?”

Figures he’d ask me that first.

I start at the spot he’d directed, dripping a bit of oil into the most shallow cuts to weigh my options here.

His whole body spasms like it had when he’d been electrocuted and I stop what I’m doing entirely. “Fuck!”

“Shit! Shit I’m sorry, the Elf said it would help.”

Through his teeth, Rhys hisses, “I’m sure she’s right but fuck me!” 

I just make everything worse in every department, don’t I?

“Um, you want to try the honey instead?” Thank the Mother I never had the notion to become a Healer, I would have been absolutely awful at it. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“For your back, Rhys.”

“Oh,” he chuckles softly, realizing the mistake, then immediately groans from the way it pulls on his back. “Either has got to be better than the salt water.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Forget the long game, I’m burning this whole godsdamned Empire down tonight.

“Easy, Darling,” he coos, and our bond ripples with a warmth I don’t deserve. “Just talk me through it.”

I give myself a little shake to clear the red tinting my vision. They will all pay for this.

“Tell me what happened last night? Why couldn’t we feel you?”

“Anise drugged me,” I say and I can’t tell if he flinches because I’ve started again with the oil or if that’s in response to what I’ve said. “Some kind of faebane and mirthroot mixture. She said my Mother had it made in case… in case I ever lost control.”

In case I ever turned into my Father.

“Mother’s tits!” Still not sure if that’s in regard to the oil or the story. 

“I was trying to get to you, to tell you that…” the coughing of one of the males in the cell across me reminds me of the lack of privacy. “That I’d found something that might be useful, but you were already gone and she jabbed me in the back of the neck with a needle. She must have done it again this morning, I don’t remember anything until arriving at the Arena.”

His breathing is labored as I work, body tense beneath me. I should have brought mirthroot, as unpleasant as my own experience had been, it could have eased his pain.

“Guard came quick last night,” he says through his teeth. 

The last twenty-four hours had really gotten away from me, I swear on the Mother I’ll never let myself be that powerless again. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The oil makes the blood look like it’s flowing freely, once I’m satisfied that it's covered enough, I reach for the bandages. 

“Don’t,” he says gently. “They’ll know you were here.”

My chest constricts. How can I tell him what I've done? He was already so angry about the marriage contract, this might just break him, but if I tell him the truth, would it give me an opportunity to help him. I can explain it away to the Emperor in the morning, claim I was trying to strengthen their trust in me by pretending to betray him. 

“I won’t leave you down here like this.”

“It will only make it worse,” he insists. 

“Maybe not,” my voice betrays me, nothing more than a cracked whisper in the darkness of these awful dungeons.

The bond ripples with enough concern I can feel a faint hum on both Azriel and Cassian’s end. At least I know now that they are all conscious, and that the gorsian hasn’t removed our ability to feel each other like the faebane had.

Rhys’s own voice shakes and the pain I can hear in it makes me look away from him when he asks, “What did you do?”

When I don’t immediately answer, he tries to sit up, tries to turn and look at me and I have to pin his palms to the floor to keep him still. “Don’t do that!”

“Tell me you didn’t marry any of those pricks? Tell me you didn’t barter another piece of yourself away-”

He’s going to tear his back open beyond repair if he keeps trying to move like this. “I told him we’re mates.”

I might as well have sucked the air from the room! Rhys goes deathly still beneath me and I think I liked it better when he was yelling. 

I try not to worry my lip between my teeth. “My Father murdered his own mate because he believes mates are a weakness that must be purged. I needed him to think I was trying to do the same.”

He doesn’t say anything, the minutes stretching out between us as I start using a bit of the honey to stick the strips of bandages over his back. The quieter the cell becomes the more the tether betweens us howls in pain. Maybe I need to resign myself to the fact that I might have been right all along; maybe this was always meant to end with him hating me. 

“I can’t beat him at his game by just sitting there uselessly. It wasn’t working. I needed to try another way.” If he can’t get past this fine, I will not let myself regret my decisions. I can’t afford to. They have to work. I have to make them work.

It might break my heart beyond repair if he can’t find it in him to understand where I’m coming from, but I’ll take that pain over the agony of him being dead. If I hadn’t acted, he could be another body rotting on the Pit floor right now. I do not need his permission, nor will I sit here and hold my breath for his forgiveness. We have to be willing to adapt. I have been so stubbornly set in my ways for years; I won’t let the stubbornness that ruined my Father ruin me.

I’m finished with the bandages before he speaks again. “When we went to war with the Empire, I gave up a lot of myself to be what my people needed. I wore whatever mask was necessary. I have worn cruelty and hatred in equal measure. There were days, weeks, where I looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize who was staring back at me. I can’t… I can’t let you do the same thing to yourself.”

I let my fingers drift back through his matted hair. Nothing would make me happier than to take him home, to get him cleaned up and into a bed that was safe; into a place where I knew he could rest. One day I will give him that. One day there will be no more dungeons or bloodshed or torture. One day we won’t have to swap horror stories to comfort each other. I can hold him and he can hold me and there will be no more pain between us. There will not need to be a question about whether we can live with our decisions.

“I can live with my decisions,” I say. “Let me help you shoulder this burden. You do not have to be alone to carry it.”

“People die when I let them in,” he whispers.

I can’t hold him like I ought, not without hurting him, so I allow myself a moment to lay down on the floor next to him, the filth covering the old stones seeping through my skirts as I lean my forehead against his.

“The things I love have a tendency to be taken from me.”

The bond hums between us, warm and alight even in this darkness. We are one and the same, Rhys and I. “Me too,” I confess. “But I never did anything to stop it then. I won’t ever do that again.”

His breath stutters out of him, a twinge of fear slithering down the tether to me. “You’re sure I can’t convince you to take that boat you talked about?”

That boat is long gone. 

And so is that girl who was so scared she’d need it. 

I can do this. We can do this. “We can beat him. Together.”

He nods gently, like it’s too much effort to do anything more, it probably is. “Together.”

I feel a twinge of pain flash across my left hand, just a flash and then it’s gone. Almost like something bit me. In this cell, bugs are a given. I raise my hand to take a look, and am surprised to find a band of black ink around my ring finger, a trio of stars circling the thin band of what looks like a tattoo.

Even wounded, the smirk Rhy’s flashes me is infectious. “Illyrian bargains come with ink.”

“You’re impossible,” I say, rolling my eyes. He’s honestly worse than Az.

He manages to tilt his head just enough to kiss the tip of my nose, his lips cracked and dusted with dried blood still. “If you’re going to make life threatening statements to the Emperor, so am I.”

I won’t admit to him that I like it, not now anyway. “I should go check on the others.”

“What if there were other parts of me that needed tending to?” He pouts.

I stand and dust off my skirts, rolling my eyes again. “You’ll survive.”

I push the door to the cell open. “I’ll bring some mirthroot next time. So you can sleep.”

He waits until the door is locked again. “Be careful, Princess.”

I won’t lie and tell him I will. The time for being careful is over.

----------------------

Tag List:

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[andy-15-07]

A Surprise on the Red Carpet

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1623| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Well i was wondering if you could write one with pedro x reader and she has her first big premiere for her new action movie and he cant be there cause of his own press tour (they are married) and at the premiere in london he surprises her on the carpet and at the interviews he says hes the proudest ever and end with smut or fluff? :)) @kellyxo1

The velvet rope at the Odeon Leicester Square felt impossibly heavy beneath your trembling fingers. You smoothed the neckline of your emerald-green gown,your first leading role in a full-on action thriller, Feral Heart, and tonight was the London premiere. Paparazzi bulbs snapped in staccato bursts, and every chime of a photographer’s shutter made your heart flutter.

Your publicist, Simone, hovered at your elbow. “You’re glowing, darling. Breathe. This is your moment.”

You forced a smile. “I know. It’s just… Pedro’s still in Tokyo on his press tour. He promised he’d call before I stepped onto the carpet.”

Simone gave you a gentle squeeze. “He’ll make it up to you. Now go on,smile for the cameras!”

You took a deep breath and made your way down the carpet, waving at crowds and pausing for interviews. Ladies’ Evening, BBC, Vogue,smiles and gracious answers flowed in equal measure.

“Y/N! Congratulations on Feral Heart! How does it feel to be leading this summer’s biggest action hit?” asked a BBC host.

Your pulse quickened. “It’s surreal. I’ve dreamt of roles like this since I was a kid. I’m so proud of our team,it’s been months of stunts, late nights, and learning to throw a punch convincingly.”

“Your husband couldn’t make it tonight?” the host pressed lightly, brow arched.

You bit your lip, glancing toward the theater entrance. “He’s in Tokyo for his own press tour. We’ve been juggling schedules across time zones. I miss him, but,”

Just then, your phone buzzed in your clutch. You peeked at the screen: PEDRO ❤️.

Your breath hitched. You tapped to answer. “P-Pedro?” you whispered.

His voice crackled through the speaker, warm and familiar. “Love, where are you? I have something very important to ask you,on the carpet.”

You blinked. “What? On the carpet? Pedro, I’m in the middle of interviews,”

“Trust me,” he said, voice low, urgent. “Just stay where you are. I’ll find you.”

You covered the phone and looked up. Simone was urging you forward toward a cluster of journalists, but you waved her off. “Excuse me,” you said, turning on your heel to scan the crowd.

Moments later, you felt a soft hand on your waist. You turned, heart in your throat, and there he was,Pedro Pascal, crisp in a midnight-blue tuxedo, hair perfectly tousled, that mischievous grin lighting his eyes brighter than any camera flash.

“Pedro!” you gasped, instinctively stepping into his arms.

He kissed your temple. “Surprise.”

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. You nearly lost your balance under the rush of adrenaline, but he steadied you, hand warm against your back.

“Everyone, this is my wife, Y/N!” Pedro called out to the throng of cameras. “And I just couldn’t stay away.”

Reporters pivoted, pressing forward. “Pedro, what brings you here? You were supposed to be in Tokyo!”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I broke one promise to make another. I’m here to support the most badass action star I know.”

Your cheeks warmed. You leaned into him, voice soft. “You’re amazing.”

He bent to kiss your forehead. “Not as amazing as you.”

The interviewers circled. “Pedro, you must be proud,Y/N is dazzling tonight. Any thoughts on the film?”

He turned and faced the cameras, posture confident. “I’m the proudest I’ve ever been. Y/N embodies strength, vulnerability, and grace on screen,she kicks ass and melts hearts in the same breath. Feral Heart wouldn’t be the same without her.”

“Age is just a number, but he’s ten years older,” someone teased.

Pedro lifted an eyebrow, grinning. “And those ten years taught me that life is short. I’d move heaven and earth to be here for her premiere.” He winked at you. “Now, let’s give the people what they came for. Shall we?”

You laughed, heart soaring, and walked hand-in-hand down the rest of the carpet. Paparazzi roared with excitement at the unexpected reunion. Once past the final flashbulb, you slipped inside the theater where seats were filling quickly.

Inside, a hush fell over the crowd as the lights dimmed. You found your seats,Pedro in the aisle next to you,and watched the opening montage. Every scene felt electric, every stunt more thrilling knowing you’d experienced them firsthand. When your character, Captain Rayna Holt, vaulted from a speeding train, you stole a quick glance at Pedro. He held your hand, eyes shining with pride.

By the time the credits rolled, the theater erupted in applause. You rose to your feet, adrenaline still pulsing. Pedro stood beside you, leading the standing ovation.

Backstage, Simone popped champagne corks, and the cast celebrated. You wrapped your arms around Pedro. “Thank you,” you breathed. “For everything.”

He kissed you deeply. “Thank you for letting me surprise you.”

You rested your forehead against his. “You made my night unforgettable.”

He grinned. “I aim to please.”

The celebration spilled into a nearby after-party tent. Music thumped softly, cocktails gleamed under fairy lights, and laughter ricocheted off the walls. You and Pedro slipped away from the crowd, finding a quieter corner by the heated patio doors.

“Here’s to you,” he said, lifting a flute of champagne. “To your success tonight, and every night after.”

You clinked glasses and sipped the bubbly. “To us.”

He set his drink aside and drew you close. “You ready for that ‘unforgettable’ ending I promised?”

Your pulse jumped. “Definitely.”

He pressed a finger to your lips. “Not here.” He dipped his head to kiss your throat, warm and fragrant with your perfume. You shivered as his lips grazed your collarbone, then traced a path down to the neckline of your gown.

“Pedro,” you murmured, breath catching. The after-party buzzed behind you, but all you heard was the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He looked up at you, eyes smoldering. “Just a bit of privacy,” he whispered. He led you through a side door into a small, dimly lit lounge off the main hall,velvet couches and low tables, the perfect little oasis.

Once inside, he closed the door quietly and pressed you against it. His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I’ve wanted you all night.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “And you got me.”

He tilted your chin up and kissed you, slow and intense. You deepened the kiss, sliding your hands under his jacket to feel the warmth of his chest.

Pedro’s lips trailed down your jawline to the hollow of your throat. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes. “May I?” he asked, voice husky.

“Please,” you breathed.

He swept a hand around your waist, lifting you until you were on your tiptoes. Then he dipped you backward onto the chaise lounge, his body following yours in one fluid movement. You felt the cool velvet beneath you, a delicious contrast to the heat generated by his proximity.

His hands worked at the straps of your gown, freeing your shoulders, before sliding the fabric down your arms. You lifted your arms to help, revealing your bare skin in the soft light. Pedro’s breath hitched.

“Every inch of you is art,” he murmured, trailing a finger down your collarbone.

You shivered. “You’re all I want right now.”

He smiled, and his hands moved across your torso, unfastening your bra beneath the dress. The moment the straps fell away, he cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened. Your back arched as a moan escaped your lips.

Pedro kissed each breast, then trailed kisses down to your navel. He paused, looking up at you. “You’re incredible.”

“Show me,” you whispered.

With that, he lowered himself, pressing his mouth to one breast and sucking gently. You tangled your fingers in his hair as waves of pleasure built through your chest. He alternated breasts, teasing you until you were trembling.

Then his lips found your neck, sucking a warm mark above your pulse point. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair again, tugging lightly. He chuckled against your skin.

“Easy,” he teased. “I want you for the long haul.”

You smiled, breathless. “Me too.”

He kissed your stomach, inch by inch, until he reached the hem of your gown. Gently, reverently, he peeled the fabric up and over your hips, exposing you completely. The cool air brushed your bare skin, and you shivered.

Pedro’s fingers traced down your inner thigh before dipping between your legs. Warmth and wetness greeted him, and he dipped a finger inside you, slow and deliberate. You moaned, hips lifting involuntarily.

“Always so perfect for me,” he murmured, stroking you with two fingers now, rhythm building. You writhed beneath him, breath coming in ragged gasps.

He leaned down to kiss you, tongue sweeping into your mouth as he continued to pleasure you. You arched your back, meeting his movements, and the combined sensations,his mouth on yours, his fingers inside you,sent you spiraling.

“Pedro…” you moaned. “I’m close…”

He stroked you faster, thumb brushing your clit until you came with a cry, body trembling. He held you through every pulse, then withdrew his fingers and captured your mouth with his, sharing a heady kiss.

When you came down, you lay tangled in each other’s arms once more. Pedro pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “I’ve loved you since the first day,” he whispered. “Tonight, I’m just glad I got to celebrate you the way you deserve.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, smiling. “Best surprise ever.”

He grinned and laid his forehead against yours. “Anything for my leading lady.”

Outside, the after-party music pulsed and laughter drifted through the walls. Inside this cozy lounge, wrapped in each other’s arms, it was just the two of you,married partners, star-crossed lovers, and tonight, triumphant. And as the city lights of London flashed beyond the windows, you knew this premiere would be unforgettable,for work, for love, and for you both.

[clarkeysbedchem]

holding you close

arthur hill x fem reader

summary: going to arthur for comfort after having a nightmare

main masterlist | masterlist

You shot up from your hotel bed, gasping for the air that felt like it had been punched from your lungs. Tears spilled freely, cascading down your cheeks and neck as sobs wracked through your chest. Your back was damp with sweat, a stark contrast to the cold air seeping in from outside through the cracked window.

It felt so real - every moment, every movement, every word.

More like a memory than a dream.

You sat with your back against the headboard, knees pulled tightly to your chest. Your chin rested on them as you tried to regulate your breathing - in and out, in and out.

Each breath shuttered as you hugged your knees tighter, picking at the soft material of your pyjamas. Your mind wouldn't stop racing. It wouldn’t shut off. You stared at the door across the room, trying to convince yourself it was stupid. Just a dream

Swallowing down the remnants of your tears, you grabbed your room key, slid your feet into your slippers, and quietly stepped into the hallway.

Your hand hovered mid-air before Arthur’s door, shaking slightly. You hesitated, then knocked gently, your arms wrapped tightly around your torso, as if to hold yourself together. The sound of rustling from inside grew louder.

“Y/N?” The door creaked open, his voice laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”

He stepped aside, guiding you in as he noticed your trembling form. You kept your head low, hiding the tears still drying on your face.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccuped, turning slightly as he locked the door. “It’s so stupid.” You shook your head, wiping at your cheeks with a frustrated breath.

Arthur stepped in closer, placing his hands gently on your arms, his thumbs tracing soothing circles.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “What happened?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, shame tightening your chest. “I had a nightmare,” you mumbled. “I… I can’t sleep.”

Arthur nodded slowly, pulling you into his arms. You melted against him without resistance, letting the steady rhythm of his breath ground you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head.

You shook your head. “Not right now.”

He let you stay there for a while, holding you in the quiet, until he finally pulled back just enough to lift your chin, gently meeting your eyes.

“You can sleep here, if you want.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Are you sure? You don’t like sleeping next to people.”

A quiet laugh escaped his lips, warm and familiar. “True,” he murmured, rubbing his jaw with a thoughtful click of his tongue.

He turned toward the bed, slipping under the duvet and switching off the warm bedside light. His silhouette softened in the dim room.

You hesitated only a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed. Slipping your slippers off, you glanced over at him. His hair was tousled, haloed by the faint moonlight leaking through the curtains.

Arthur opened his arms. An invitation.

You slipped under the duvet beside him, laying your head on the pillow. He reached over and pulled the blanket up around you, tucking you in as you inhaled deeply, trying to will your mind into sleep.

But it wouldn’t come.

The room fell quiet, the only sound the gentle rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing. You turned on your side to face him, eyes tracing the outline of his features in the dark. Still restless, you pushed yourself up, leaning back against the headboard, knees drawn up again.

“What’re you doing?” Arthur mumbled, eyes still closed, reaching blindly for you.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

He shook his head, patting the spot beside him. “Sleep.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

“Just come lay down,” he chuckled softly, pulling you close once again and wrapping his arm around your waist.

You shifted to face him, the heat from his body grounding you as his breathing returned to its steady rhythm. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the soft, rhythmic thud of his heart. His arms held you tighter, as if to keep you from drifting too far.

“This okay?” he murmured into your hairline.

You hummed in response, eyelids fluttering shut finally, as sleep washed over you.