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sinofwriting · 2 months

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I ❤️ MILFS - Max Verstappen

Words: 9,747 Summary: Max wasn’t too sure who the woman was that was always with Logan, but he was sure that he wanted to get to know her. Note(s): Sargeant Reader, Age Gap, Older!Reader, Logan and Oscar are both 20 during the 2023 season, not 22. The 2023 driver standings are different (I am giving Logan the season he should have had). Reader has the nickname Pan (short for momma panther). Logan is sweetheart, Max is head over heels in love. I’m gonna be honest I never thought this fic would get written or finished. I got the idea for it back in December but only started writing it on March 16th. And it would have never happened without @burningcupcakefire & @pucksandpower. Thank you both so much for all your help. (also if anyone wants to see more of Max and Pan, let me know)

Taglist | Masterlist | Emergency Dental Fund

Max remembers the announcement of Oscar’s arrival to F1, the drama and hilarity of it. Sometimes he sees the kids name and has to stop himself from laughing. No nineteen-year-old had any business being that funny.

Max doesn’t remember much of Logan’s announcement to F1. Only that he was young as well, being the first American in forever, and Williams' quick admission that they hadn’t wanted to sign, had wanted to wait another year.

He wishes now that he had paid more attention.

There’s a woman standing in the William’s garage, on Logan’s side. She’s clearly there for him, with the similar pass that his trainer has around her neck, and the way her eyes intently follow Logan’s movements around the garage as he talks to the mechanics and engineers.

She also happens to be the most beautiful woman Max has ever seen.

—

She can’t help but clutch at Benny’s arm the whole race, terror gripping her along with pride.

Benny chuckles when the race comes to an end, Logan doing his cooldown lap and she finally lets go. “And just think you’ve got over twenty more races of this.” Her nose wrinkle and a hand goes over her heart that’s thudding. “Please, Benny.” He chuckles again but pats her shoulder. “You’ve got this.” “Not gonna tell me it gets easier?” He snorts. “No. This is far worse than F2 or F3 and we still were both scared watching him out there. We’ll never know a day of peace now.”

She sighs, watching the screens as it shows the top three getting interviewed and in the background you can see some of the drivers getting weighed. “He’s going to be sore and in pain.” It makes something clench inside her, the knowledge that Logan would be in pain. It was part of the job, the aches and the bruises, but it didn’t make it any easier for her to know. “I’ve already got everything set up as soon as he’s back and debriefs are done.”

Her eyes catch on the screen showing where all the drivers placed and tears prick her eyes and she shakes her head. “Twelfth in his first grand prix. I can’t believe it.”

The garage is filled with chatter as the team celebrates getting their first points of the season and their rookie driver performing better than they expected. The way they don’t even try to whisper it makes her jaw twitch. She was grateful that Williams was giving Logan his dream, but she didn’t like how they were going about it. Quickly and publicly stating that they didn’t want to sign Logan yet, wanted to wait a year. And now this.

A light nudge to her ribs makes her unclench her jaw and she gives Benny a grateful smile.

Both of their attention is quickly drawn however to the two Williams drivers entering the garage, the space filling with cheers.

She smiles as Logan grins at the team, basking in the smiles they have on their faces for him and Alex, the pats on the back he’s getting. The grin turns to a beam when he spots Benny and her and he quickly bounces over to them.

A laugh leaves her at the way Benny pulls him into a bear hug, lifting him off his feet a little. “Proud of you, kid.” He murmurs. She can’t hear what Logan says, but he’s put down and it’s her turn.

She wants to bundle him up in her arms, hold him and not let go, but doesn’t want to embarrass him in front of his team, so she raises a hand and pushes his hair out of his face. “You did amazing, baby.” He smiles at her, all bright and shiny eyes and then he’s wrapping his arms around her, hugging her tight and she’s quick to return it, rubbing his back. “You did so good, Logan. So good. I’m so proud.” She tells him again, pressing a kiss to his sweaty head. “Thank you, momma.” He tells her, hugging her tight for another moment before letting her go. She smiles up at him and god, that makes her heart ache. Her son, her baby, taller than her somehow. She woke up some days and still wasn’t sure where the time had gone and how he was taller than her shoulders. “Go shower and debrief and then Benny and me will take care of you, yeah? And I’ll get your favorite ordered to the hotel, ready as soon as you get there.” He beams at her again, darting forward to press a quick to her cheek before starting to rush away. “Best mom ever!” He calls over his shoulder and she laughs.

—

Y/N Sargeant will never forget the first time she held her son, only then at nine years old, he had been her cousin.

Logan was small, wrinkly, pink skin, and full of small cries. She could remember staring at him with furrowed eyebrows, trying to understand how he could be what her baby dolls were made to be like. She remembers her mama having her sit on the couch after asking her if she wanted to hold him and how she had quickly nodded, hoping that maybe holding him would somehow make him look better.

She remembers the sudden nerves that built in her stomach as her mama started to hand him to her. Remembers being scared that she would drop him, remembers thinking how stupid it would be if he was still weird to look at like this.

And she remembers finally holding that and it disappearing. His small cries, no more, his wriggling calmed down, and his wrinkles no longer looked weird but cute. She remembers holding him for the first time and feeling unconditional love for the first time in her life.

—

She’s twelve when she realizes that her uncle and aunt don’t like Logan much. It didn’t make sense to her then, still doesn’t know. Because they liked Dalton just fine, but not Logan.

She remembers asking her dad about it. Asking him why they didn’t love Logan, but loved Dalton and worse, she remembers the pained look in his eyes as he realizes that his child picked up on what he and his wife had as well.

It’s the first hard adult conversation she has with her parents and it’s fitting that it’s about Logan, as they sit her down and talk to her about how not all parents love their kids, and how sometimes that includes them only loving one child and not the other.

—

She remembers clearly the first time Logan calls her mom.

It’s her fourteenth birthday and she’s got the four-year-old in her lap as she sits in a rocking chair, reading her English essay aloud for him. Logan’s eyes are closed, head resting on her chest, over her heart, and his little fingers of his one hand are curled in her shirt right by his head.

She wants to sit there forever, reading to him as she rocks back and forth. But she wants another slice of cake before Martha puts it away and Logan needs to sleep in his bed where he can stretch out fully and drool on his pillowcases and not her shirt that Martha will surely tut over but then smile fondly when she sees Logan doing it all over again.

Setting the essay down on her dresser, she runs her now free fingers through his blond hair. “C’mon Logan, time for bed.” He grumbles, fingers tightening on her shirt and she can feel it being pulled slightly. “You can put on your new race car jammies, cuddle with Ello.” He shakes his head, squirming a bit in her lap as he tries to shove himself closer. “Stay with you.” “Oh, baby.” She whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Y’know I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.” His head shakes again and she has to bite her lip as his head hits her collarbone. “Want cuddles, momma.” Her heart thuds painfully in her chest at the name he called her, tears pricking her eyes. “Okay, baby. Let's get you in jammies, grab Ello, and you can stay with me tonight.”

—

She’s only been eighteen for ten hours when she asks her father for the near impossible.

“I want custody of Logan. I want to adopt him. And I need your help to make that happen.” He stares at her, no expression on his face, not even shock. “He’s,” She pauses, jaw twitching and tears springing to her eyes. “He wants to do karting, just like Dalton. And he’s good at it. I’ve taken him. They told him no. They haven’t bought him clothes in two years. They don’t know a single thing about his school, his grades, his teachers. He hasn’t called David dad since he was six and he hasn’t called Madelyn mom since he was four.” Her hands are formed into fists, nails digging into her palms as she speaks. “I have money, I can provide for him. I’ve got my shares of the company now and I’ve got my inheritance from Grandma Talls. But I know that a judge won’t sign off without some influence.” “Madelyn and Daniel?” She leans forward in her seat, a spark of hope filling her. “I already talked to them, they’ll do it.” One of his hands comes up to rub at his mouth, sighing. Then it drops to open up one of his desk drawers and he’s pulling out a bunch of papers, dropping them on the desk in front of her.

“I figured this was gonna happen and I knew after you talked to them and they called me. They signed away their rights three hours ago. Michael and Lily are waiting outside to come in so you can sign the papers.” Tears slipped from her eyes, joy wrapping itself around her entire being from his words, the fact that he called their family lawyer to be on standby, that he and her mother were so supportive. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He smiles at her. “I couldn’t say no to you. Not when it comes to Logan. I’m way too young to have a grandkid, let alone one that’s eight, but I made my peace with that years ago.” “Thank you.”

—

Max watches the free practice session coverage intently as they focus on the Williams garage, nose wrinkling when they focus on Logan’s trainer, Benny and then James Vowles. Could it really be possible that they never once caught a shot of her? He starts to get a sinking feeling in his stomach that he's gonna have to go on Twitter when the camera moves and suddenly she’s there and he’s scrambling for the tv remote, pressing the pause button just before the camera switches to an overhead shot of the Bahrain track.

His heart skips a beat as he gets his first good luck at her. Her pretty eyes and smile. His eyes then travel down, wanting to know her name and his heart drops.

Y/N Sargeant, Mother of Logan Sargeant.

Fuck.

—

“Momma Panther!” Oscar greets to the confusion of other drivers as Logan and a woman enter the room.

Lando’s eyebrows are raised as he watches Oscar stand. Watching as his teammate claps Logan on the back, before giving him an actual hug. Before he then hugs the woman as well, whispering something to her that makes her laugh.

Pulling away from her, Oscar grins when her hand comes up to pat his cheek for a second. “Thank you for the invite, Os.” “Of course.” He sends a fond look to Logan, who's standing awkwardly by the table. “Y’know Logan and you are always welcome.” She makes a humming noise. “C’mon, let me introduce you to everyone.”

Turning around, he smirks at the table. “Everyone, Logan.” Charles lets out a laugh, as the others chuckle. He gestures to her, “This is Momma Panther or Pan.” “Y/N or Pan.” She corrects, playfully shaking her finger at Oscar. “I only let the F2 boys call me Momma Pan.” He sighs. “Okay, this is Y/N. Logan’s mom.”

Lando coughs, water going down the wrong pipe. Fernando’s eyes are wide as he looks at her. Charles, George, and Alex are all nodding. Max has a weird expression on his face and Carlos looks dumbfounded.

“She,” Carlos points at her. “Is his,” he points at Logan. “Mother?” Logan moves away from the table to stand by his mom, easily melting into her side at all the attention. The action makes Oscar smile, all too used to the easy affection between the mother and son. “I got pretty lucky right?” She shakes her head. “I’m just happy you weren’t a difficult child.” Logan both blushes and preens at the same time. Carlos shakes his head, disbelief still clear.

“Please, sit.” George says after a moment. “We haven’t ordered yet.”

The seasoned drivers and her watch amused as both Oscar and Logan usher her to sit first. Oscar easily then lets Logan sit next before sitting beside the American. The two of them sharing a grin after.

It makes her shake her head as she turns her attention to the menu, tuning out the sound of conversation picking back up.

The gentle sound of a throat clearing makes her glance to her left.

The current two time world champion smiles a bit awkwardly at her. “Have you been here before?” She shakes her head, turning her head a bit to look at him better. “No. To Australia of course, for Logan’s races and to visit Oscar once, but not here.” He nods and she can’t help but notice the way he swallows harshly. “We started coming here in 2021, it’s good food. Good drinks.” She laughs, “good gin and tonic?” He flushes a little, but laughs. “Yes. Very good. Heavy on the gin.” She nods, “I think I’ll have one of those then.”

Her eyes drift back to the menu, not even wincing at the prices next to the dishes. This was nearly cheap compared to where she had been forced to eat growing up.

“Momma, can we,” “Yes.” She answers before Logan finishes, already knowing what he’s asking. “Also you two, no hard liquor. We have plans tomorrow.” She continues, still looking at the menu.

They wouldn’t get drunk from a few drinks, but she had a feeling that Lando would try to instigate something again with Oscar, making the poor kid so drunk he could barely walk, again. And she didn’t mind people thinking that she was overbearing with Logan and even Oscar. The boys knew that if they really wanted to do something they could, even if she said otherwise. It was one of the nice things about being an adult.

Logan wrinkles his nose, glancing at the drinks part of the menu, before grinning. “They have it.” Oscar glances at what he’s pointing at, shaking his head. “You and your goddamn obsession.” “We come here like once a year.” Logan defends. “And no other country sells it.”

It’s not until after the server leaves, all of their orders taken, that conversation starts again.

“So, Mrs. Sargeant,” Lando starts. “Just Y/N or even Pan.” She sends a fond look to Oscar who had made that nickname stick. “And I’m not married.” She says, amused. “Ah.” “Not married.” Fernando shakes his head. “Now that doesn’t sound right.” She looks at him amused. “Don’t believe in premarital sex?” She teases. The older driver laughs and so do the others. “No. Just hard to believe that you aren’t married. You are a very gorgeous woman.” “Thank you.”

“So,” Lando starts again, giving Max a weird look seeing how his friend is gripping his glass of water. “Will you be coming to all the races?” She nods. “Yes, I have since Logan started his career. Haven’t missed one.” Logan shakes his head, grinning at her. “Nope, not one.” “Your work allows you to do that?” Her lips press together for a second to try and hide her smile at the gentle but obvious fishing they are doing. “I have shares in some companies and a very generous inheritance. So, no true, real work.” “You do some work for Grandpa when we’re in the states.” “I organize his desk for him, which he then messes up as soon as he sits back down at it.”

“You do not mind the constant travel? It is quite tiring.” Charles asks, curious. “No. And once I got Logan in karting, I promised him that I’d make it to all of his races. Maybe in a few years, I’ll stop going to all of them, but I am part of his team as well.” “Manager?” “God, no.” She shakes her head at Carlos’ assumption. “Cook slash nutritionist. Benny, his trainer is amazing, also doubles at being a physiotherapist for Logan, but he doesn’t know how to cook to save his life. So I make their meals.” “Mine as well.” Alex pipes in. “They’re truly amazing, by the way.” “Of course.” “Can you make mine again?” Oscar asks, leaning over Logan a bit to look at her. “I’ve missed having them.” “Sure.” She laughs. “Get me your new sheets before the next race, yeah?” “Done.”

—

Max watches from the corner of his eyes as she takes her first sip of her gin and tonic. Her brows raise a bit when the drink hits her tongue and he has to force his eyes up, to not focus in on her lips, to think about them and what they’d feel like on, he shakes his head. Forcing the thoughts, the ideas away.

“Very heavy on the gin.” She whispers, turning a bit to look at him. He rubs his hands against his jeans. “Do you like it?” “It’s nice.” She smiles. Relief fills him. “Good.”

He continues to look at her, wanting to tear his eyes away but being unable to. She was simply lovely. And getting this closer look at her, he can’t believe that she’s a mother, or at least a mother to a twenty-year-old. It didn’t seem possible. She looked barely older than him. Not at least thirty-five. She was probably more like Fernando’s age as well and he glances at the fellow two world champion, more disbelief filling him. Because how could the two be close in age at all?

—

Logan sighs as he collapses face first onto Oscar’s bed. Laying there for a solid minute before groaning and turning his head.

“Dinner was nice.” Oscar hums and he can feel the bed dip beside him. “You seemed a bit more relaxed.” “No media, and you and Pan were there. A bit more relaxed.” Logan scoffs. “Yeah, because you were so tense with media before.” As he speaks, he reaches out to lay a hand on Oscar’s thigh, giving the muscle a squeeze. “It’s nuts, isn’t it? I mean we all got told that the media was so much more, so different, but…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Yeah.” Oscar sighs and then he’s laying beside Logan, the American luckily moving his hand off and away from the other’s thigh before he lies on it.

“Y’know I have no personality, apparently.” Logan snorts, eyes opening when he hadn’t even realized he had closed him. The Australian driver also has his head turned so they’re looking at each other. “What? Have they never seen a Prema video?” He shrugs as best as he can. “I’d take that over my apparent frat boyness.” “You? A frat boy?” Oscar laughs. Logan sighs as he thinks a bit more about it, the mood turning a bit serious. “I just hope momma hasn’t seen it.” “What happened?” “She’s just worried. Thinks I haven’t noticed, but she’s wondering if she did a good job with me, done enough for me. And she’s given me everything y’know. I can’t imagine what I’d be like with them as my parents.” Oscar moves a bit closer, just a few inches between their faces now. “You’d still be amazing, still great. Maybe a frat boy.” The American rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“I think Fernando has a thing for her. For Pan.” He clarifies. “What?” “I mean, just during the dinner y’know, he kept looking at her. And him calling her gorgeous.” “Well, he’d be dumb and blind to not notice that.” Logan scoffs, rolling onto his back and turning his head to the side, keeping his eyes on Oscar. “I’m being serious.” The younger laughs, poking him lightly. “I think Alonso has a thing for her.” Logan’s face scrunches up in disgust. “Dude, no. That’s gross. Momma isn’t even thirty and Fernando’s like forty-three. And isn’t he dating that journalist?” Oscar’s brows press together. “What journalist?” “The one that gave Fred shit.” “I thought she died?” The two look at each other, both baffled.

Logan thinks again of the journalist he’s seen around Fernando and the one that all of the Prema drivers, former and at the time current, had avoided or given shit statements too. They did look a bit different now that he really thought about it. Fernando’s journalist slash girlfriend didn’t have a fucking complex.

“Different journo.” Logan mutters. He then blinks, “wait, she died?” “Mate, you didn’t hear about that?” “No!” “She was supposed to be at Spa, remember. And we all were relieved when she wasn’t there. She died, car crash or something, I can’t remember.” “How do I not remember this?” Oscar shrugs as best as he can while laying down. “I don’t know.”

It’s silent for a moment, “you don’t think,” “No.” Oscar shakes his head, but he doesn’t sound too sure. “I mean, yeah no.” “Right.” He looks up at the ceiling.

“Okay, so Fernando is out of the running.” Logan groans, “Os, no.” “Look he clearly has eyes, but if he’s dating someone he’s out. He wasn’t the only one looking.” “Oscar, please, it’s my mom.” “She’s like my mom too, which is why we have to talk about this.” Oscar insists, wriggling closer to Logan. Their sides completely pressed together and when Logan turns his head to look at the other, their noses nearly brush. He looks at Oscar’s face, all earnest and caring and sighs. “Fine. Charles was looking, but he only dates one type, so safe from him.” “Lando was looking.” Logan snorts, “I thought this was for potential dates, not another kid.” He laughs, their noses brushing together from the movement. “Okay, no Lando. Max.” “He kind of looked weird when you introduced her.” He frowns. “I saw that too.” “But he also got all blushy when they talked.”

“The drivers do know, I mean Alex knows that she didn’t like birth you, right?” Logan’s frown deepens. “Of course. I mean, it’s not super well known, but it’s a little hard to believe that she naturally had a kid twenty years ago.” “Thought so.” Oscar then chuckles. “Imagine, them thinking that she did, though. Just thinking she’s got some sort of insane skin care routine.”

—

“How in the hell does she look like that with a twenty-year-old kid?” “I know right?” Alex says, looking at Carlos. “It’s insane.” Charles pokes at his own cheek. “I think I need to ask her for advice, what products she uses. I want to age like her.” “We all want to age like her.” George agrees. “What are you saying?” Fernando frowns. A few of them share a look, but Charles and Max share a different one. “Mate, you’ve got wrinkles and all these lines.” Max says. “I mean those are natural, but look at her. The skincare helps.” Fernando frowns, “Lines?” Charles touches at his own lines, “see lines. From smiling, laughing, frowning. All good things, very nice. Just not uh,” his brows furrow drawing a blank. Lando snorts at his struggle. “You just want to help your skin. Keep it healthy.” The older driver makes a humming noise, considering.

—

Her breath is caught in her throat, eyes wide as she watches the screen. Her heart feels like it is beating in double time. She wants to look away, doesn’t want to watch in case something horrible happens, but she can’t. Because Logan just overtook both Magnussen and Ocon in the same lap. Logan is in 9th. Logan is in a point scoring position with only five laps of the race left. Logan might score his first formula 1 points at his home race, at his actual home race, at his first ever home race.

Her hands are shaking, fingers locked together as she presses them against her mouth, trying to breathe, praying that Logan won’t fall back out of the points.

She doesn’t even notice that he’s lessened that gap to Pierre until suddenly he’s overtaken the other French driver, just three laps later. “Oh my god.” “Fuck.” “Benny,” she whispers, and one of her hands is dropping so she can clutch at the older man. “Benny, I think,” “He’s gonna do it.”

And sure enough he does it. Logan holds his place in front of Pierre and finishes in 8th.

“Yes!” The whole garage is cheering and she’s wrapping her arms around Benny, laughing when the trainer lifts her. “He did it! He did it!” She cheers. The garage quiets though as Gaetan starts to speak on the radio.

“Logan, you are on your cooldown lap.” “Got it. Where’s Alex?” She winces at the question, one of her hands grips at Benny’s shoulder as he sets her back down, the other holding onto her headphones that miraculously didn’t get thrown off her head or disconnected when celebrating. “Alex is P14, P14.” It’s quiet for a moment. “Okay, I’m sorry we didn’t get any points today, next race is ours right? The car felt great.” Both of her hands fly up to her mouth. “Logan.” Gaetan’s voice is full of disbelief and laughter. “Mate, you finished P8. You got us points. You got your first points.” She can see him react to the news, the car jerking underneath him for a second, before he wrangles it back under control. “What? What do you mean?” “You finished in P8. Clean race, finished ahead of both Alpines and Magnussen.” “Holy fuck.” The garage fills with laughter at his reaction and tears start to build in her eyes. “You guys,” his voice breaks. “Thank you guys so much. This was you guys, the car felt great, really.” She watches as James hops on the radio. “This was you as well, Logan. Amazing drive today.” “Thank you, James. Thank you so much for this.”

His mechanics, Benny and her, quickly go over to where the cars are parking, watching as Logan slots it into place. He’s a little shaky as he gets out of the car and he’s about to dart towards them but someone from the FIA, is ushering him to the scale.

His reluctance is clear even with his helmet on, but he goes. Letting them take his weight and as soon as it’s written down, he’s stepping off and away, fumbling with his gloves and then his helmet.

There’s an awed grin on his face, tears in his eyes, and seeing it makes the tears that have built in her own fall.

His gloves and helmet tumble to the ground as his mechanics and Benny surround him, celebrating his points.

Logan laughs when they finally let them go and his eyes light up when he sees her and he darts to her and she easily welcomes him into her arms.

“I’m so proud of you.” She tells him, squeezing his sweaty body close before running a hand through his hair. “You did amazing.” “I did it, momma.” His voice is weak and she can feel tears hit the skin of her neck where his head is buried. “You did it.”

—

“Logan did amazing, it was a good drive.” She blinks in surprise at the voice, turning in her barstool to look. “Max?” He smiles at her, cheeks flushed. “He did really well.” “He did.” She agrees before patting the stool next to her. His smile widens as he takes the seat. “I didn’t realize that Red Bull was in the same hotel.” Maybe she should have since she had spotted a few Red Bull polos, but she figured it was fan gear. “I think Aston is here as well. You aren’t celebrating with Logan?” She shakes her head. “We already celebrated. Him, Oscar, and a bunch of his friends here are throwing a party. I wasn’t really interested in watching them all get wasted, so this,” she gestures to the hotel bar, “is me having a drink to celebrate before going up to my room and ordering some room service.” “Could I join you?” His cheeks redden at the words, at the way her eyebrows raise. “Not like that. But for food? I’ve never actually eaten anywhere in Miami that wasn’t catering.” She stares at him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. And I have the perfect place to take you.”

—

“Did I actually score points yesterday?” “You did.” “Sweet.” “Very. How’s the head?” Logan shrugs, “I mean, I drank a lot, but like I’m just dehydrated.” She shakes her head, “That will change in a few years.” “Not gonna tell me to not drink underage?” He teases, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek before grabbing her glass of juice and draining it. She snorts. “We’re in Europe most of the time and I gave you your first drink. I don’t think I have a leg to stand on. And you were celebrating.” “True.”

He sits across from her, refilling the glass and taking another drink from it before setting it down and starting to help himself to her pancakes, which she just pushes closer to him. “How was your night? You could have joined us. We wouldn’t of minded.” “I’m your mom, Logan.” She laughs. “I think the me going to your friend's parties ship sailed a few years ago.” “Yeah, but you're awesome. We like having you around.” “I know.” She smiles. “I wasn’t in the mood to watch all of you get wasted.” “Fair.” he says around a bite of pancake, which she sends him a look for and he quickly swallows the food. Giving her a smile that says sorry.

“So, how was your night?” “It was good.” She tells him, spearing a piece of fruit with her other fork. “I came back to the hotel, had a drink, and then got dinner with Max.” His brows press together. “Max?” “Verstappen.” She clarifies. “Red Bull is staying here as well, he saw me at the hotel bar and asked if he could join me for some food.”

“You went on a date?” Her eyes narrow at him. “It wasn't a date.” “You went on a date.” He scrambles for his phone. “Oscar is never gonna believe it.” “I go on dates.” “Momma, you’ve gone on like five dates. And two of those were before you turned eighteen.” She scowls at him. “It wasn’t a date. We just got dinner.” She insists. “Uh huh.” He says, clearly not believing her. “Did he pay?” “Yes.” “Pull your chair out, help you with your coat, anything like that?” Her mind flashes back to Max helping her get out of his car, his insistence on opening doors for her. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean,” Logan continues. “Did he walk you to your hotel room? Say that he had a good time and he’d like to do it again?” “Oh.” Logan grins at her, smug, as he finishes typing out a text to Oscar. “You went on a date last night.” “I went on a date last night.” And she doesn’t mention the fact that a new number resides in her phone.

—

“Logan!” He stops at the sound of his name, turning to look behind him, where Max Verstappen is nearly jogging to catch up with him. “Max.” He greets, when the older driver is next to him, nerves filling him at the eyes of said driver on him, along with how a few other drivers are also looking at the pair, shock and surprise clear on their faces. “Hey.” Max grins. “How are you feeling about the track?” He looks at the older driver in confusion. They had just left the drivers briefing, why was he asking him this? Alex had already spoken about how the team was feeling about Monaco. “The car won’t be the best here, but we said that in Miami, so we’re hoping to repeat that here. Alex has a good chance at ending in a point scoring position.” He reiterates what he's been told and what he’s been telling the press. “But how are you feeling about it?” Logan stares at the Dutchman, eyes flickering around trying to see if cameras are there, if his momma is there, but there isn’t anyone. The other drivers are already gone, so are the FIA people. It’s just him and Max. “Y’know you don’t have to talk to me because you went out with my mom.” He expects relief, like that one dick Jase, and really who puts that on a birth certificate, but Max just frowns. “I know, I don’t have to.” Logan swallows around the lump in his throat, “right.” Turning around, he starts to walk, somehow knowing that the other driver will join him. “It’s a tricky track, it’s Monaco. I was here last year and I barely got in the points.” “P10 and P9.” He throws the driver a look, because that was too much to know, but Max is just looking at him, encouraging him to continue. “The car isn’t suited for it. I mean it wasn’t for Miami, but this is different. And I’m still not managing my tyres correctly, so even if I did manage to gain positions, I’d get called in to pit and lose them.” Max huffs out a laugh. “You are a rookie in a Williams, it’s impressive that you’ve already gotten points. If you could manage your tyres, when sometimes even I struggle, well I’d put you in Checo’s seat.” “Not yours?” He laughs again, “No. I’m a bit better at it than Checo.” Logan couldn’t really deny that.

“Do you want some advice? On the tyres?” Logan quickly nods. “I’ll take anything I can get.” “Don’t fight the car too much on the turns. If you need to get it to turn properly or without going on the brakes too soon, fight it. But when you don’t, let the car be stable, keep it fluid. When you come out of the corner, press harder. It might feel like you’ll go into the wall, but you won’t.” “And if I go into the wall?” Max laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “I think you're a better driver than that mate.”

—

“How are you doing that in the turns?” Logan looks up from his notebook, where he’d been scribbling a bunch of random words. Looking at the screen, he watches his own onboard. He thinks about saying that it was Max that told, but no one at Williams liked hearing about Red Bull, especially with Alex in the room. “Just something I thought I’d try.” “Well, it was good, continue doing it. We may have ended up out of the points, but we got close.” Logan nods. Even with his five-second penalty, he had still kept fourteenth, and Alex ended up in twelfth. “Will do.”

—

Max had thought about her in his apartment a lot, an embarrassing amount. He had also pictured it very differently. A nice dinner, wine, even though a majority of it made his nose wrinkle, perhaps some kissing on his couch as a movie plays that they both don’t care about.

He hadn’t expected lunch, with juice that he’s trying to figure out how he’s never had it when he’s lived in Monaco for so many years, and a somewhat serious conversation, though maybe he has been expecting that one or rather anticipating it.

“I like you, Max.” He flushes, “I like you too.” He really did, even though his mother was going to have a heart attack when she found out how much older Pan was than him. “And I want to continue doing this.” She gestures between them with her free hand that isn’t being held in his. “So,” sensing that there’s something she wants to say. “I’m a mom.” He blinks at her words, panic starting to fill him. He thought he’d made that clear that he knew that, understood that. He always made sure to ask about Logan. He even had Logan’s number now after talking to him about how he felt about the Monaco track. “I know.” “Logan is important to me.” Oh, god, did Logan not like him? “The most important thing to me. And if we're going to continue to do this, I just need you to know that. He’s always going to be my first priority.” “Of course.” Relief fills him, his heart slows from its frantic beating. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” She stares at him, trying to gauge how truthful he’s being before nodding. “Okay.”

“Did you think that I didn’t know that?” She shakes her head immediately. “No, it’s just. I don’t really do this.” She laughs. “Dating, relationships. Logan pointed that out to me, so I don’t really know how this goes and I just had to make it clear, put it on the table now.” “I don’t really do this either.” He hesitates to ask his next question, but does. “Logan’s father. What was your relationship with him like?” Her face screws up in disgust. “Ew.” He laughs, not expecting that reply or that word to sum up a relationship. But fair enough.

“I mean the idea of a relationship between me and Logan’s father is gross. Logan’s,” she pauses, seeming to settle on a different word. “Birth parents are my aunt and uncle.” “His what?” He could have sworn she said birth parents, but that couldn’t be right. “His birth parents.” She looks at him, concerned. “I adopted Logan when I turned eighteen. Did you think I gave birth to him?” “No.” He says, shaking head and clearing his throat. “Of course not.” She stares at him, lips pressed together. He sighs, slumping in his seat, eyes closing. “I may or may not have thought you were just a really, really young looking forty-something year old woman.” She immediately bursts into laughter and his eyes fly open at the sound. “You thought?” “The graphic for the race footage says you are his mother, I did not think otherwise. I just thought you looked great for your age.” He defends, a little embarrassed, but delighted by the expression on her face and her laughter that is still filling his ears. “I am his mother, just adopted.” “Not that either of you see it that way.” “No.” She shakes her head, laughing one last time before calming down.

“No. Logan’s mine, he’s been mine practically since he was born. It just wasn’t seen that way legally until I was eighteen and custody got signed over to me.” “Of course.” He then flashes her smile, “So can I ask how old you are?” She laughs, nodding. “Yes, Max. I think just this once it’s better to ask a lady her age than assume it.” “How old are you?” “I’m twenty-nine.” He looks at her with new eyes, the age making much more sense. “I would’ve said twenty-five.” “Really? I think you would’ve said forty-something.” “How was I to know?” He throws his free hand in the air at the tease, his other still holding hers.

—

“Hi, baby.” She greets when Logan stumbles out of his room, practically still asleep, as he drops onto the couch. “Momma.” He whines, resting his head on her lap and turning his face to press it into her stomach, trying to block out the sun. Her fingers brush through his hair as she forces her body to stay relaxed. It was always a fight when he did this.

She hated that her body didn’t bear any signs of being pregnant before, no stretch marks around her belly. She hated that she hadn’t actually gotten to carry Logan no matter how impractical it was, unless of course she was as old as Max had thought she was. She smiles at the memory of how flustered Max had looked when he realized her actual age.

He mumbles something and she turns his face away from her stomach. “What?” “How was your date last night?” Her smile widens. “It was good.” “Yeah?” She nods. “Did you see Jimmy and Sassy?” “No.” She runs her hand over his forehead, knowing that he’s thinking of Sooty. “We should talk though after you’ve had some breakfast.” “About what?” “Breakfast first.”

“What do we need to talk about?” Logan asks nearly thirty minutes later, his fruit bowl all gone and his coffee on its way to be there as well. She swallows, hands flexing. “Max.” “What about Max?” She sighs. “Well, baby, him and I talked about becoming serious last night. But that’s not gonna happen until I know how you feel.” “You know, I’m okay with it.” “I know you're okay with me dating, but this is a bit more complicated. Max is on the grid with you and we’re talking about a relationship.” Logan eyes widen a bit at the word relationship. “I mean, how does Max feel about it? About being with someone who has a kid on the grid?”

He asks knowing it will give him time to figure out how to tell her how he feels and because he wants to know, he kind of wants Max to be okay with it. He likes Max, and not just as a driver. The older driver is kind and funny, he also looks at his mom like she’s the sun, he makes her happy and that’s enough to put him in Logan’s good books. His mom deserves the best and he thinks from what little he’s seen, from how much more happy his mom has been (and god that was weird, because it wasn’t even like she wasn’t happy before) that Max might be the best for her. And Max now every time he sees Logan is always stopping to talk to him even if it’s just for a second to say a quick hi.

“Max is good with it. He knows that you're my number one and that’s never going to change.” Logan flushes at the words. “He also likes you, thinks you're a good kid.” She lets out an amused huff as the word kid leaves her mouth. It was odd to hear Max describe Logan that way, with only five years between them. But at the same time she knew it came from being practically a veteran in the sport. Max was coming up on ten years in Formula 1 despite his young age. He flushes even more. “Really?” “Yeah.” She smiles. “He always asks about you, it’s really sweet. And he knows to that if you aren’t comfortable with this or need more time then that’s what will happen.” “I am an adult.” “You are.” She was sadly well aware of that fact. “But you are my baby, my kid. I couldn’t be in a relationship with someone if you didn’t like them or if it made you uncomfortable.” He nods. “I’m okay with it. Max makes you happy, he’s nice.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

—

She lets out a giggle as arms wrap around her from behind, lips pressing against her cheek. “Hi.” “Hi.” Another kiss is pressed to her cheek. “Can I help?” She glances down at what she’s finishing up. “No. You could set the table, though?” “Done.” A kiss is pressed to her temple and then the blanket of heat that covered her back is gone. “What cabinet?” “First one entering the kitchen on the left.” She says, turning her head a bit to watch as Max pulls the dishes out.

Her mouth goes a little dry as she watches him. His t-shirt is tight around his biceps and chest. His skin is a little tanned after their date a few days ago on a friend's yacht. She forces her eyes to not look at his hands, instead trailing them up to his strong shoulders and neck and then to his face. Max, she thinks as he starts to put the plates on the table, is unfairly attractive. Before he can catch her staring, she checks on the final thing on the stove. “Perfectly done.” She mumbles with a smile.

The sound of the front door opening makes her smile grow wider as she grabs a pot holder. “Am I late?” “Just on time.” She tells Logan as he steps into the kitchen. “Can I,” She stops him before he can continue. “No, go wash up.” “Alright.” He bends a little to press a kiss to her cheek before turning on his heel, offering a wave to Max. “Hi.” “Hi, Logan.”

Picking up the pan, she shakes her head as Max goes to try and take it from her. “Logan and you are both going to get on too well.” “Why’s that?” He asks, a twinkle in his eye. “You both don’t like when I lift anything.” “What’s the point of having a son or a boyfriend, then?” Logan says, clapping Max on the shoulder as he comes back. Max grins at the younger, delighted as he claps him back. “Exactly. We feel a bit neglected.” She rolls her eyes, shaking her head, though a smile is stretching across her lips.

—

Max watches amused as the mother and son argue.

“Mom, it would be for two races, two, that’s it.” “One race, really.” Max chimes in, smiling when she glares at him. “Spa is nice, but Zandvoort is really what I consider my home race.” “See, it would be one race. Max wants you in his garage.” Logan says, looking at the other driver, begging for him to help but at the last sentence Max shakes his head. “I never said that. Well, I would like to see Pan in my garage, not for the whole weekend, or even a day. She’s part of your team.” Logan looks at him, bewildered. “But, it’s your home race.” He shrugs. “I’d like for her to stop by, you as well. I already have it cleared with the team. Staying for even a whole session though just doesn’t make any sense. I don’t need her on my side of the garage to know that she’s supporting me, wanting me to do well, not when you are on the grid.” “Are you sure?” Max smiles at Logan, because yes he was sure. Did he want her there, supporting him? Maybe even dressed in something with his number? Of course. But, he liked seeing her in Logan’s garage. Supporting him, wearing his merch, being a mom. “I’m more than sure.”

“Besides,” she says, drawing both of their attention. “Max and I haven’t gone public yet. Or really told anyone yet.”

—

“Well, this is a bit of an odd one.” Laura says as they stop in front of the Red Bull garage. The cameraman focuses on what she’s looking at. “Both Logan Sargeant and his mother, better known as Pan from Formula 2 fans, are in the Red Bull garage, currently talking with our current championship leader Max Verstappen, his engineer GP, and Daniel Ricciardo.” “Shall I see if I can steal one of them away?” Will asks, smiling at the camera as he holds the F1 TV microphone loosely. “Please.” She gestures.

Will steps towards the garage smiling at the small group hovering just inside. “Could I steal one of you for a quick minute?” The five exchange a look and Will stops himself from rolling his eyes at the way they all look annoyed at the idea, but Logan nods. “Sure.” “Thank you.”

He watches as Logan says something quietly to them, getting nods from them all. His brow furrows when Max squeezes his shoulder before the younger driver gives his mom a quick hug, making him shake his head. Logan Sargeant was an absolute mommy’s boy and it was embarrassing as all hell to see. He couldn’t imagine being twenty and hugging his mom in public, let alone all those videos and photos of him reaching for her hand.

Will ignored the part of him that did think it was sweet and felt bad for the kid. He couldn’t look all sappy while filming, especially not when in front of the Red Bull garage.

“Hi everyone.” Logan greets, taking the third mic from the newest crew member. “Hello, Logan. How are you feeling about this weekend?” He smiles at Laura. “I’m feeling okay, I’ve raced here before, obviously not in an F1 car, but I do have some experience with this track.” “And you and your mum’s visit to the Red Bull garage, should we expect an announcement of you switching teams?” She teases. “No.” He laughs. “No, uh, just visiting for personal reasons. Saying hello to Daniel, wishing Max a good home race.” “I mean, I’m not sure, he needs it.” Will jokes, gaining a few laughs. “So, no business to be done at Red Bull? Just saying a hello and wishing a good race to a fellow driver.” “Yeah,” he pauses, looking back at the garage where it’s just Max and his mom standing now watching him with smiles on their faces. It’s only that he continues when his mom gives a brief nod, one barely able to be seen by the camera. “And I wasn’t just wishing a fellow driver good luck.” “Oh?” Logan grins, looking pleased with himself. “I was wishing my new dad good luck.”

—

“Carlos Sainz is a cunt.” Max freezes at her words, hand still on the doorknob from just stepping into the room. “Hi, schat.” “Carlos Sainz is a cunt.” She repeats. His brain is scrambling because what exactly had Carlos done but also why was it so attractive to her say the word cunt. It had to be the accent, he decided quickly, still trying to figure out the Carlos thing. “And why is Carlos a cunt?” He finally asks, releasing the door knob and stepping further into the room.

She’s on her laptop, rapidly typing something, and he can feel anger radiating off her.

“That bullshit he spewed, blaming Oscar’s inexperience.” She scoffs, pausing her typing as she shakes her head. “It was an incident, a racing incident, something he knows a lot about. There was no inexperience fault.” “Oscar’s okay?” He already knows that he is, but knows it's good to ask. “He’s good. He knows that it's a racing incident.” Max winces. Wonders for a second if he should warn Carlos to keep his mouth shut, but shrugs. It wasn’t his fault that Carlos was getting in trouble because he couldn’t watch his mouth or correctly look at footage. “Can I help?” She sighs, hitting close on whatever she was writing in. “No.” She then closes her laptop, turning to face him, with a smile. “Hi. Congrats on the win.” “Thank you.” He bends to kiss her. “You okay?” “Yeah, just,” she waves her hand at her laptop, “stuff.” “Anything I can help with?” She starts to shake her head no as he sits on the edge of the bed, but she stops. “Actually, could I get your insight on something? Not just as a driver, but as someone who lives and breathes racing, loves data, really knows how the sport works.” “Of course. What’s going on?”

Another sigh leaves her, hand coming up to rub at her mouth for a second before it drops. “Why would a team not resign a driver?” His eyebrows furrow, because she knows the reasons, but he answers. “Not performing well, they want out of the team or sport, sponsorship issues.” “The driver wants to stay in the sport and the team.” Her lips turn downwards a bit at the word team. “And the driver brought new sponsorships to the team.” “They have to be not performing well.” “They’re a rookie in a back marker team.” “They have to be really performing badly.” Max says, trying to think of who in Formula 2 or 3 she’s talking about. “They already have six points and have placed ahead of their experienced teammate three times.” His mind is scrambling again, trying to find a reason, because what? “How many does his teammate have?” “Nine.” “I have no idea. Not unless there’s conflict within the team.” She shakes her head. “Is there potentially a more experienced driver for the spot?” She shakes her head. “They’re looking at another rookie or maybe someone who stepped away from the series for a year, though they’d rather take a rookie than him.” “I don’t have an answer for you. It doesn’t make sense to me.” She nods, expression falling and she’s rubbing at her face.

“What’s going on?” He asks, standing up just to crouch down in front of her, taking her hands in his. “The driver’s Logan.” “What?” “Williams isn’t sure they want to offer Logan another year.” Max stares at her. “How?” “I don’t know.” She shrugs, laughing. “There’s talks of them signing whoever wins this F2 championship or even the runner-up depending on who it is. Logan’s making too many mistakes.” “He’s costing them too much money.” Max fills in the blank, shaking his head. “That’s ridiculous. Don’t take a rookie if you can’t afford it. You are supposed to account for the worse. And he’s doing well. It’s not his fault that they built a shit car.” “I don’t know what to do.” She admits, voice just a whisper, and his heart clenches painfully at the sound of it, at the tears in her eyes. “This is his dream. I don't know what to do if that gets taken away from him.” “It won’t. We’ll figure something out.” He tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

—

“I think I’m spoiled.” Max says, watching as she gets ready for bed. A faint feeling of arousal pooling his gut as she pulls on one of his shirts. He absentmindedly wonders if it would be weird to wear it tomorrow to the track, the scent of her lotion clinging to it. “Why’s that, honey?” He smiles, cheeks a bit pink, and that arousal builds a bit more at the pet name, at the way she shifts in the vanity chair to loosen some tension in her back. “You come to every race, you see me win, you celebrate them, you got to see me win my third championship today.” Those words feel weird off his tongue, today, but totally sober to celebrate. He wants desperately for tomorrow to come, for the race to finish so they can celebrate, him, her, Logan, the team. “I guess you are a bit spoiled.” He gasps, clutching at his heart, making her giggle. “That’s okay though.” She says, getting up and moving onto the bed, straddling him. “I think I like you spoiled.” He groans as she dips her head, pressing a kiss to the flutter of his pulse. “Schat.” It's a warning to stop and a plea for more. “I know.” She kisses the spot a bit firmer. “Celebrations will have to wait just a day longer.” She then rolls off him, his arm immediately lifting so she can press against his side.

“It’s cruel to win with a sprint race.” She snorts, “A sprint race never stopped us before.” “It’s cruel to win with a sprint race in Qatar.” He amends. “Very true.”

He sighs, staring at the ceiling as he calms down, luckily the feeling of her fingers tapping along his stomach not making it harder. “How’s Logan feeling?” Max asks, remembering how pale he looked when they got dinner. She sighs, moving somehow closer. “Not great. No fever, but his stomach is still a bit upset.” He winces. “He gonna be okay tomorrow?” “I hope so. The team knows that he’s sick, they’ll make the right choice.” “I hope so.” He echoes, wishing that Logan felt better, hoping that he feels better by the time the race starts.

—

“We are confident in him.” Max scoffs, tossing his phone aside. “I know.” “Logan still wanting to do his new routine.” She nods, lips pursed. He shakes his head. “He did good.” It wasn’t the rookie season that Oscar had, but it couldn’t be. Oscar got lucky enough to get a seat in a near top team, while Logan got one with a back of the grid team that was sometimes midfield.

Logan scoring ten points, getting himself to sixteenth in the standings, tied with Bottas in the standings, was very good for a rookie. It was a shame that Williams seemed to think he could’ve and should have done better. At least, Max thinks, the 2025 grid was wide open for possibilities.

“Are him and Oscar still joining us?” She throws him a look. “Us?” “You.” He amends, knowing that despite him joining her, he’d get caught up in Redline and different things. He was just happy she didn’t mind that. “Only for a few days and then they both are off to Australia.” “Will Logan be joining us for Florida?” “Yes. My mom has been asking the next time she’s going to see her only grandchild.” Max laughs at the eye roll. “So, Belgium first, then Monaco,” “You go to Milton for a day after.” He nods, “then Greece, Florida, Monaco.” “Not bad for the first few weeks of winter break.” “Not bad at all.” He agrees, wrapping his arms around her waist, chest pressed against her back.

It’s quiet between the couple as Max sways them.

“Max.” “Yes?” “Your mom, she does know that I’m not in my forties right? Or thirties?” She figured that the woman did, but she also had only briefly gotten to meet her at the one race, and there had been an odd expression on her face when Max introduced her as his girlfriend. He freezes. “Max.” “I knew I forgot something.”

@ohtous @cixrosie @darleneslane @fanboyluvr @teti-menchon0604 @eugene-emt-roe @quackquackhun @rewmuslupin @copper-boom @stopeatread @crashingwavesofeuphoria @jointhehunt67 @namgification @asphalstead @poppyflower-22 @racingheartsposts @gemofthenight @peachiicherries @lpab @hiireadstuff @iloveyou3000morgan @boiohboii @bibliosaurous @skepvids @elliegrey2803

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #I ❤️ MILFS verse #I was on something when I came up with this idea and the name of this fic

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artyandink · 1 month

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𝙾𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙾𝙽𝙴𝙳 | bartender!dean winchester

Summary: Dean Winchester needs a job after his little brother left for Stanford, and he’s good at mixing drinks. You happen to work at Harvelle’s Roadhouse, which is the place he chose to work at. He finds a family. He finds a new life. But he also finds you. But you have problems of your own.

A/N - My first reader series, do make sure to comment and/or reblog feedback. Set with S1/2 Dean cause I love our baby boy 😁 and pretend group chats exist on old phones lol

SERIES MASTERLIST

one - gin and tonic

Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

It was rather a homely place, with the constant chatter of the different people that stop by for a quick drink, the tunes playing from the jukebox, followed by the clatter of pool cues that ended with the clinking and tappings of glass on glass and glass on table. The place was lit with warm light, bulbs hanging from the ceiling and the distinct musk of whiskey, vodka and tequila that burned people’s throats without the liquid even going down them. It was chaotic.

It was home.

You shared a look with Jo, who was busy serving a passer-by with a cheery smile on her face while Ellen was walking a first-time drinker through the right options, rather than ordering fifty at once and getting so hammered that you three would have to drag them off the floor of the bar and mop up their sick. You sneakily poured a shot for yourself, downing it before anyone but Jo had a chance to see what you were doing and washing out the shot glass. You were a bartendress, you could hold your liquor without a problem.

“Hey.” Jo nudged you after serving a whiskey and nodded to the opposite corner, where a clearly wasted man was trying to grope a poor girl passing by, grabbing her wrist and trying to tug her back with slurred words and bedroom eyes. The sight made your blood boil and your hand itch to reach for the baseball bat that laid behind the counter. “Reckon we should 86 ‘em?”

“I don’t think there should be reckon anything.” You frowned, pursing your lips. “Dude needs to go.” You kept your eyes on the guy, while your co-worker and good friend Benny approached you two with narrowed blue eyes and cap pulled low over his brow.

“Everythin’ alright here, darlings?” He drawled, and his eyes follow the trajectory of yours and Jo’s until he finds the drunk man across the room, a small hum of acknowledgment leaving his mouth. “Y’all can relax. I’ll handle this-”

“Hey, pal?” A hand with a silver ring on it gripped the shoulder of you guys’ target, the voice sounding a bit stern. The hand was connected to a leather jacket-clad arm, which was worn by a man who was about 6’ 1” in height, and rather devastatingly handsome. He had sandy blonde hair and startling green eyes, with pouty pink lips and rather a defined jaw. He was built well, and clearly benched or at least worked out. You found yourself staring at his easy smile that masked some well-controlled anger towards the guy. “The lady doesn’t want you touching her. I’d hate for that handsome face of yours to be ruined.” The sarcasm in the comment got you grinning, and also got Benny over to the scene to roughly take the drunk dude’s hand off the girl, pulling him up and throwing him out while Jo ducked out from the counter to take care of the poor thing and get her a drink.

You found the stranger who helped Benny out at the counter, eyes twinkling as he looked into yours with a grin that twinkled in the light of the flickering bulb above your heads that you quickly twisted and got properly working again. “Harvelle’s Roadhouse, what can I get you today?” You greeted automatically, giving the man a smile that held a hint of gratitude. Gratitude, yes, but your eyes betrayed knowing. You could see the lost look in his eyes, almost searching for a place, and your heart went out to him. You knew all too well how that felt. All too well.

“A job, hopefully.” He answered with a nervous chuckle, looking down and then up at you with his eyes scanning you almost imperceptibly. “Saw the hiring sign outside, thought I might try my hand here.”

“Well, your hand got lucky.” You grinned, tapping the counter twice to get Ellen’s attention while she was serving another customer. “Can I get a name?”

“That’d be helpful.” He smirked, then put out his hand for you to shake. “Dean Winchester.” You shook his hand while giving him your name in return, Ellen stepping to stand beside you.

“We got a new hire, huh?” She chuckled, shaking Dean’s hand. “Hi, I’m Ellen. I run the place.”

“Dean. Winchester.” The name made Ellen’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and yours did too in curiosity. She seemed to know Dean, and that intrigued you.

“You’re one of John Winchester’s boys.” Ellen noted, which made Dean look between you and Ellen, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer.

“You know my old man?” He asked curiously, his emerald eyes almost giving a puppy-dog look as he addressed Ellen, his hands clasped on the counter in front of him.

“John stopped by often, was like family once.” She nodded with a soft smile. “Also knew you through Bobby, also a regular. Said you were a good kid. Well, I guess you’ve met our golden girl.” Ellen gestured to you with a tender hand, patting your shoulder. “She makes the meanest Cosmo around. She’ll show you ‘round, get you acquainted with the rules and regulations and also introduce you to the others working this shift. Take him through it, sweetie.” Ellen moved away to serve more customers, while you lifted up the gate to the counter to allow him inside. Dean stepped in, already looking mesmerised by the atmosphere and simultaneously the large selection of hard liquor to get through. Jo and Benny left their posts, strolling over to join you two.

“A new hire.” Benny held his hand out for Dean to shake. “Benjamin Lafitte, brother, but call me Benny.” Benny took one look at shared a look with you; he saw it too. The need of a metaphorical map in this stranger’s minuscule mannerisms. He was in need of support, and even though you two didn’t know what for, you were happy to give it.

“Benny, got it.” Dean shook Benny’s hand with an easy grin. “Dean Winchester, but call me Dean.” He turned to Jo, his eyes flicking up and down her as he’d done with you, and you noted that it might be a natural thing for him. Checking out pretty ladies. “And who might you be?”

“Jo.” She shook his hand, flicking her blonde hair out of her face.

“Don’t be shy, Joanna Beth.” Benny teased, piquing Dean’s interest.

“Joanna Beth?” He repeated with raised eyebrows and a small smirk.

“It’s just… Jo.” Jo chuckled, swatting Benny’s shoulder. “Ignore him.”

“Duly noted.” Dean nodded, then Benny took his shoulder. Their eyes met, and Benny’s lips twisted into a smirk.

“One question for you, brother.” Benny drawled in his slow accent, his eyebrow raising under the cap. “Can you handle your liquor?”

“I can mix ‘em and drink ‘em, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Dean answered confidently, that devilish grin still on his face.

“Then you’ll fit right in.” You clapped his shoulder- his surprisingly muscular shoulder - and brought him over to show him the ropes. “Initiation’s gonna be fun.”

Later on, when the Roadhouse closed up and all the patrons were out, we gathered around the bar. You introduced Dean to your resident party animal, Ash, who was busy being a genius in his room out back. You all were relaxing with glasses of whiskey, making sure to make Dean feel at home. He fit in well, and had instantly become a popular with the ladies and Benny’s new partner in crime. Jo pulled out ten shot glasses, which made everyone but Dean whoop and clap their hands.

“Time for initiation, young man.” Ellen cackled, taking out a bottle of bourbon, scotch, hard whiskey, vodka and tequila. Dean stared at the five bottles in confusion as they filled up the shot glasses, two shots per bottle in the order described.

“Complete this test and you’re officially one of us.” Jo smiled, pushing all of them forward in a neat line while you prepared a stopwatch. Dean registered all of the five drinks lined up with a small smirk, and then glanced around at the others in the room.

Had everyone done this before?

The prospect was thrilling. Getting to be part of a surrogate family that seemed to be so… happy. Especially since Sammy had left for Stanford and his old man wasn’t the keenest where he was concerned, being a part of this was all he wanted.

“All you have to do is down all ten of these shots within forty five seconds.” You grinned, holding up the stopwatch. “Level one is bourbon. Then scotch. Then you have hard whiskey, but not too strong. After that’s some tangy vodka, and you have the final level. Our strongest tequila.”

“Strong as hell. Beauty’s got a kick.” Benny whistled, then nudged you. “Remember when Bela thought she could handle more of that stuff and was passed out on the pool table five minutes later?”

“Like it was yesterday.” You laughed, then gestured to Dean. “Take your mark, soldier.” Dean stepped up to the counter, assessing the situation with careful, determined green eyes. They always seemed to captivate you. That and his winning smile. He’d taken off his leather jacket, which was over a blue flannel and grey undershirt. He had a boyish charm to him that you couldn’t help but warm up to as well. “Ready?”

“Born ready.” He nodded, mentally preparing himself as he took a deep breath, waiting for his cue. Then when there was the loud shout of ‘go’, he started slamming back the shots, the liquid burning his throat as we went. The bourbon and scotch were easy, the whiskey went down quicker than expected, but he faltered slightly on the vodka, the tang making one of his eyes close instinctively.

It felt like a goddamn barrage of sour candies at once.

However, Dean braved it and threw back the other, picking up the tequila and downing the first one. The burn made him cough and shake his head as the room went off kilter for a moment, but he grabbed the other and took it down in half a second before slamming the glass down on the table. You stopped the timer, and Dean straightened up as he got what felt like a million claps on the back. He met your eyes with a wide grin that matched yours, gratefully downing the glass of water that Ellen gave him before letting out a whoosh of breath.

“You’re one of us, brother.” Benny chuckled deep, gripping his shoulder. Dean couldn’t help but think about how mismatched this little gang was. There was mama bear Ellen, who doted on everyone as well as being a badass in her own right, mother of the sweetly fierce Jo, or Joanna Beth, who could flash a sweet smile at one point but stare daggers the next that can chill bones. Benny, with his distinct cap and fashion sense, paired with the slow drawl of an accent and rough-around-the-edges demeanour.

And then there was you. By what he knew of you, you were a firecracker. Cheeky smiles and a confident way of moving about pairing beautifully with your suave way of handling and mixing drinks. Paired amazingly, like a gin and tonic, or vodka and soda. Beginner’s drinks, but a classic and something he’d walk back to every time. Or maybe you were like whiskey on the tongue. You had an almost irresistible burn to you. Maybe a bourbon, with the hint of sweetness to your demeanour.

Ah, he’d find out someday.

You woke up the next morning, in the bed that was in your room at the Roadhouse to a texts from the group chat you all had, which didn’t include Ellen otherwise she’d chastise you all for the messages you left on there sometimes. You knew that today would be rather an eventful day, since Bela, Meg and Ruby were coming to work on your shift. The trio were alike in every sense of the word, but there was a respective increase in the level of savagery. Bela was smoothly rude, in either a way you couldn’t fault her for or one that you just couldn’t argue back to. Meg could roast you without a second thought but she made it sound like charisma, which it was, rather than outright hatred. If she wanted to, however, she could let you know she hated you. Ruby was just downright honest. Brutally honest in every way possible, but she couldn’t help but be one of your best friends. For all her sharp insults and snarky comments, she just had a wow factor you couldn’t ignore.

Since Dean was in need of a place to stay, Benny graciously offered to let the newcomer stay over. You and Benny had found the Roadhouse together, and you knew a lost soul when you saw one. A kindred spirit. You’d lived at the Roadhouse, courtesy of Ellen and Jo, and even when it wasn’t your shift, you always managed to make it there for a good day of relaxing, laughing and playing pool and maybe poker. Today, since it was a Sunday, the Roadhouse closed early, which meant you all could play random games and jam to karaoke and old songs on the jukebox.

You checked the messages on your phone, snickering at how many there were. But what caught you off guard was the latest one.

Queen B: Alright, what’s the deal with the new guy? Is he hot?

You: Bela, chill. Don’t go hitting on Dean already.

Megolodon: Dean? Even his name sounds sexy as hell

Ruby-gina George: Y’all are desperate

You: Right? Jesus, you haven’t even met the guy yet

Queen B: I call dibs on him 😉 Megolodon: I hope he has a brother, if you know what I mean 😏 older or younger I don’t mind at all, but I prefer younger

Ruby-Gina George: We haven’t even seen him yet

You: Stop thirsting over a guy you haven’t met

Queen B: You’ve seen him- is he hot?

Megolodon: C’mon, spill

Queen B: IS. HE. HOT

You: You two need to STOP

Ruby-Gina George: Touch freakin’ grass

Ben Dover: Leave the poor girl alone, Bela, she needs a breather

You: FINE. He’s attractive, alright

Queen B: HE’S MINE

Megolodon: Dibs on his brother

ScarJo: My god, stop blowing up my phone or mom will see these messages and fire us all

Queen B: Worth it

Megolodon: Yeah, I’m cool with that, just give me the hot bartender’s brother, please and thank you

Casanova: Who are we talking about? I’m confused.

Ben Dover: New hire

Casanova: Ah.

You shook your head, shoving your phone in your pocket as you stood up, heading over to the cupboard. You pulled out a red plaid shirt, taking off your tank and pulling the chosen clothing item on, doing up the buttons before heading to your mirror and trying to tame your hair for the first time in ages. Eventually, you settled on a simple rope braid that still had a few strands coming out of it, taking off your sweatpants and replacing them for jeans. Rolling up your sleeves to your elbows as you went, you zoned out while staring at the silver band on your finger with a snake engraving.

The delicate welts in the ring.

You weren’t married, no, but it was a part of where you came from. You weren’t proud of your history. The one part of it that came out good was your siblingship with Benny.

You met the sunshine streaming through the window, along with the sight of Dean already working at the bar. His flannel’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his hair was short and spiky and he wore a soft smile on his face that suited him. However, his eyes flickered to a girl at the bar you knew all too well. What with her penchant for the finer things in life, hence the perfectly styled brown hair and clever green eyes, complete with a British accent.

Bela Talbot.

She was giving Dean what looked like bedroom eyes until his eyes flickered over to you, his face lighting up instantly with a chuckle at whatever she was saying. You seemed to pick up your sleepy mood as well, returning the grin. Bela smirked slightly, pumping her eyebrows twice as she took a sip of her wine. Wine in the morning. It made you grin at your friend.

How very Bela.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” Dean rumbled, his morning voice sounding deep and rich. “Sleep well?”

“Slept great, thanks.” You replied softly, pouring yourself a glass of water and sipping it. “You settle in ok? At Benny’s?”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah.” He chuckled a bit, looking down with a bashful smile and a bite of his lip. “He’s great. And it’s great at his place.”

“Had I come earlier, I would offer you a bed at my place.” Bela smirked, then winked playfully rather than flirtatiously. “There’s only one, but I wouldn’t mind sharing.” The comment got a laugh out of both Dean and you, knowing it was all in good fun.

“An offer that I probably wouldn’t refuse.” Dean replied with a suave tone that had Bela grinning at you, nudging you before pointing at Dean with a manicured finger.

“I like him. He’s funny.”

“Good to know.”

“Well, you’re quite a handsome one.” Meg swayed up to the counter, dark brown hair swaying as her equally as dark eyes scanned Dean. She delicately put out her hand for him to shake. “Hi. Meg Masters, darling.”

“Dean Winchester.” Dean shook her hand with a sideways look, seeming rather flattered by the attention of so many women. “And thank you.”

“Just for research purposes-”

“Meg, don’t say it.” You whispered, but she waved you off with a sultry chuckle, her eyes focusing on Dean as she stole a bottle of vodka from behind the bar, pouring a shot which she threw back expertly.

“Do you have a brother? Out of curiosity.” She asked blatantly, smiling innocently at Dean, but you knew the smile wasn’t so incredibly innocent. Meg was like a demon; she corrupts easily. But she was a loveable little devil.

“Oh, shut up, we don’t have to be so touchy feely and up close.” Ruby groaned as she walked in, blonde hair swinging. “And get me a shot of tequila, it was a long and insufferable car ride.”

“You must be Ruby.” Dean noted, pointing at Ruby and smirking slightly. “Bela’s given me the rundown on who’s who. And yeah, I do have a younger brother. Sammy. He’s a dork.”

“Even better.” Meg winked as she poured Ruby a shot of tequila and passing it to her. “Where’s Benny at? I need my daily dose of that accent otherwise I might go insane.”

“You’ve already got the image of the newbie’s little brother so far up your ass, I’m surprised you remembered Benny.” Ruby snorted, taking her shot. “He’s out bein’ errand boy with Ellen and Jo. Texted him when I got here.”

“Earning some brownie points, are we?” Bela giggled. “How very like our suave gentleman.”

“Wine before breakfast.” You quipped, sipping your water. “How very like our expensive Brit, hm?” A round of laughter came from everyone around you, including Bela.

“You got me there.” She sighed playfully, sipping her wine. “Damn you.”

“Damn me.” You winked back, and then a nervous chuckle came from Dean.

“Don’t mean to be a downer on the party, ladies, but I’m feelin’ kind of out of place here.” He gave you all a nervous smile, and the lost puppy look was starting to come out again. You laid a comforting hand on his forearm, tilting your head.

“Don’t worry about it.” You smiled softly, letting out a breath through your nose. “We all love you already. Even if these three are too much.”

“Too much looks good on me, biatches.” Ruby added with a drawl, which got a grin out of Dean and you.

“We get it, Ruby.” You giggled, then glanced back at up Dean and his gorgeous green eyes. “You’re doing great, Dean. Don’t sweat it too much.” The comment got a suggestive ‘ooh’ out of the other three girls in the room, which had you and Dean looking to the counter and the floor respectively with dumb grins on your faces.

“BREAKFAST!” Startled all of you when Ellen walked in with Benny and Jo, the women holding two grocery bags while Benny carried four, most likely out of pure gentlemanliness.

You shared a soft look with Dean, followed by a reassuring pat on his forearm before you stood up and moved to help Benny with the bags. He glanced down at his forearm with a slight smile, fighting off a blush as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. His hand rubbed over the spot before he got to unpacking the grocery bags, feeling assured. Feeling safe.

Feeling like he was part of a family.

bDe: so this is the group chat, huh

You: Hey, Dean 👋

bDe: hey, sweetheart ;)

Ruby-gina George: Where did SWEETHEART come from

Queen B: You wish you were someone’s sweetheart, Rubes

Ruby-gina George: In your dreams, Bell-bottoms

Queen B: But you hate bell bottoms

Ruby-gina George: Exactly 😊

bDe: are they always like this

Ben Dover: You get used to it, brother

You: It’s all uphill from here

Casanova: Can someone please tell me the name of the new hire? I need to add him to my contacts.

bDe: dean winchester

Casanova: Thank you. I am Castiel Novak.

ScarJo: Cas, the perfect spelling, punctuation and grammar is NOT necessary

You: Yeah, how can you type that without getting bored

Casanova: How do you type without perfect spelling, punctuation and grammar?

Megolodon: We just type, Cassie baby, it’s not that hard

Queen B: Even I don’t type that fancy, and I’m British

Ruby-gina George: Part fancy Brit, part asshole

Queen B: I hate you

Ruby-gina George: You’re such a flirt

You: Like I said, Dean, uphill from here

ScarJo: Yeah, doesn’t get much worse than this

bDe: nah this right here is gold

Ben Dover: *eats popcorn*

bDe: can I have some

Ben Dover: sure, brother

You: All of you are unhinged- @Casanova are you gonna be there on your shift tomorrow

Casanova: Yes, I am.

Queen B: Our dear Cas, bland texter by day, expert mojito mixer at night

ScarJo: Sounds accurate to me

Casanova: I hate you all.

You : You love us ☺️

Casanova: I suppose that’s true.

After closing, everyone had gone to their respective houses, or so you thought. You were about to change and get into bed after a long day of supervising the bar in case Dean needed help or the girls were being far too flirty for their own good, but then you heard clinking glass from downstairs that piqued your interest. You prepared to grab the baseball bat from the cupboard on the landing as you crept out, but only heard the humming of a low voice you recognised as Dean. You walked into the main bar to find him cleaning the glasses, the clink coming from when he set them down with the others. But he heard you enter, and he looked up with the washcloth still held in his large hand. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Dean, what are you…” You quickly moved to his side, ducking under the counter and taking the cloth. “Why are you here so late?”

“Thought I should clear up. It makes a good first impression.” He shrugged, and you got the whiff of ‘I’m lost and just want to fit in’ again. Dean mentioned a brother yesterday, so it had you wondering why he found the Roadhouse in the first place. Everyone was a lost soul who came here to work. Castiel divorced his wife and left his daughter, and needed a job after he was fired. Ruby left her abusive family, and Meg was in a toxic relationship. Bela had been on the run from her family and had become a pocket thief in the process until Ellen gave her a place at the Roadhouse. As for you and Benny, well, that was a topic neither of you were fans of touching that topic.

“You don’t have to work for that, Dean.” You reassured, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re already fitting in. Just don’t change yourself for insecurity’s sake. It’s gonna bite you in the ass later.”

“Good to know.” Dean chuckled, fiddling with the ring on his finger. “And I prefer my ass to be unbitten.”

“Don’t we all.” You joked, then gave him a smile. “C’mon, if you really wanna make a good impression, then get some rest.”

“You sure?” He frowned a little, his hand twitching to take the cloth from your hands, but you moved it further away. “I could help out, y’know.”

“Not that we don’t want you here, it’s just that we value physical well-being. And mental.”

“Gotcha.” He laughed, nodding as he picked his jacket off the coat hook. “Are you absolutely sure?” Dean wore a concerned look on his face, not wanting to leave you alone to do work. “I could save you some time.”

“I’m gonna drag Bela, Meg and Ruby’s asses to do this.” You chuckled, setting the cloth down on the counter. Dean felt comfortable as hell around you. Maybe it was because you were the first one he knew at the Roadhouse. “Go on, get.”

“Alright, alright, Jesus.” He took out his keys, winking smoothly. “Have a nice night, darlin’.”

“You too, Dean.” You waved as he left, a minute later the loud purr of a car, crunching gravel and screeching tyres gracing your ears.

3:00AM

Queen B: Anyone awake, I’m boredddddd

Megolodon: Same girlie

Ruby-gina George: Some people value their sanity you know

Ben Dover: Why are you up at 3am

bDe: so much for being told to get some sleep

You: You two are insufferable

Casanova: We have work tomorrow.

Queen B: Ohh god, I’m so drunnnnkkkkk

ScarJo: How much hard liquor have you had?

Queen B: Mmmmmmmaybe three

Queen B: b9ttles of tequ8la You: Three WHAT

Ruby-gina George: She’s so slammed she’s typing numbers

Megolodon: Awesome

Ben Dover: Bela, darling, where are you

Queen B: in your lap

bDe: damn

NEXT UP:

“So, darlin’, what do you do in your free time?” Dean asked you, cleaning out a glass with a rag and shooting a wink to a couple of giggling girls nearby. You poured a whiskey for a patron, sliding it across the table.

“Well, I’m a big fan of joyrides.” You answered with a goofy grin. “My Mustang’s always fun to take a spin in.” The mention of your Mustang got Dean’s eyebrows up to his hairline as he pointed out of the window.

“That beaut’s yours?” He exclaimed in disbelief, laughing. “Damn. That’s a serious muscle car.”

“Yeah, my Valkyrie. Val’s my sweetheart, always will be.” You looked up wistfully at the mention of your beloved car. “And your Chevy Impala, she’s absolutely gorgeous. I could listen to her purr all day.”

“That’s my Baby.” He bore the same wistful look you did, then nudged you. “We should take ‘em out for spins. Y’know, joyrides.”

“You sure?” You chuckled, looking up at him. “I don’t drive easy.”

“Even better.” He gave you a little wink paired with a click of his tongue. He flipped a bottle in his hand, pouring a whiskey shot expertly and handing it to you. “Ma’am.”

TAGLIST:

@hobby27 @jackles010378 @deans-spinster-witch @kr804573 @eexphoria @onlyangel-444

Like, reblog, and let me know if you want to join the taglist!

#supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #spn masterlist

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disneyprincemuke · 5 months

Text

beating the heat * ls2

it's never fun feeling like an outsider, so you'd sworn that nobody would ever feel the way you did all those years ago

pairings: logan sargeant x platonic fem!driver

notes: this actually took me longer than thirty minutes to write im sorry

your eyes widen as your eyes stay on the tv screen in george's side of the garage. you readjust the headphones sitting in your ears as you push yourself towards the screen in the corner.

"logan's retiring," you mutter to yourself. you hurriedly tear the headphones from your head. you cover your ears from the sound of george's car driving into the pitlane for a stop.

"excuse me," you mutter to toto, tapping him on the shoulder as you say it and immediately disappear. while this should be concerning for the team principal, you are old enough to know what you are doing. you have been around for long - he doesn't need to keep tabs on you.

he just shrugs and goes back to speaking into the mic.

you navigate your way around the paddocks quick. perhaps it's a good thing that you and george had accidentally crashed into one another at the start of the race, forcing you to retire the car due to irreparable damages. you're not a big fan of the heat in qatar, and it seems that neither is logan.

you're not angry at george. actually, you will definitely be laughing about the whole thing over some late-night food in the hotel together with some soda.

you find benny standing outside the medical centre with his phone to his ear. you wave at him to catch his attention as you approach. he pulls the phone from his ear when you do.

"is logan inside?" you point towards the door. "is he alright?"

"dehydrated and unwell," he sighs, shaking his head. "i'm on the phone with his mother - you head right in."

you mutter a quick thank you, already a bit regretful that you had interrupted his phone call to update logan's mother. you head right into the medical building and try to find the one room that had the most movement.

you stumble in, chest heaving as you're greeted by james and logan sitting in the corner of the room. you sigh in relief as logan smiles at you weakly, his head resting on the wall behind him, arm stretched out as a nurse connects him to an iv drip.

"are you okay?" you ask, finally walking in. "what happened, mate? i thought you were drinking water and felt better from the flu."

logan shakes his head. "apparently the flu doesn't go great with the qatar heat. i tried to see it through, you know. but i just- i couldn't. it's too much. it's so stupid."

you glance at james and tilt your head. james shrugs. "i keep telling him it's okay. if he carried on racing, who would've known what would happen?"

you slump your shoulders and pat him on the knee. "don't be so hard on yourself. the heat really is something, you know? you're not the only one feeling it," you explain slowly, "i'm already fighting the heat while standing in the garage all night."

"but everyone else is having a go at it. look at oscar?" he throws his free hand into the air to show you his frustration. "stupid. everything about this is stupid. the fact that i'm here and still not in the car is stupid."

"i used to be this hard on myself when i was younger, you know," you sigh, putting your hands behind your back. you lean on the wall to prop yourself up and nod when logan raises an eyebrow at you. "yeah. i'm a woman in motorsport - i was my biggest critic. i was very uptight until george and i became teammates."

"why? you were amazing even when you first started out. you were on the podium in the first half of your rookie season," logan mutters. "everyone kissed the ground you walked on. you're still in chatter as a title contender for years to come."

you shrug. "maybe you only consumed articles that put me in a great light. there were a lot of those," you admit, remembering the way you'd tear yourself apart indulging in articles about your place in formula one, "but there were also a lot that picked me apart and treated me less than.

"i retired once because i wasn't feeling great from my period. imagine the backlash i got after that. from the media, the fans, and people i thought had my back. but i had to retire - it's the safer route than pushing through and potentially passing out and crashing in the car. i could've died if that were to happen."

logan's eyebrows furrowed. "that's not fair. it's just your period - it's natural."

"i know," you point a knowing finger at him, "your flu is also just natural. do you know what i did the next weekend after i retired that weekend?" you grin, glancing over at james. he knows this story because he had been around when it happened. "i bounced right back up - i won my first race."

he laughs softly and looks away. "i'm not as great as you, come on. no way i'm winning the next race."

"to make it far, you have to stay true to yourself. you did the right thing today, kid." you folded your arms over your chest and smiled. "don't get lost in the sport, logan. f1 will always be here like it's always been. you're human. don't forget that."

he looks at you again, tears welled in his eyes from your speech. he breathes out shakily and smiles. "has anyone ever told you that you'd make a great ted talk?"

"ah, shut up, logan."

@cashtons-wife

#logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant x you #female driver #fem!driver #f1 female driver #f1 x you #f1 #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #disneyprincemuke inthaf #logan sargeant platonic #disneyprincemuke 3k celly

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mbenguin · 28 days

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My genuine reaction upon finding my beloved mutual's account suspended for absolutely no god damn reason

#my wall eater .#my wall eater is dead #the liberals took him.#[loud weeping]#benny's chatterings

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vvalengogh · 3 months

Text

saw a benny remade in fallout 4…. It’s not the same. you don’t get it the outdated graphics makes me crave him carnally

#corvid chatter #fnv #benny gecko

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morallyinept · 4 months

Text

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 8

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 7.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Time passes on the island. Frankie and Jude try to stay busy whilst they face uncertainty. Descriptions of drug use.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 7

Three years before the island…

“She brayed like a fucken’ goat all night, man.” Benny cajoles.

“Goats don't bray.” Frankie says stoically, fingers pressed cool against the glass in his hand.

“What?”

“Yeah. Horses bray. Donkeys bray, not goats.” Will adds.

“Goats bleat. Like sheep.” Frankie informs.

“Yeah. So, did she sound like a goat or a donkey?” Will asks.

“The fuck do I know? It was a weird fucken’ sound like buraaaahhh, and I just shot my load and left, man.” Benny chuckles.

“Cue illegitimate child in nine months' time.” Will remarks to Frankie with a side eye roll.

“Nah, I got the snip.” Benny retorts with scissor fingers.

“Wise man,” Frankie nods, looking about the bar furtively. His grip around the glass intensifies as he can feel the heavy buzz in them twitch.

Around the table, mismatched chairs huddle in, their well-worn upholstery offering a comfortable respite from the hustle and bustle of the crowded bar. The chatter of patrons fill the air with a growing hum, mingling with the crackling strains of music drifting from a nearby speaker. The American flag is draped everywhere.

"You ever notice how they just go about their lives, completely clueless?" Will remarks, his voice tinged with frustration as he glances around the bar filled with naive civilians laughing and drinking merrily.

A loud clap on his back from Benny pulls him out of the cloud threatening to pour over his head.

On Veterans Day, Frankie and the Miller brothers find themselves gathered around the little table in the corner of the bar they often frequent, nursing their drinks in sombre reflection.

The atmosphere is tinged with a hint of bitterness, a toast to the fallen in remembrance of Tom, and Santi’s obvious absence from their lives for the past eight months.

A pretty woman walks by the table, her eyes flickering over the group of grizzled vets with a hint of curiosity. Benny catches her gaze and flashes her a charming smile.

"Hey there, sweetheart," he calls out, his voice tinged with flirtation. "Care to let a hero buy you a drink?"

She smiles. “Sure.”

Benny turns to the two of them and smirks. “Don’t wait up boys,” as he stands and escorts the woman to the bar.

"Did you see that?" Will exclaims, his voice tinged with incredulity. “Slick asshole.”

Frankie can all but chuckle as he shakes his head. “You want another?”

“Fuck yes.” Will mutters.

Frankie heads off to the bar, making a detour to the bathroom.

Closing himself in one of the stalls, he breathes out deep and long, fumbles with trembling hands to produce a small packet from the depths of his jacket pocket. With a shaky exhale, he tears it open, revealing the white powder nestled within.

Without hesitation, he bends over the makeshift altar, the cold porcelain of the toilet seat pressing into his skin as he carefully prepares the lines. With each snort, etching its presence into every crevice of his mouth, leaving behind a metallic tang, he feels the familiar rush of euphoria coursing through his veins, washing away the pain that plagues him like a relentless tide.

An intense rush surges through Frankie's veins, flooding his senses with a fleeting sense of invincibility. A wave of warmth and energy washes through, momentarily erasing the weight of his troubles and the burden of his thoughts. His heart races in his chest, the steady rhythm of its beat echoing in his ears like a primal drum.

Colours seem to intensify, vibrant and alive, as if the world around him has been turned up a notch in hues of heightened perception. He closes his fist in and out noting the shakes dying away, his hand feeling steady again. No longer seeing the gun inside his grip, the blood that stains his fingers.

But beneath the surface of reprieve lurks a darker truth - a gnawing emptiness that lingers just beyond the edges of his consciousness. A hollow sensation, a stark reminder of the void that threatens to consume him from within, even as the drugs whisper promises of escape.

For a fleeting moment, he allows himself to forget - to forget the demons that haunt him, the sounds of gunfire and shells, the screams. Tom’s dead eyes; the memories that torment him, and the emptiness that bites at the edges of his tattered soul.

In that moment, there’s only the numbing embrace of oblivion on his knees in a feculent bathroom stall.

As Frankie returns to the table, his movements heavy and sluggish with the weight of his clandestine deception, he can't shake the feeling that he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice - a single mis-step away from plunging into the darkness that threatens to consume him whole, jaws open.

Will can't help but notice the subtle change in his buddy's demeanour. There’s a distant look in Frankie’s glassy eyes, a shadow of unease that flickers across his usually stoic features.

“You alright?” Will asks, as Frankie puts down the foamy glasses.

Frankie looks back at him and his breath catches in his dry throat, his mind scrambling for a plausible excuse. But as he meets Will's gaze, something shifts within him - a familiar instinct kicking in, urging him to deflect and deceive.

It’s surprisingly easy to lie, to mask the turmoil churning within him with a façade of false reassurance.

The words slip and uncoil from his pale tongue with practised ease, each syllable carefully crafted to deflect suspicion and conceal the dark truth.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Frankie replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging within. "Tired, y'know?"

He watches as Will's expression softens, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as he accepts Frankie's reassurances with a nod.

A weight lifts from Frankie's shoulders, even if it is a pyrrhic victory.

Benny returns to the table with the woman, and now her friend in tow, as they nestle in around them.

“This is Carla,” Benny introduces to Frankie, who nods at her with a small blooming smile.

“Encantado de conocerte, Francisco.” (Nice to meet you.)

“¿De dónde eres?” (Where are you from?) He asks with raised eyebrows.

“Pensacola, you?” Carla smiles with a nonchalant shrug, as Frankie leans in closer to converse with the pretty Latina with gorgeous brown eyes smiling back at him.

“El Paso then. Pensacola now. Y'know, around.” He smirks.

"You get around a lot?" She asks.

He shakes his head looking at her dewy lips. "Not anymore."

Day 16 on the island…

Frankie and Jude continued to fish in the bay daily and rationed what they could; eating the fish and occasionally snacking on some of the remaining treats from the trolley as they dwindled slowly, but their stomachs rumbled regardless.

They used some of the shampoo and soaps to try and clean some of their clothes, but that salty, ocean smell still lingered over them making them stink like a packet of salty chips constantly. But it was a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.

Frankie tried the iPhone several times more, until the battery finally gave out and died. Switching it on and off and trying to obtain some signal up on the ridge desperately, but ultimately to no avail.

Between the two of them, they started work on re-building the shack in the tree line to keep busy. Frankie collected some soil and mud from the woods and mixed it with sea water in one of the rusted over tins to make a sludgy cement to insulate the shack.

Although the heat was currently unbearable, they couldn’t be confident that it wouldn’t get colder as the seasons changed on the island, so it was best to be prepared.

Jude collected large, waxy leaves and rolled them up tightly to create layers of insulation for the roof, tying them together with vines. Using the lifejackets, they created a watertight under layer for the rooftop.

It took several days to build fully and whilst Jude was rolling up leaves on the beach, she’d look over and catch Frankie, shirtless in grubby shorts using the switchblade to sharpen and cut branches.

He’d crack them over his knee to break them and each time he did it, she noticed the tightening of his stomach and became mesmerised by it until he’d glance over and smile at her, and she’d have to look away quickly, feeling hot.

Jude noticed a scar tucked into the side of his hip when his shorts would hang low; a silvery line flashing at her against the tan skin dipped under his subtle paunch on the right side. The line of blue faded numbers that ink around his wrist, hidden under his watch strap. The way he walks towards her sometimes with a subtle limp.

“You hurt yourself? You're limping.” She questioned.

“It happens sometimes. I'll be fine in a minute.” He shrugged off with a tight smile, and she didn’t question it further, despite her mind ticking about the origin of all these things that make Frankie up into the mysterious clay of who he is.

She wondered if perhaps he’d noticed little nuances about her too, then realised she’d been staring too long when he looked back at her quizzically from under the shadow of his cap.

She showed Frankie how to braid vines so they would be more robust and not snap as easily when he used them to tie the planks of wood together.

“I've no idea what I’m doing; kinda free styling it right now.” He chuckled, and then she laughed harder at his messy attempt of braiding them.

“It’s like this, under, over, under, over...” He watched as Jude’s fingers weaved the vines and he followed along with his, seemingly with ease like watching a live YouTube tutorial.

“Like this?” Frankie asked, holding up a long braided vine when he was done.

“Perfect!” She praised taking it from him and securing the end.

They soon had a stack of them and she would hold the planks in place whilst he reached up and tied them together.

Their relentless teamwork enabled the shack to be fully completed after six days.

Whilst she was down at the shore washing their clothes and cleaning herself up in the water, Frankie put the finishing touches to the shack.

He arranged the seat cushions they ripped out of the fuselage; tying them together with the straps he cut from some of the life jackets. He was down to the last two and decided not to cut anything off them, instead placing them on the suitcase he had turned on its side and used as a makeshift bedside table.

He considered in his gut that it might be wise to have two working life jackets; even though that thought made his scalp prickle with a cold shiver.

He made a hanging mobile of colourful beach shells he’d been collecting randomly from the bay each time he went down there to fish; reaching into the water and looking at their pearly undersides and putting them in his pocket that rattled as they walked back.

He tied it above the beds, using shoe laces from his boots and Jude’s Converse that were pretty much ruined now. He just either walked around barefoot or in a pair of flip flops that were a little small for his feet that he’d found in a case.

Frankie folded the clean clothes Jude had washed and that were dry into another case he kept open, he tied together a cluster of branches to make a broom to sweep leaves away that would blow in on the breeze. He used two large branches that he wedged into the sand and made a clothes line with vines, so their clothes could dry in the sun, rather than spread out on the rocks and blow into the sea when the wind whipped up.

Life became somewhat domesticated.

Now, as Jude makes her way up the beach, he’s coming back through the tree line with some plants and leaves inside one of the rusted over tins and stops to greet her.

“Hola,” (Hello,) he calls and waves with a large open palm before she heads into the cave to return the toiletries.

She smiles and waves back.

They’d mutually decided to use the cave mouth as their storage pantry for the food, fish and toiletries. The fire still burned and Frankie would check on it regularly. He’d dug a deep trench around it which was ashy and had scorched the sand black, but when it would get a little breezy in the evenings, it meant the fire wouldn’t blow out fully whilst they slept.

Frankie places the makeshift vase of plants down on the bedside case and steps back to marvel at their creation.

Jude pokes her head through the door, lifting the plastic sheeting he’s cut to make a doorway that creaks softly in the breeze.

“It’s finished?” She asks, stepping inside and looking about in wonder.

“Yeah, what do you think?” Frankie asks her; his hands on his hips and face shining with sweat.

“It’s really great. You did an amazing job.”

“We did an amazing job.” He corrects holding out his giant palm, and she high fives him.

She glances over his shoulder at the bed and spies the cushions pushed together. He’s rolled up some of the clothes that were too big for them and stuffed them inside some of the vile patterned shirts to use as pillows.

“Urm-”

“I can separate them, it’s just to conserve space.” Frankie begins, rubbing at the back of his head. “It’s, uh, a little tight in here.”

“Uh-huh.” She smiles at him and notices the blush creeping into his ears as he stuffs his hands into his shorts pockets.

She simply saunters past and lays down on the bed looking up at him. She pats the empty space beside her and he lays back on it with her; them both looking up at the shell mobile twirling silently above their heads.

“That’s really pretty.” Jude comments nodding up at the shimmery rainbows inside the hollows of the chalky shells hanging in different lengths.

“It’s the little things that make a house a home.” Frankie muses.

In that moment, memories flood his cerebral cortex: the familiar streets of Pensacola lined with palm trees, the scent of salt in the air, the warmth of the Florida sun on his skin. He can almost hear the sound of seagulls crying in the distance, the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

But as quickly as it had come, the moment passes, leaving Frankie with a bittersweet longing for the place he once called home, even if he put all of his effort into destroying it.

“You’re very good with your hands. Perhaps you missed your vocation as a carpenter or something.” Jude says.

“Maybe,” he crosses one of his long legs over the other at the ankle and rests his arms behind his head. "I like to fix things, make things, I guess."

“It’s much cooler in here already,” she surmises with a smile of relief and closing her eyes.

She feels Frankie shuffle beside her and opens her eyes, turning her head to see him reach for the notebook. He scribbles something in there and then puts it back.

“How many days?” She enquires.

“Twenty-two.” He says with a flat tone.

He hears her take in a deep breath and release it out again in a heavy sigh.

“You know, when you’ve been missing for more than forty-eight hours, people tend to stop looking for you.” She says bluntly.

“Don’t.” He says softly.

“Do you really believe that we’re gonna be rescued?”

He pauses before answering. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I don’t I’ll lose my fuckin’ mind.” Frankie mutters.

He reaches up with a long arm and taps one of the shells and the whole mobile wobbles about above their heads.

Her gaze fixes on the spinning seashells with a faraway look in her eyes.

Jude sits upright on the bed after a few moments, and then stands. She looks down at him over her shoulder.

“You’d better not snore, mister.”

Frankie grins back at her and watches as she leaves the shack.

The first night in the shack lying so close together, is weird to say the least.

She’s only known this guy for just over three weeks or so and Jude can feel the subtle warm whooshes of his breath on the back of her shoulder as he snoozes contentedly beside her.

She woke through the night, and was startled to have him so close to her, momentarily forgetting everything in that oneiric haze rousing her from unconscious slumber. His right hand thrown up hid most of his face as it casually lays there, blocking half of him from her view.

But she can see his right eye, the light from the fire outside casting dancing shadows on his face, and it’s closed; fanned eyelashes twitching gently as he dreams.

His body is slain clumsily on top of the cushions, and she can see he’s still wearing one of his flip flops, although just barely as it clings to life desperately on his big toe. Her eyes trail the length of his long legs, smattered with dark hairs and the occasional graze or bruise.

She wanders back up the length of him, taking in the golden colour of his contoured arms and broad shoulders, the odd freckle constellation en route to the back of his left hand with thick ropey veins and long fingers. His hands are huge; the surface area of them spectacularly ginormous.

A wayward thought creeps into her frontal lobe; thinking about him getting to know her body with those big hands...

His eye is now looking at her, studying her as she meets it with her own curious trailing up to his face, and she struggles to find words to greet him when he’s intrusively near like this.

But he never touches her, despite their proximity; a subtle, permanent gap where neither of them venture into, even when asleep.

Instead she doesn’t move, just lays there taking him in and fixating on all the details of him, much like he is with her. It’s a weird feeling; a contented bloom that settles her, yet an undeniable pull that she can’t resist against as they both take in one another through their sleep laden, yet curious gazes.

She smiles first and he moves his hand to reveal his full face to her; a face full of boyish good looks and sharp angles, trying to cling onto youth underneath crinkled, golden skin and fuzzed facial hair peppered with grey on the sides of his jaw.

Frankie tosses a crooked smile back at her through those meaty pink lips before she closes her eyes again and tries not to think about how hot she suddenly feels.

Jude isn’t able to sleep much as the night proceeds; rolling over and then realising she’s too close to him and then backing away again. Paranoid she’ll break wind or snore or dribble in her sleep and he’d hear it.

After much tumultuous tossing and turning, she gets up quietly and exits the shack onto the beach.

The fire is still burning, although the flames are low inside the pit, and she chucks on a few branches, wrapping the shirt she’s wearing around her for warmth. The breeze picks up at night, but the warmth in the air still lingers and suffocates above it.

She sits down by the rocks on the shoreline and looks out into the bleak, enveloping darkness, hearing the waves crash and roll in.

She scans the horizon as best as she can through the dark, but there’s nothing there, as usual. There’s never anything on the horizon, and after twenty-three days it’s getting harder to fathom that someone could be looking for them.

There has to be some sort of panic and worry back home. Her mother would be having a fit and her father going absolutely crazy and calling the embassy and Amnesty, or any other official body he could think of, demanding that his daughter be found and brought home.

She imagines that Frankie will definitely be missed back home; he seems the type to have hundreds of people surround him, a social butterfly.

So why is no-one coming out here to them? Why haven’t they seen a boat or heard a plane or helicopter flying overhead at least? Someone has to be looking for the missing flight - it just doesn’t make any sense at all.

She thinks of her room back at her parent’s house from when she’d moved back in after splitting from Nate, with all of her essential stuff crammed boxes, and wonders who will take what from it all when they eventually accept the fact she’s dead and not coming back ever again.

What will happen to her credit card debt? Does that just disappear and get written off?

She scoffs to herself when she realises she won’t miss that at least.

Her thoughts drift to Nate. Is he missing her, is he concerned for her welfare? Will the thought of never seeing her again be the crux of him realising what an utter idiot he’s been to ever let her slip through his clumsy, cheating fingers?

Her eyes well up and she absentmindedly wipes them with the sleeve of the shirt and sniffs as the breeze ripples through her hair.

Why couldn’t he love me? What’s wrong with me?

She cries into her knees, feeling foolish and bereft, and more than anything, utterly lost.

Frankie rolls over in the morning to be met with an empty space where he expects Jude to be laying asleep next to him. He sits upright and rubs his eyes before traipsing out the shack to find her.

He discovers her curled up on the rock asleep in a huddled ball and nudges her awake gently.

“Did you sleep out here all night?” He asks her with an unreadable expression.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“If it’s too weird I can separate the cushions. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.” He explains with a frown as she sits up rubbing at the crick in her neck. His face looks a little disappointed as he speaks, she notes.

“No it’s not that. I just...” She searches for the words. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“You wanna talk about it?” He probes gently.

“And say what exactly? That I’m terrified that no-one’s coming for us? That the reality is looking more and more bleak that we’re going to be rescued any time soon? I think we may be here for the long haul.” She huffs.

Frankie bites down on his lip.

“If you wanna live in denial that’s fine, Frankie, but I can’t pretend that everything is okay when it’s not.” She snaps a little too harshly at him.

“I’m not in denial.” He corrects. “I-I have hope; there’s a difference.”

“Hope? I’m struggling to understand what that word even means right now.” Jude snorts.

Squaring his shoulders, Frankie looks out at the ocean marred by the dull sky hovering above it and feels that heavy pull in his gut. Jude’s despair is slowly matching the growth of his own; a silent spectre that haunts his every thought and action.

Despite his best efforts to remain optimistic, to cling to the belief that help will come, Frankie can't shake the feeling of impending doom that hangs over them like a dark cloud. It’s a relentless onslaught - a constant barrage of doubt and fear that threatens to consume.

He’s reminded of a time when he could drown out these muddled feelings with a quick fix - a line of cocaine to numb the pain and silence the voices of doubt echoing in the depths of his mind.

But on the island, he’s forced to confront those fears head on as he glances down at the incessant aching tremble in his fingers, reminding him of this new, terrifying reality he's wading in, as he balls his hand into a fist.

“We’ll get through this, look at what we’ve done,” his arm points out to the shack. “We can survive because we can support each other, okay? You lean on me, and I’ll lean on you. Deal?”

Jude looks out to the sea and the sky seems gnarly. “You hardly know anything about me, Frankie.” She says, bitterly.

He sits beside her on the rock. “And you don’t really know that much about me, either. But I know that you’re a survivor. If you weren’t, you’d be at the bottom of the ocean right now.” Frankie reminds her.

She looks at him, soft brown eyes burrowing their way in, and offers him a small glimmer of a weak smile.

“We can get to know each other better, right? It’s not like we’re going anywhere...” He trails off.

“Way to stay hopeful there, Fish.” Jude remarks with a pout.

He smiles at her use of his code name. “You know what I mean. Right now we’re here. Let’s make the most of it; keep busy. We can fish, cook and talk. Whatever you want, okay? If you need space, I can sleep in the cave.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be silly.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “Thank you,” she says to him. “I think if I was alone, I probably would’ve died by now.”

Frankie confirms. “No. You’re stronger than you think, hermosa.”

She smiles up at him. “What does that mean?”

He hesitates for a second. “It uh, it means… beautiful.”

She blinks in surprise, as she turns to meet his gaze. It’s a simple compliment, casually spoken, yet it carries a weight and significance that catches her off guard.

Jude’s face softens as she looks at him, a small tinge of pink blooming in his tanned cheeks under the wiry hairs on his face.

“Gracias,” (thank you) she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes shining at him with a mixture of surprise and delight.

The sky breaks later in the afternoon; those gray clouds rolling in from the sea bringing with them torrential rain.

The fire is extinguished; steam wafts from it in a small curl and the bottles they’d planted into the ground are filling with water and overspilling into the sand.

Jude twists the caps onto them and stacks the bottles inside the shack whilst Frankie’s outside checking the waterproofing on the shack’s outer walls.

“It’s holding together,” he says, with an accomplished smile as he steps back inside; his clothes utterly drenched and water from his cap dripping crystal lengths down his cheeks.

He reaches for the Finding Nemo towel and dries his face. “At least we have plenty of water again.”

Jude nods back at him with a relieved look about her.

He sniffs in and reaches for the spears. “You up for some more fishing?”

“Won’t we get wet?”

He looks at her like she’s stupid. “We’ll already be wet in the water.”

“I’m such an idiot!” She laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Well, I didn’t wanna point it out.” Frankie muses as she shoves him in the arm, following him out of the shack towards the bay.

They manage to collect some fish, but are unable to light the fire due to the rain pelting non-stop, so they don’t eat much. They share the last of the snack bag from the trolley stash sitting in the cave mouth together watching the rain, and once they’ve finished, Jude looks up at him with some concern.

“We’ll be okay with the fish.” Frankie persuades gently. “There might be some mussels or something around the rock pools. Maybe even some lobsters...” Maybe that’s wishful thinking, but the thought makes his mouth water.

“I’m going to dry off and change. Can you wait out here for a few minutes?” Jude asks him.

He nods, “of course.”

Frankie puts the fish inside the tin down by the side of the shack wall. The rain has already filled the tin and the fish are submerged in the water with their bubbly dead eyes looking up at him as they bob lifelessly around.

He looks up into the dank clouds as rainwater falls into his eyes.

He stands, affirmative and taught with his head pointing upwards into the direction of the sky itself letting the raindrops wash over his skin.

His eyes are closed and he allows himself to feel the sensations that each tantalising droplet has to offer as they beat over his face. His bare toes search their way into the damp soil and take root there, as if he’s connecting with the earth on some spiritual level unknown to anyone else.

His private sanctuary in which Frankie dwells for a stream of time that seems unrelenting and almost as if he’s at one with the elements.

Jude appears on the other side of the plastic sheet ready to tell him to come back inside and just looks at him for a few moments enjoying the rain.

It feels as though she’s invading on this private moment that seems to render her still with a quiet awe. Just watching as the rain soaks him as he leans back, face turned to the sky with a small smile blooming over his face.

It takes him a short while to come back to her level when she calls his name gently, and he opens his eyes smiling sweetly at her as if the show hasn’t occurred at all.

Once inside, she shuffles around awkwardly and says she’ll wait outside for him to change too, but then realises she’ll get wet all over again.

“It’s okay, you can stay inside.” Frankie reassures.

“I won’t look,” Jude promises and promptly turns around facing the wall.

She fingers some of the clay mud in between the planks of wood anxiously with her nail, as she hears him shuffling about behind her. She hears the buckle of his belt and imagines he’s dropped his shorts as she hears them plop onto the ground.

She shuts her eyes and tries not to think of him removing his boxers too.

Fuck.

“Okay, I’m done.” Frankie says and is pulling on a dry t-shirt as she turns around. He’s in new shorts and proceeds to ruffle the towel through his dripping curls.

“You alright?” He asks her, noting her bashful unease.

“Fine,” she replies smiling, and makes her way over to the cushion bed and sits down.

He sits beside her and reaches for a bottle of water and hands it to her.

She twists off the cap, takes a mouthful and hands it back to him. “Where are the fish?”

“I left 'em outside, figured they might start to stink in here. As soon as the rain stops, I’ll light the fire again and we can cook.”

“Sure,” she replies.

They sit together in silence and it’s all kinds of awkward the longer it lingers.

“It’s a shame we don’t have a board game or something.” Jude mutters after some time, and he smirks.

“A deck of cards. We could play poker; I’m good at poker.” Frankie replies.

“I’m not,” she laughs.

“Everyone’s good at poker, come on.”

“You’d see through my poker face immediately.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I have one of those faces that gives the game away.” She says, feeling a little hot under the collar still.

“Really? I think you don’t give much away at all.” Frankie states.

“What do you mean?”

“I never know what you’re really thinking; you hide your emotions well.”

“Dude, I’ve cried in front of you.” She reminds him.

“Yeah, but you don’t need to cry to be emotional, right?”

She thinks about it for a minute. “What makes you cry, Frankie?”

“Being kicked in the balls,” He remarks.

She snorts as she takes a sip from the water. “Have you been kicked in the balls a lot?” Jude enquiries.

“Once or twice.” He chuckles.

“Come on, what really makes you cry?”

He shrugs with those broad shoulders of his. “I dunno. I cried when my dog died.”

“You had a dog?”

“Yeah, when I was little.”

“What was his name?”

“Luca.” Frankie answers, accentuating the pronunciation.

“I’ve always wanted a dog, but I’m away a lot so it wouldn’t be fair, I guess.”

“What would you call it if you could have one?”

“Humphrey.”

“Why Humphrey?” Frankie questions.

“After Humphrey Bogart, of course.”

“Of course. How did you get into photography?” He enquires as he relaxes back on the bed.

“I love taking pictures and then it kinda just slotted into place. I started my own travel blog originally, and I just got some freelance jobs from that. Then I spent some time with a travel website and got regular work with them.”

“I assume your fiancé didn’t like you being away a lot.” Frankie puts.

“Oh, he coped fine. In fact, I doubt he noticed I was away a lot. He was more than pre-occupied and kept busy.” She remarks sourly.

“He sounds like a dick.” Frankie surmises.

“He is a dick.” Jude laughs.

“Well, it’s his loss,” Frankie says, gently.

Two molten brown eyes catch her own, and she reminds herself to swallow the water.

“Yeap,” she says after gulping. “It’s your ex-girlfriend’s loss too by the way.”

Frankie smiles, looking down at his bare feet. “Thanks.”

Two months on the island…

Life, stranded on the island, continued with much of the same for the next two months.

Yep, you read that right; two whole months had passed by, and with no rescue attempt either.

Frankie and Jude continued to fish in the bay, collect and ration the rain water to stay hydrated as best as they could, and spent the evenings talking and eating around the fire; star gazing on those clearer nights when the universe would give them a clandestine peep up its skirt.

To try and keep the boredom at bay, Frankie created a few games for them to play.

He dug holes in the sand up the beachfront of various sizes and spaced apart, and they would toss pebbles into them, keeping a tally of the score in the sand with who got the most pebbles in the holes - beer pong, but without the beer.

Sounds simple and incredibly mundane, but it kept them preoccupied for a while. They’d play Tic-Tac-Toe in the sand with shells and stones, and Jude always beat him, much to his dismay.

“You’re cheating. There’s no other explanation.” Frankie muses, with a frown as he places his shell down confidently only for her to block him making a line with her pebbles.

“I never cheat.” Jude confirms confidently.

“You better not be; you know what happens to bad girls who cheat.” He smirks, pursing out his lips as he rakes the stick through the sand drawing out another grid nonchalantly.

She looks up at him incredulously with cheeks that feel hot and decides it’s best to change the subject.

“You urm, you know how to play chess?” She all but squeaks out.

“Sure,” he nods and they play that too, trying to remember which stone or pebble they’ve allocated for their Bishop or Rook pieces.

“You can’t make that move, that’s your Knight.” Frankie corrects her, and laughs when she gets confused.

“Whoops.” Jude raises her eyebrows innocently

“I knew you were fuckin’ cheating.” He winks at her playfully as he places his Queen shell down. “Check Mate.”

They never spoke about the number of days racking up in Frankie’s notebook.

He was regimented in his routine of opening it up in the dim morning light and writing in it. He’d often scribble away in it for a while, lost in turbulent thoughts.

Jude never asked him what it was exactly he wrote in there, and she soon stopped asking him to tell her how many days it had been when they hit the thirtieth day on the island.

Frankie, of course remained cautiously optimistic, but whenever she looked at him with a concerned face, he no longer offered his monotonous words of “they’ll be here soon” to her anymore.

She didn’t want to hear it; he could tell by the way her face sank, and he didn’t have the strength to summon the words and their pointless inflection either.

The toiletries had halved considerably, despite rationing them out as best as they could. They discussed it and decided that instead of bathing in the sea daily, they would decrease and alternate between using shampoo and soap rather than both. They would no longer use them to clean their clothes either - plain old sea water would just have to do.

They would sit in front of the fire at night and he would teach her some Spanish, marvelling at her pronunciation attempts until she could converse with him in basic sentences.

“How do you say my Spanish tutor is doing a good job?” Jude asks him with a compliment.

“Mi tutor de Español está haciendo un buen trabajo,” Frankie replies in deep, Spanish gravel around his voice with a thankful nod and smile back at her.

“How about my head hurts?”

“Me duele la cabeza y estoy cansado.”

“How do you say I have sand in my underwear?” She giggles and Frankie can't help but smile at the sound.

“Tengo arena en mis calzoncillos.” He laughs, and then mutters, adding “quizás deberías quitarte los calzoncillos…” (perhaps you should take your underwear off…)

“What does that last part mean?” Jude enquires.

Frankie shakes his head at her trying not to grin, and doesn't elaborate any further on it.

They agree to use the razor for sparse grooming only, meaning Frankie will have to let his facial hair get wispier, and Jude wears her jeans more despite the heat, covering up the hair on her legs growing, even though he says she shouldn’t have to worry.

Yep, think about it, you ain’t going to be a hairless beauty on a desert island for very long. It isn’t like in the movies. In fact, Jude braves herself to look in the cosmetic mirror in the make-up bag one day, and can see her eyebrows are growing a little wild and her bangs are getting longer. She plucks her eyebrows, neatening them up as best as she can, inwardly cringing at the state of them.

She happens to notice she’s dropped some weight too. Two months of eating nothing but white fish and drinking only water sparingly would be a Keto dieter’s dream, right? She’s in the sea and cleaning herself down one morning, and can notice the difference in her torn jeans when they feel significantly looser as she dresses.

It’s a worrying thought, but it’s soon interrupted in its blooming by frantic shouting.

She looks up to see Frankie running towards her as she scrambles to throw on her t-shirt to cover her modesty.

“What’s wrong?” She questions with wide eyes as he dashes towards her; yelling for her to come quickly and grabs her hand.

He yanks her along with such force that she almost loses her footing.

He’s speaking as they run, but it’s all incomprehensible noise as her heart thunders in her ears as he pulls her through the trees and out to the other side of the island into the bay.

He points to the horizon - there’s a boat in the far, far distance.

“Oh my God!”

Frankie starts jumping up and down, waving his hands around and yelling. She starts doing the same too; her lungs and throat burning from the strain of her screams and wails.

The boat is a tiny white dot in the distance, glimmering as the light hits against it from the sun; it’s definitely there and not a mirage.

Jude looks around and realises the fire is on the other side of the island, on the rocky beach, and the hills are covering the wispy smoke. The boat won’t see it.

“HEY! HEY!” Frankie yells like he’s possessed.

“WE’RE HERE!” Jude screams at the top of her lungs.

She sees the flash of the boat again and they both stop shouting, realising with a swamping dread that the boat is disappearing from the horizon - it’s leaving.

“No!” She gasps.

“Come on, we can swim!” Frankie runs towards the water’s edge and she watches, horrified, as he dives into the sea after running fast through the shallows.

“Frankie, stop!” She runs after him as he powers through the waves. “Frankie!” She splutters as he swims further away from her.

“We can make it!” He shouts back at her.

“It’s miles out! It’ll be long gone before we can even catch up to it!” She protests, water splashing in her ears.

He doesn’t seem to hear her as he carries on swimming, lost to all rational reason and thinking.

“Frankie! STOP!” She yells at him again.

She catches up to him and reaches for his shoulder pulling him back. He tries to shake her off, but he stops dead in the water as she reaches for him again.

“Frankie, please! It’s gone!”

He looks back at her after being still; eerily unmoved and silent on the water’s surface for a few moments. The look on his face is worryingly blank and chills her to the bone immensely.

Frankie simply swims back past her, defeated and towards the shore; she follows with a racing heart.

When he reaches the shoreline he stomps up it, dripping wet and stops in his tracks, his hands balled into fists.

Several looks sweep across his face, similar in how a chameleon adapts to his surroundings; fear, frustration and then abject fury.

He stands before Jude, drenched and barefooted as she is, with a look of utter distaste continually changing and morphing on his face, shaking his head vehemently with flaring nostrils.

“Frankie.” She reaches out to touch him, but flinches away as he absolutely loses his shit.

He picks up rocks and hurls them into the sea with all of his might. Cursing and yelling out in Spanish profanities.

"¡Sácame de esta maldita isla! ¡Dios, ayúdame! ¡Infierno! Maldito hijo de puta! FUCK! FUCK!” (Get me off this damn island! God, help me! Hell! You fucking bastard!)

Frankie bellows and heaves, and eventually falls upon his knees in the sand, worn out; his fists squeezing and shaking in anger.

Jude becomes numb; frozen in her stance with eyes open wide, mouth opening wider. Unwilling and unable to move, for at that moment he controls everything on that beach front with his searing rage.

She can only watch horrified as his distilled and purified agony engulfs him as it rips him apart from the inside out.

She approaches him cautiously, and then clutches him in her arms and holds him tight. She hears him wheeze and gasp out through strangled, incoherent yells and groans dying in his native language as they shrink back into his hoarse throat.

He eventually breaks completely, sobbing inside her arms. His body is a rumbling earthquake as he gasps into her shoulder and chest, clutching on tightly to her.

What makes you cry, Frankie?

It’s enough to render Jude teary too, and they hold each other as she realises, aghast, that any shred of remaining hope that Frankie had been carrying all this time, had just died a horrible death in front of her.

She looks back out to the horizon in the desperate hope that the boat has re-appeared and is coming back for them.

It doesn’t. No-one comes back for them.

To be continued...

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#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x OFC #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier fic #frankie morales angst #frankie morales smut #adrift with you series #jett's writing

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novosg · 1 year

Text

Who’s Your Friend? Pt 2

More Hobie x femMorales!reader and more protective Miles

This was really hard to write and I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I hope you guys enjoy it regardless.

Fluff, SFW, written with black!fem reader in mind, 2.1k words (😭)

The next time you see Hobie is at a party on the roof of your building. It was somebody’s birthday or promotion party, you didn’t know which and couldn’t find it in yourself to ask around and find out. If everyone started singing you’d just join in. The evening sun cast a lovely hue amongst everyone as the bass from Benny’s speaker reverberated through the air.

You’re pouring yourself another drink when your mother comes up next to you.

You smiled at her. “Hey, Mami, what’s up?”

She replied with a slight shake of her head as her eyes scanned the crowd. “Hi, baby. Have you seen your brother?”

Briefly, you thought back to the text Miles had sent you over twenty minutes ago, promising to be there soon. You had no idea what was keeping him but you could certainly think of a few things. Things that your parents definitely can’t know about.

So, you settled for, “No, I haven’t. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” She patted your arm in thanks before walking off, no doubt to ask others the same question.

As you watched her leave you pulled your phone out, ready to text Miles once more and find out where he was, but the sound of a door opening caught your attention. You turned and spotted your brother, along with three other familiar faces, stepping out onto the floor. Miles caught your eye and you let out a soft sigh of relief.

Miles moved to greet you, but Gwen and Pavitr beat him to it, practically rushing towards you. Eager words spilled from their lips as they came to a stop in front of you, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly.

“It’s nice to see you guys again too,” you said with a smile. They were still chattering away until Miles came forward, slipping in between the two of them.

“Hey, did mom and dad say anything yet?” He asked. You simply shrugged.

“Mom asked where you were not too long ago. Better go see her and let her know you’re here.

What took you so long anyways?”

Miles sighed heavily at the question as he shook his head. “Just some guys tryna rob a bank.” Then, more proudly he added, “I handled it though.”

Gwen cut in, letting out an amused scoff. “You handled it? If it weren’t for me and Hobie—“

Pav chimed in as well. “Don’t forget I’m the one who disarmed them all,” he boasted with a grin.

You rolled your eyes playfully as you watched him and his friends bicker. It made you happy to see him being just Miles for once. Not Spider-Man #2. But your stubborn, little brother.

Hobie, who had been quiet for the majority of the exchange, looked over at you. He moved from behind the others to stand next to you, one of his elbows nudging yours. Your eyes turned up and he smiled down at you, his piercing rising with the curve of his lips.

“Hey,” he said softly. You couldn’t help but smile right back, willing the butterflies in your stomach to calm down.

“Hi,” you replied, equally as soft. You couldn’t deny it, you were smitten. In the short time you had known him, he had left an impression that had left your heart reeling and your affection towards him bordering on puppy love.

You were so smitten, in fact, you had taken to pestering Miles about him.

Every time you asked how Hobie was doing, or when his friends were stopping by again, you were met with the same reaction.

An irritated glare or sigh, followed by your brother grounding out, “He’s fine,” or, “Why do you need to know?” You were genuinely curious, but at some point you also started asking just to see the looks on Miles’ face.

The same Miles who was suddenly grabbing Hobie by the arm and practically dragging him away. He sent a smug look your way while you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Gonna take these guys to meet mom and dad. Don’t worry, we’ll be right back,” he jeered.

Hobie simply looked amused as Miles tugged him away while Pavitr perked up.

“We finally get to meet your parents? Let’s go!” He beamed. Gwen, on the other hand, couldn’t look more uncomfortable with the idea if she tried.

You vaguely remembered your mother calling you about some “white girl your brother had brought home.” Though she told you the girl’s name was “Gwanda” you were beginning to figure that wasn’t the case.

Hobie looked back at you, giving you a small wave as Miles slipped behind him, resorting to pushing the taller boy.

“Walk,” you heard him grumble. You and Hobie both laughed at his antics, but you waved back all the same, watching him disappear into the crowd of people.

By the time Hobie had managed to sneak away from everyone the sky had dimmed, turning a darker shade of blue with every passing hour. Fortunately, the party was still in high spirits.

Which gave the two of you a good enough chance to head underneath the water tower on the far side of the roof.

Miles eyed the two of you from his spot near the tables, the plate of food in his hands forgotten. Pavitr and Gwen were talking about something, but they grew quiet at the lack of Miles’ input. They followed his line of sight and Pavitr let out an amused laugh which was enough to catch Miles’ attention.

“What?” He asked, brows furrowed.

“I should’ve known. Hobie was dying to see her again,” Pav admitted as Miles let out a shocked “what?”

Gwen smacked Pav’s shoulder, but even she was grinning. “I wouldn’t stress over it, Miles. At least they look cute together,” she added, a playful lilt to her voice.

Miles shook his head, setting his plate down as he waved a hand dismissively. “Okay, not having this conversation right now. Or ever.” He huffed, already wracking his brain at the thought of Hobie dying to see you again.

You carefully twirled Hobie’s watch in your hands, rubbing your thumb alongside it. He leaned casually against the railing beside you, back against it as he looked out across the ongoing party.

“So, this watch lets you go anywhere you want? Anywhere at all?” You asked, glancing up at him. He nodded, turning his gaze towards you.

“Yeah. Also helps stop that glitching mess.” At your look of confusion he added, “It’s what happens to our bodies whenever we’re in a dimension that isn’t ours. It sucks, by the way. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

You let out an amused huff, lips parting as you mumbled a quiet “ah.” You straightened up and handed the device back to him, your fingers brushing together gently.

He strapped it to his wrist, dark eyes sliding back over to you. He looked thoughtful for a moment, before his lips turned up into a small smirk. “Lets us go anywhere at any time too.”

You smiled, mirroring his stance as you leaned against the railing as well. You had a feeling where this was going, but you just wanted to make sure. “Any time, huh? So you just come and go whenever?”

“Oh, yeah. I get to do whatever I want. Go wherever I want.” He paused before saying, “See whoever I want.

You hummed, feeling your heart stutter from the way he was looking at you. “Now that sounds nice.”

Hobie’s grin only widened as he nodded with a slight shrug. He shifted a bit closer, almost imperceptibly so. “It’s real nice. All that matters is what you do with it.”

“So…if there was someone who wanted to keep seeing you,” you leaned in a bit closer as well, an invisible force practically pulling you towards him, “You could make it happen?”

Hobie nodded, eyes and smile softening. “All they’d have to do is say the word.”

Your own smile turned sheepish as you tapped your fingers nervously against your thigh. “Well…”

You stopped once you noticed Hobie’s back straighten, a crease forming in his brow as he leaned away suddenly. Not even a second later your mom was popping into view and you groaned, already having a bad feeling.

“Hi! Just wanted to come and see how things were going. Making sure you guys are all good up here,” your mother said warmly, swinging a leg over the railing. Your father was right behind her, grunting as he pulled himself upward. Hobie moved to stand on your other side, watching the scene play out almost amusedly.

“Mrs Morales,” he said coolly. His eyes turned to your father, who raised an expectant brow at the punk beside you once their eyes met.

Hobie’s jaw clenched, as if he was having some sort of internal battle with himself. After a moment of a stare down that felt far too tense, his eyes darted over to you briefly before he looked away and muttered out, “Mr. Morales,” almost begrudgingly so.

Your father let out a humph, bumping his shoulder against your moms. “Oh, look at that, hon, he got it right this time. But yeah we, uh, noticed you guys weren’t with the group so we wanted to see what that was all about.”

You reached out and gently grabbed Hobie’s arm, trying to ignore the lithe muscle you felt under your palm. “We were just about to head back down, actually.”

“Oh good. Good,” your father nodded while your mom let out an “ah,” her eyes darting down to where your hands held onto Hobie. “Well, don’t let us hold you up. Me and your mom might be turning in soon, anyways. Got a busy day tomorrow, y’know, being a cop and all,” he stated. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes while Hobie merely raised an unimpressed brow.

“Mhm. Got it,” you mumbled, already moving past him. You pretended not to see the humored look on your mother’s face as the two of you descended down from the water tower.

Once your feet touched the roof you led Hobie further into the crowd, throwing a glance behind you as you let out a sigh. Above you, you heard a low chuckle.

You couldn’t help but join him, lips parting into a grin. “Oh, you think that’s funny?”

He shrugged, eyes alight with mirth. “Little bit.” The two of you came up to the tables before stopping. You quickly remembered you were still holding to his arm and retracted your hands, settling for folding your arms over your chest.

Hobie tilted his head and eyed you as you tapped your fingers against your elbow. “I’m sorry about him. He can just be a little…overprotective. Even though I’m eighteen and, unlike Miles, actually an adult,” you muttered.

Hobie smirked and shook his head slightly. “It’s fine. It’s good they look out for you like that. But, listen, about earlier,” he paused, one of his hands coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. You realized it was your first time seeing him genuinely nervous, albeit just a little bit.

“It’s just…I wanna see you again. And, tell me if I got this wrong, you wanna see me again too.” At your small nod he continued. “Well, there’s a band I like playing a show soon in my dimension. Figured I could sneak us in the venue, we’d watch ‘em together? It’d be a loft view. Can’t get it nowhere else.”

You smiled, your brightest one of the night, as those butterflies in your gut came back at full force. You shrugged, pretending to consider it.

“I don’t know. A trip to a new dimension and…a date?” When Hobie matched your smile with one of his own you were sold. You had been from the beginning. “I think that sounds perfect.”

“Cool,” he uttered. “I’ll get you a day pass, you break the news to that brother of yours—”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” you groaned and he laughed, picking up a nearby drink.

“And I’ll pick you up when the time’s right,” he concluded. You dipped your head in agreement, already feeling anticipation building within you.

“I’d like that,” you affirmed softly. Hobie’s smirk disappeared behind the can as he rose it to his lips, but his eyes never left yours.

That was until Miles practically popped up between you two, his eyes bouncing back and forth. Pav and Gwen were right on his heels, seeming eager about something as they also eyed you both. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Hey, guys. Everything okay?” He asked, trying to appear nonchalant despite his wary tone.

Hobie nodded, his gaze falling back on you. His lips curled upward and you had to bite back a grin of your own.

“Yeah. Everything’s great, bro.”

#hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #atsv #x reader #black fem reader #reader insert

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tea-stained-notes · 1 year

Text

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader – One Last Summer

Y/N is many things: Daphne's best friend, gifted artist, new money, honorary Bridgerton – and hopelessly in love with Benedict. But when she finds herself suddenly engaged to a brutish army captain stationed in India, she is faced with the loss of everything she has grown to adore. With time running out, one last visit to Aubrey Hall will decide her fate.

Months ago I had a random phase of obsessing over Benedict Bridgerton (don't we all at some point) and dove head-first into this – then somehow took an eternity to finish it. It's angsty af, but don’t worry, there’s also plenty of Bridgerton shenanigans and tooth-rotting fluff because Benny is too adorable for this world

Warnings: angst and anxiety

Word Count: ~8400

A warm summer breeze caresses my heated skin as I finally emerge from the carriage and lay eyes on Aubrey Hall. Lush flowers and greenery adorn the inviting front and I am still taking in the sight when I notice Eloise and Penelope rounding the corner, the Bridgerton sister gesticulating in what must be one of her political rants. Behind them, Gregory and Hyacinth emerge, chasing each other and screaming in delight. My stomach swoops at the sight – how I have missed them all. “Good morning!” I call over to them, waving with an excitement I would scarcely allow myself to display anywhere else. But here, everything is different. Has always been different.

“Y/N!” They all rush over to me, enveloping me in hugs and chattering over each other. “Finally! It’s been ages!” “Daphne has been insufferable without you around!” “Come play with us!” I laugh, begging them for a moment to breathe after the journey. Daphne appears in the entryway, closely followed by Violet. I walk quickly towards my best friend, arms wide open. “Daph!” “Oh thank Goodness you have made it!” She hugs me tightly, her familiar perfume mingling with the smell of grass and sun-warmed skin. “Have you been playing croquet without me?” “Oh, has Anthony already come moaning to you about his well-deserved loss?” “I can smell it on you, along with your smugness” I say with a grin. “And your brother has grown quite even-tempered since the wedding.” “Well, unfortunately he is still the sorest loser I know.” “Which is a feat in itself amongst this competitive bunch,” Violet says with a twinkle in her eyes before taking my hands in hers and looking me up and down. “Welcome back, darling. You look thin, please do not tell me that you’re trying to fit into one of those outrageous wedding gowns that seem to be made for dolls.” I wince at the mention of my upcoming nuptials but hastily cover it up with a chuckle. “Quite the opposite, at the last fitting my seamstress was rather disgruntled that she would have to take in the waist even further. It is just a bit of a nervous stomach, with all the impending change.” “But as a young bride you should be more happy than nervous, no?” “Mama,” Daphne scolds softly, while Eloise openly rolls her eyes. “I suppose I should.” “Why not at least wait until dinner with such questions?” comes a voice from my right, “Your forwardness single-handedly erodes our renowned British reserve.” I grin at Colin before pulling him into a hug and ruffling his coiffed hair. Being a year older, I have always indulged in playing big sister with him. He sighs in feigned annoyance. “I was going to say that it’s good to see you but I am already regretting that sentiment.” “Liar,” I snicker. Violet’s glance dances between us. I believe she once suspected a blossoming romance between Colin and me, but while I love him dearly as a surrogate brother, he has never made my heart flutter. Not that I could have ever betrayed poor Penelope anyway, whose bright eyes are locked on him as always. And not that I would ever actually marry a Bridgerton. I may have dared to dream of it ten years ago, when I first met Daphne and immediately became fast friends with her despite our age difference. When her family welcomed me into their home with such fervour and warmth that I could hardly believe my luck. With my mother having died from influenza when I was little and no other siblings to grow up with, the Bridgertons became the family I could have never imagined for myself. And the idea of marrying into it one day, of making my bond with them all official, that was the greatest aspiration I could envisage. But the one brother who has always fascinated me is nowhere in sight and I try to be glad for it. “Come, let’s get you settled before the rest of the battalion descends upon you.” Daphne pulls me inside while I give a grateful smile to the servants hurrying after us with my luggage. “So where is your charming husband?” I ask as we ascend the staircase. “And little Amelia? I have been dying to see her again.” “Simon was held up by business, he will arrive in a few days. And the little one is in the gardens with her nanny. I will call for some lemonade and once you have freshened up, we shall go out to see her and catch up. You have so much to tell me.” “I last saw you two months ago and we write constantly,” I laugh. “But all the things that have happened in those two months! Your engagement first and foremost. I simply must know everything, I certainly require more detail than the few lines from your letters.” My insides squirm at her eagerness but I manage a somewhat enthusiastic nod. She comes to a stop in front of a door. “Your usual guest room is having some work done, so I had my old room prepared for you – I hope you don’t mind.” “Not at all, it will be nice, I haven’t been in there since your wedding.” “And Mama has kept it exactly the same, you know how sentimental she gets.” Daphne sounds teasing yet her smile is nothing but fond. She gives me another hug. “I am so glad you are here. I’ve missed you. We all have.” “And I have missed you.”

Once my bags and I are safely inside, I inhale deeply and take in the stillness for a moment. Arriving at any Bridgerton residence always feels like being caught in a whirlwind and as much as I love them all, it can be overwhelming at times, especially after the often stifling silence of my own home. I wander over to the window, letting my eyes trail over the gardens, alive with an abundance of colours that makes my heart sing. Until it stops abruptly. There he is. Deeply lost in his brush strokes as he recreates the wonders around him. His vest is unbuttoned, his shirt carelessly gaping open at the top, his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Even from afar, Benedict Bridgerton ignites a well-known fire inside of me. Whenever I am away from him, I can almost convince myself that this age-old infatuation is nothing but a figment, a silly flight of fancy. Sometimes I can almost forget about him entirely, distract myself with my artistic pursuits, with other friends or travel. But then I notice a piece of melody flowing from my fingers that somehow reminds me of him or look down at a drawing in surprise, having unconsciously once again traced his familiar features. Still I repress it, abandon the fantasy of someone so far above my station. Someone who sees me as a family friend and nothing more. And now that I am engaged to be married I should purge my mind of him entirely, yet especially in these last few weeks I have scarcely thought of anything else, convinced that my longing could not possibly grow stronger. But the mere tangibility of him unravels me completely. I long to rush downstairs to see him and at the same time it is the one thing I fear the most. After a long moment I tear my gaze away and turn to the washing bowl. To my dismay, the cool water does little to calm my racing pulse and thoughts. Clean and unpacked I head towards the door, but halt half-way. Because as always, when I am in Daphne's room, my eyes fall on the painting of us. It is wonderfully serene, the two of us sitting on a picnic blanket in the gardens. She is engrossed in a book, but I am looking over my shoulder, smiling softly at the artist. It was Benedict of course. I remember vividly how I turned around to find him crouching with a sketchbook in his hand, capturing the scene in quick strokes. His face lit up and he winked at me before deftly outlining my expression. Later he transferred the motif onto a proper canvas, so I never got to see the original sketch. I have always wondered whether I had really looked at him like that. So openly enamoured.

I wander down the halls towards the open French doors leading into the garden when a voice pulls me from my reverie so suddenly I almost trip over my feet. “There you are.” I look up only to be met with a dazzling smile, gleaming eyes and a hint of spicy aftershave in the air. My stomach drops. “Mr. Bridgerton.” His smile falters briefly. He always insists on me calling him by his first name, yet I have never been able to. When we met he was already eighteen, a grown man at first sight. It had felt only right to address him with the same courtesy as his older brother. And even as we grew closer, as I learned of his boyish temperament, often bordering on immaturity, I never found the courage to simply call him Benedict. If only to keep up the semblance of a wall between us, a desperate attempt at shielding my heart. Not that I have ever succeeded in that endeavour. “Everyone’s been speaking of your arrival. How wonderful you have found time to join us.” “The pleasure is all mine, as always,” I reply, ignoring the pull in my chest. “Have you finished your painting?” I gesture at the art supplies in his arms. “Not quite, but I’m afraid duty calls. Some business I need to talk over with Anthony.” “Ah, I too have an enormously urgent appointment with your sister.” We share a light chuckle. “I am sure she has scheduled three hours at the least to learn all about your… plans.” The word comes out strangely forced but he catches himself quickly. “Will I see you at dinner?” “How could I ever miss one of Mrs. Brodie’s delicacies? I have had actual dreams of her rosemary chicken.” “You are not a true Bridgerton until you’ve had one of those dreams,” he says with a grin but it wavers slightly as the words sink in. He knows as well as I do that no number of dreams will ever make me a true Bridgerton. I swallow thickly before putting on a smile. “If you will excuse me, I am quite parched after the journey and Daphne has promised lemonade.” “Oh, of course, yes. Don’t let me keep you.” “Goodbye, sir.” “Until tonight, Y/N.” Something in his tone, in the way his lips curve around my name, sends shivers down my spine. With a swift curtsey I turn and practically run out into the open air.

I manage to ward off Daphne’s inquisition well enough. Yes, Captain Parker will be able to provide for me. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, my father approves of him. Luckily, we are regularly interrupted by the various Bridgerton siblings and distracted by little Amelia who is perfectly content as the centre of attention. “I am quite certain one day she will be the diamond of the season,” I declare, ruffling her hair. “Do you really think so?” Daphne is all too happy to swoon about her firstborn and I gladly steer the conversation away from my upcoming wedding. Eventually, I propose another game of croquet, having missed the previous one, and before long the dinner bell is rung. Everyone settles into the dining room and I sink into a comfortable chair, Daphne and Eloise on either side, Benedict across from me. I only notice now that we have always been seated like this during my visits and wonder if it was I who once sought out this particular arrangement. He quickly engages me in a conversation about art and music, the topics that have always connected us, and minute by minute I grow more comfortable in his presence. We fall into passionate discussions and light-hearted banter, only occasionally intercepted by the others around us. And I cannot help pondering if he has ever felt it, too. The sparkling potential between us. The mere idea of what we could have been. No matter how unrealistic, as long we were both unwed, a tiny part of my heart remained reserved for that hope. And every time I arrived at the manor to find him seemingly carefree about the future and with no bride in sight, I was flooded with relief, simultaneously blessed and cursed to hope for a little longer. Until a few weeks ago when those dreams were finally shattered. “So, are you looking forward to India?” Colin suddenly asks. “I would love to visit you there sometime, it must be incredible.” “Surely it would not be proper to interrupt their honeymoon,” Benedict says, somewhat strained. “Oh, it’s not for our honeymoon,” I reply. “My… Captain Parker will be permanently stationed there.” Benedict’s fork clatters onto the plate and we all flinch, the chatter around the table coming to a halt. “You will move to India?” He has gone frighteningly pale. “Yes. Has Daphne not told you?” “I must have,” she sputters, “when I was last in Lon–“ “No, you haven’t.” His words come out unusually harsh and my stomach twists. Everyone is staring at either him or me and Daphne’s eyes flicker between us before she forces a casual smile. “Brother, don’t be silly, I am certain I have. And either way, I shall be the one to miss her the most, no?” She puts an arm around me while giving a pointed look at Kate who quickly collects herself and pulls Anthony and Violet into a chat about their plans for the nursery. Slowly, the usual bustle recommences and I turn back to Colin. “Once we are settled in, you are more than welcome to visit. You all are, of course.” Benedict’s lips are pressed tightly together, his food forgotten.

I find little sleep that night, the image of Benedict imprinted on my mind. He seemed so genuinely upset. I expected him to miss me, of course, but the hint of melancholy I had detected in his features even before the revelation of my upcoming departure to India now haunts me. Losing him was always going to be torture but realising how it might affect him as well has doubled the pain and I start to regret this indulgence of coming to Aubrey Hall for one last summer. When the first sun rays filter through the half-opened curtains I inhale deeply, trying to infuse a little hope and joy into the beginning of this new day. And when Daphne surprises me with the idea of a relaxed breakfast in bed I almost believe it has worked. A while later we find ourselves in the parlour, Eloise engrossed in a book after Penelope’s earlier departure, Daphne rocking a fussy Amelia to sleep in her arms, and I sketching absently. I startle when Benedict walks in, slightly more dishevelled than usual. “Daph, Y/N. Just the pair I’ve been looking for.” “Good morning to you as well, dear brother,” Eloise says with a smirk. He bows excessively in her direction and I cannot help but smile at their antics. “Good morning, my darling sister.” They share a grin before he turns back to us. “I wanted to apologise for my little outburst at dinner. I was tired and the news took me by surprise.” He clears his throat. “I do hope you forgive me.” “Of course, sir,” I hasten to reply. “One could have almost suspected you of being jealous of a certain Captain Parker.” “Eloise!” Daphne chides but she too eyes her brother and me curiously. Before I can try to decipher either my feelings or his expression, Violet walks in, rubbing her hands enthusiastically. “Good morning, children! Who of you will kindly join us for a walk?” Daphne rises as Amelia starts crying once more and Violet immediately offers to take her. While they deliberate on the benefits of a walk for the baby, Benedict settles beside me, merely a few feet between us. I try to ignore the goosebumps forming on my skin at his soft smile. “May I?” He points at my sketchbook. I press it shut with hurried force. “No.” “Oh.” His face falls a little. “Forgive me, I did not mean to pry.” There is dejection in his eyes, but also confusion. I have always shared my sketches with him, just as my compositions, needlework and poetry. We have always valued each other’s opinions and advice. So naturally he is taken aback by my sudden reservedness. But how can I explain the shift from peaceful, colourful motifs to the utter gloom that has been dominating my sketches lately? The impending thunderstorms, the dark forests. And possibly worse, the countless drawings of him. Sometimes just his fingers, delicately holding a paintbrush, sometimes his entire silhouette, but mostly his boyishly handsome face that my eyes unerringly find the second I enter a room. If it scares me how much of my waking thought he is taking up – how much would it scare him? “I– I’m sorry, sir. I have not been feeling very… confident about my work lately.” “I can hardly believe that to be justified in any way. You have always possessed a raw talent I can scarcely dream of.” “That is not true.” “Well then, I challenge you.” Mischief sparkles in his eyes and an inadvertent giggle escapes me. “You mean it? We have not done that in ages.” “All the more reason to do it now.” “Y/N, are you coming?” Daphne calls across the room. “She is otherwise engaged,” Benedict grins before I can reply. “Is that so?” “Your brother has thrown down the gauntlet and I’m afraid I shall have to pick it up.” Daphne rolls her eyes, amusement playing on her lips. “Are you having one of your silly art competitions again? What is it this time?” “Portraits,” I say hastily. “We will paint each other. Fifteen minutes, as usual.” I wonder what possessed me to choose Benedict’s face as the subject, of all things. Most likely pure masochism. I do not dare gauge his reaction although I can feel his eyes on me. “Well, Amelia needs her walk now.” Daphne glances at the crying baby in Violet’s arms. “I suppose we shall see you both later. I’ll be happy to choose a winner then.” “You’re hardly impartial,” Benedict grumbles. “Neither are you when it comes to Y/N,” she retorts. Before I can begin to untangle her accusation she has breezed out the door.

Eloise is as bad a chaperone as ever, engrossed in her book a few yards away in the shade, while Benedict sets up his canvas beside me. Mine is leaning up against my chair. Despite my excessive practice I was not quite able to capture his essence. Perhaps because it felt so strikingly different from the other times he sat for me. I had asked him not to speak, as to not strain my jittery nerves even further, and he had obliged, albeit reluctantly. But with every passing second the silence between us grew heavier, along with his expression. It weighed down my piece of charcoal, making it impossible to find my usual ease in sketching. Just when I feared it might crumble between my tense fingers, Benedict murmured, “Time’s up” with a glance at his pocket watch. Before he could peek at the result I hurriedly asked for a lunch break which we spent with an unusually talkative Anthony. Now we have returned to our previous spot and he sets up his own work. “May I ask,” he says after the first few strokes, “why the quick engagement? Did you know immediately that he was the right man for you?” His jaw clenches while he firmly stares at the canvas. My hands grow clammy, clutching his watch tightly. “I could hardly afford such luxuries anymore. At four-and-twenty my chances of finding the ‘right’ man have been dwindling about as fast as my father’s faith in me receiving a proposal at all.” “You make yourself sound like an old spinster.” “Well, in the eyes of the ton I am. I should consider myself lucky to be engaged at last.” “But you don’t?” His eyes search mine intently until I drop my gaze, scared of what he might find in it. “Of course. Very lucky indeed.” Once more a long silence hangs between us. I suddenly feel impossibly tired. And as much as I want to blame the summer heat and sleepless nights, I know this weariness runs much deeper. The exhaustion of holding up the pretence that I am even remotely content with my lot. “Look at me, please,” Benedict murmurs and I follow his request without hesitation, taken aback by the deep concern in his features. He thanks me softly before resuming his quiet work. “Will you not be terribly lonely in India?” he finally asks. I bite my lip. “Not for long, I hope.” What I cannot say is that I am almost glad to go. To miss them all from so far away they will hardly feel real. To not see them fall in love and lead lives I will barely be a part of. To not sit and watch Benedict await his bride at the altar, breaking inside because it should be me walking down that aisle towards him. To not look at the children who have his wild hair and lopsided grin and not find a single trace of me in their faces. I blink away tears, desperate to change the subject before he manages to poke even more holes into my façade. “And what of your plans for the future, sir? Anything exciting on the horizon?” He pauses for a moment, seemingly debating whether to indulge me. “You will think me foolish, but lately I've been thinking about opening my own academy one day. One where your wealth and sex do not matter, where you are accepted on merit and passion alone. And perhaps when you are a personal friend of the owner.” He winks at me and I stare at him in feigned indignation. “Are you saying my merit and passion would not suffice?” “Not at all. If anything, you possess too much of both, so I would have to keep you in a private class as to not discourage the other students.” I glance down at my lap, hiding both my smile and the blush forming on my cheeks. “Well, I think, it sounds anything but foolish. You could grant opportunities to so many people who will never find them anywhere else. Promise you will write to me when that dream becomes a reality.” I look back up at him, surprised at the soft wonder in his eyes, then let mine travel down to his lips as they curve into a half-smirk. “When, not if? You flatter me.” “I believe in you. I always have. And I dearly hope that one of us will be allowed to live his dream.” Benedict swallows, all traces of mirth erased from his features. “Y/N, you–” “Time’s up,” I say, without a single glance at the watch. He bites his tongue while an entire palette of emotions flits across his face. “Here you are!” We both startle when Daphne appears beside me, placing her hands on my shoulders with a wide grin. “Brother, stop capitalising on my dear friend's time. She is my guest after all.” “And here I thought she liked to spend time with all of us,” Eloise comments and I suddenly wonder how much of our previous conversation she has eavesdropped on while appearing lost in her reading. The other Bridgertons trail behind Daphne, evidently tired from their stroll in the sun. Colin immediately snorts as he peeks at the canvas. “You cannot be painting Y/N again. Do you not have an entire portrait gallery of her already?” “Well, none of you little gremlins ever hold still for even a minute.” “I've sat for you plenty of times,” Daphne protests. “Yes, and you look like you'd rather hang every single time.” “Benedict!” Violet scolds gently. “Well, let’s see them then. You do need a few judges after all.” Despite my weak protests, both sketches are propped up beside each other a few moments later. The Bridgertons remain unusually quiet. “They are both fine works,” Violet says eventually. “But you two seem so…” “Gloomy,” Kate finishes. Everyone nods. “Did Eloise bore you with an excerpt from her book while you were drawing?” Colin quips and ducks as said book comes flying at his head. Within seconds the family is caught in familiar chaos and I let myself be dragged off to another lunch despite feeling so queasy I might never eat again. When I glance back at Benedict he only manages the barest of smiles.

The week and a half of my stay at Aubrey Hall passes in a turmoil of emotions. As much as I love spending time with the Bridgertons and try to fully revel in their company, it unnerves me. Feeling their observant eyes on me, the underlying tension in the air, I have been growing more short-tempered and nervous, increasingly avoiding the presence of the people I love the most to escape their questions, both voiced and unspoken. The portrait of Benedict lies buried in his studio. I could not bear having his charcoal eyes stare at me with the same apprehension as his soft green ones. Being around him has lost all the ease we used to share despite my infatuation. I am glad when Simon joins us, creating a distraction for Daphne and thus some room for myself. But no amount of wandering the familiar halls and gardens, hiding away in the library or furiously filling page after page of my sketchbook can calm my racing mind. Anxiety has nestled deep inside my chest, constricting my lungs and churning in my stomach. And then it arrives: My last day at the manor. They surprise me with a picnic under clear blue skies and despite my incessant sorrow it turns out rather lovely. Before long, the little ones are running around and I find myself pulled in all directions, playing and frolicking in the sun. The adults disperse as well, picking up games or strolling through the gardens in deep conversation. Eventually, I sink down onto a blanket next to Daphne and Amelia, out of breath and surprisingly cheerful. My friend looks over at me, a wistful expression on her face. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your time with us,” she says softly. “Of course,” I reply automatically. “I always do.” I let my eyes wander over the scenes around us and the despite the joy in the air, panic and despair once more rise in my throat. Cotton fills my ears, then my entire skin starts to tingle. And suddenly it comes crashing down on me. The intense finality of these last few days with the Bridgertons. The very real possibility that I might never return to Aubrey Hall, never again chatter with Daphne, joke with Colin, debate with Eloise. Never chase the younger siblings across the rolling greens or laugh at a seething Anthony after an eventful croquet match. Never have a single moment alone with Benedict. I have been a fool for believing that distance would make me miss them all any less. Because at this moment I am certain that I will be longing for these days for the rest of my life. Still, the sob that rips from my mouth takes me by surprise. “Y/N?” Daphne turns to me, little Amelia on her lap eyeing me warily. I want to reassure her but instead tears start flowing uncontrollably. “Oh my dear!” Daphne sets her daughter down on the blanket, then throws her arms around me. “Y/N, whatever is the matter?” I cannot find my voice for several minutes, overwhelmed by the most intense sorrow I have felt since my mother's passing. When I finally speak, the words come out raspy and broken. “I am going to miss you all so much.” “Well, how awful would it be if you didn't?” Daphne says, a half-smile on her lips but it fades as she inspects my face. “Is it more than that? Are you truly not looking forward to marriage at all? I know it can be daunting, Simon and I have had a rocky path as well, but now I cannot imagine a life without him.” “Because you love him!” The words come out rougher than intended and Amelia winces, her mouth curling into a frown. I quickly cradle her in my arms before she can start crying as well. Nuzzling her soft hair I avoid Daphne’s eyes. “You've always loved him, Daph. Even when you could not yet admit it to yourself, even when you did not know that he returned your feelings.” A tense pause stretches between us. “Do you truly believe you will never love Captain Parker?” she finally whispers. I bite my lip, unable to answer. “Y/N, why on earth did you accept his proposal if you cannot see a happy life with him?” I want to scream at her, want to rage at her naiveté, her inability to grasp the gravity of my situation. But I cannot. Not at my best friend who does not know and can never know how this engagement came about. “If you do not want this, I can help you,” she says softly now. “We will find a perfect match for you next season. Who knows, maybe even somewhere along the way until then?” Daphne attempts another soft smile and my tears start flowing again. If only it were this simple. She reaches for my hand while I am pressing Amelia closer with the other, relishing in her warmth and quiet babbling. “It pains me to see you like this. There must be something I can do. I realise that Anthony and I have been very lucky to have found our partners, but if it is not love that persuades you to marry, it should at least be mutual respect and fondness. I am certain we can find such a man for you, if only–” “No,” I say determinedly. “I am grateful to you, Daph, but it is too late.” “Too late because you're afraid to break off the engagement or because your heart is already taken?” I gasp. “Daphne–” “Is it someone I know?” “No, it's no one. There is no one.” I press a kiss to Amelia's head, then place her in her mother's arms. Wiping my face, I rise to my feet. “I am sorry for my outburst. Do forgive me. I just need a moment to myself.” “Y/N–” “Thank you for the picnic.” Brushing away fresh tears I flee the picture-perfect scene that now only breaks my heart.

Hours later everyone is bustling about in the parlour, impatiently awaiting dinner. I have claimed the piano in the corner and let my fingers wander over the keys, following a soft, melancholy tune. My gaze loses focus in the middle distance as I calculate the number of hours I have left here. There is no clock in the room and yet I can hear an unrelenting ticking. “Is that your latest composition?” I flinch before my eyes find Benedict's, his lacking their usual sparkle. “I– I am not certain...” I clear my throat and Daphne briefly glances over at me, worry in her features. “I'm still working on it.” “It's beautiful.” “You do not sound quite convinced,” I say with a weak attempt at a smile. “No, I mean it. Every piece you compose is beautiful. It's just... It sounds so deeply sad.” I suddenly sense how the atmosphere in the room has changed. Even the little ones have gone quiet, with everyone stealing looks of concern at me. “I am so sorry, I did not mean to ruin the mood. Please carry on.” I chuckle nervously and the Bridgertons are kind enough to return to their antics, albeit slightly forced. “Y/N, are you alright?” Benedict's voice is low but strained. I turn back to the keys, once more biting back tears. “Of course, sir. I am perfectly fine.” “You do not seem like yourself,” he murmurs. “You are usually.... softer. But also stronger. With such a zest for life. I've never seen you like this, so burdened, so sombre.” I raise my chin, attempting to look challenging rather than heartbroken at his astute observation. “And what about you, Mr. Bridgerton? These past few days you have hardly been the carefree man I've come to know.“ “Then you must know that you are the cause.” We both still. Blood is rushing in my ears as I try to steel myself for something I fear and crave in equal measure. But after a long moment he shakes his head, swallowing heavily. “I worry about you, Y/N. We all do. I know things have not always been easy for you but until now I believed our family could provide you with comfort. And if that is somehow no longer the case, surely the prospect of starting your own family should excite you.” I hopelessly rifle through my mind for an answer that might assuage him once and for all. “Dinner is ready, my lady.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Wonderful!” Violet smiles at the servant who has appeared in the doorway, then claps her hands. Her offspring rises from floor and sofas, muttering about being starved while jostling towards the dining room. I stand up so quickly the piano stool topples over and I reach for it at the same time as Benedict. Our hands briefly touch in mid-air, sending a spark through mine before I can pull away. He stares at me, the ticking even louder than before. “Y/N, you must know that you can confide in me.” “There is nothing to confide, sir.” “Benedict.” My face runs hot at both the insistence on his first name and the multitude of my confessions boiling so close to the surface. His features soften as he subconsciously draws closer and I scramble to my feet, heart pounding wildly. “We should go, everyone is waiting.” Before he can reply I rush out of the parlour, pressing clammy hands to my cheeks to soothe the fire in them.

Dinner is strangely quiet and whenever I glance over at Benedict I find him already looking at me. For the millionth time this week I wonder if I should not have discredited his motives so quickly, should not have dismissed his attempts at forming a tighter bond between us for the fear of falling too far. Is it possible I might have misread him all these years? Too blind in my self-deprecation, too caught up in worries about money and class when he never seemed to care much for these things, when perhaps he could have easily seen beyond them? Should I have rather flown too close to the sun than never have flown at all? When the children have gone to bed I linger with the others, barely engaging in the conversation over drinks but unwilling to embark on the hours of anxious brooding in the dark ahead of me. Eventually, the yawns become more frequent and one by one the Bridgertons retire until at last Daphne and I make our way upstairs as well. I halt as we pass the library. “I’m not quite tired enough for bed. I am going to peruse the books for a while.” Daphne turns to me, deeply mournful. “Y/N, I so wish you would tell me what is going on.” I feel my bottom lip begin to quiver and shake my head vehemently. “I can’t.” “Why ever not? Are we not confidants? I have always told you everything.” “And I am so grateful for your trust and friendship.” I envelop her in a tight hug. “I will be alright. Do not worry about me.” “How can I not worry when my best friend is so clearly unhappy?” She draws back to examine me once more. “I have had my happiness. With you, with your family. That shall be enough. Not everyone finds a happy ending.” “But you so deserve it,” she says, grasping my hand. “Both you and–“ She stops herself abruptly. “Who?” “Never mind.” I want to ask again but nod instead. She seizes a candleholder from a side table and lights it with the flame of her own. “Take this. And don’t stay up too late. We will speak again in the morning.” “Goodnight, Daph.” I slip into the dark library and carefully close the door behind me. After a few deep breaths I walk around the room, lighting more candles, until I am startled by a soft knock. With a sigh I move to open the door. “Daphne, please, can we–“ The words die in my throat. Benedict stands before me, carrying a grave expression. “I need to speak with you.” “Sir, you have to leave,” I splutter. “What if someone sees us? Daphne might still be nearby.” “She was the one to tell me where to find you.” “What, why?” “Because she knows.” “Knows what?” A long pause. Then he carefully pushes past me and presses the door shut. I can do nothing but stare at him in disbelief. “Sir, you–“ “Are you fond of your...”, he clears his throat, “your fiancé?” “Excuse me?” “It's a simple question.” My chest tightens as panic once again seeps into my veins. “I am hoping I can learn to be.” His eyes burn into mine, brimming with concern. “Y/N, are you scared of him?” “Sir–“ “Benedict, please. Please.” “No. I– I'm sorry, I...” I am so tired of crying, so I bury my nails painfully into my palms to hold back the tears. Still, I am shaking before him. He slightly raises his arms, as if wanting to pull me into a hug, and I wish more than anything I could let him without risking to fall apart entirely. “You must break off the engagement.” “I can't.” “Y/N, you're terrified. That is not a life you're entering, it is torture. And it’s killing us to know that you are hurting, that you might not be safe – it’s killing me. Is he choleric? I swear, if he ever laid a hand on you, I–“ “He already has.” “What?” “At the midsummer ball. He seized me in the gardens and touched me... Kissed me. Lady Clementine saw us and reported to my father. Father claimed that we were engaged and thus we were.” Benedict has turned to the nearest bookshelf, lips in a tight line, knuckles white from grasping the wooden board like a vice. He is trembling and my stomach sinks even further. “Did you explain the situation to your father?” he presses through gritted teeth, eyes boring into the volumes before him. “Of course. But he is deathly afraid of scandal. Our standing in the ton is on such thin ice as is.” “That's not true.” “Yes, it is.” Frustration starts boiling within me, one that I have been harbouring since I first set foot into their manor on Grosvenor Square ten years ago. All this splendour, so nonchalantly taken for granted by the entire family. All those visitors so obviously enchanted by the grand Bridgertons, never questioning their rightful place in this world. “You have no idea what it's like. Your father wasn't just barely rich enough to gain some footing in the ton but not to provide you with an appealing dowry. You have never been an only child, never had to be scared that your family's legacy might crumble if you ever step out of line for even a second, even when it's not your fault!” I am vibrating with restrained anger but quickly run out of steam when his face falls along with his shoulders. “You're right,” he whispers. “Please forgive me.” “I have to apologise as well. You have been born with an array of privileges from your sex to your wealth but I know that you do not flaunt them. However, my options aren't as wonderfully unlimited.” I swallow thickly. “So you see, I cannot end this engagement. My already slim chances would be ruined, who else would make me an offer after this?” “I would.” His reply is immediate, certain, and it crashes into me without warning. My mouth is dry, every nerve in my body alight. “That is incredibly kind, but I could never accept.” My voice nearly fails me. “You deserve a grand life, Benedict.” His eyes widen at the name finally spilling from my lips where I have kept it hidden for so long. “You will be a renowned artist, a gift for society in so many ways. And you deserve a woman you adore by your side, one who will never leave a stain on your good name.” “I have already found her.” His words hit me unexpectedly at first, an instant stab of jealousy in my chest. Then a lump forms in my throat as realisation sets in. A realisation I have never allowed and am not ready for still. “But I cannot seem to make her see that she has held my heart for an entire decade. That her smile and wit and artistic endeavours captivate me more and more with every passing year. That I could have lived with her romantic disinterest in me, had she found someone whose soul matches the beauty of hers.” “Benedict...” “That my name from her lips is the sweetest sound in the world.” “Please stop.” He pauses briefly. “Are you scared of me as well?” “Yes,” I blurt out, “I have been scared of you since the moment we met because you make me forget myself. You make me forget that you are entirely out of reach, that no matter how much I love you, I–“ My hand flies to my mouth, heart slamming into my ribcage. I stumble backwards while muttering senseless apologies. Benedict is stunned into silence. It feels like years pass between us. When he finally speaks, his words are hoarse and quavering. “You... You love me? All these years every advance of mine seemed futile because you thought–“ “Please forget everything I have said. Promise me you will.” “Forget? Forget the most wonderful words I have heard in my life?” “Benedict, I’m begging you…” I give into the tears at last. Whether they are born of desperation, frustration or simple pain, I can no longer tell. He walks towards me, a barely-contained storm on his face. “I refuse to live in a world where I do not hear you say my name every single day. Where I see you but once a year, your light slowly dimming in a loveless marriage. Carrying the children of that... bastard.” Now he is crying, too. “Please do not do that to yourself. Do not submit yourself to such misery. Whether you choose me or not, I will support you. I will do whatever I can to give you a good life. The life of an artist if you want it. That I can promise you. You will always have me.” He sinks down on both knees, his fingers carefully closing around mine. “And if you do choose me... I will do the same and more. I will give you everything I've held in for so long. My love for you will never falter.” I am frantically searching for reasons to deny him because none of this could ever be real, his skin on mine, his unbelievable offer in the air. My mind is reeling, trying and failing to catch up with everything that has transpired these past few moments. Years of dreams and longing, so briskly swept aside to reveal a glimpse at a reality that must be impossible because it always has been. “What would your family say?” I say shakily. “What would everyone say?” His hold on me tightens. “You know my family adores you and would accept you with open arms, no matter the circumstances. And I could not care less about anyone else. The gossip would die, it always does. Lady Whistledown would surely distract them with something else within a week.” A rivulet of hope trickles across my heart. “Could this... could this truly be?” “Tomorrow you will meet him in the city. All you have to do is talk to him one last time. I will be there if you want me to. Heavens, the entire Bridgerton clan will be there if you want us to.” We both chuckle through the tears. “You are not alone in this, Y/N.” I let his words sink in for a long moment. “And what if I choose you?” “Then we can go into town right after to pick out a ring and speak to the vicar.” His thumbs caress my knuckles reverently. “Will you? Will you do me the incredible honour of accepting my hand?” My knees buckle and I lower myself onto the floor before him. The blazing anxiety I have grown almost accustomed to has faded into glowing embers. After having wandered through hell for weeks, I find peace in his hopeful gaze, comfort in the soft contours I am so intimately acquainted with. A kaleidoscope of memories flashes before my eyes, all tinted in new colours. It has always been there, right in front of me: He loves me. And all I have ever had to do was say yes. “The honour would be all mine, Benedict Bridgerton.” A strangled noise escapes him before his eyes frantically scan my face as if they might find a single trace of doubt there. They could never. Not anymore. His hands come up, hovering beside my cheeks. “God, I really want to– Is it alright if I–“ “Yes!” He grins, breathless and blushing. “I haven't even–“ I lunge forward and press my lips to his. It is clumsy and overwhelming but also everything I have ever wanted. He almost tumbles over in surprise, but seconds later we are completely entangled, seeking each other's mouth over and over. Heart pounding, skin aflame, I am certain this is the happiest I have ever been. Because while my body nearly gives out with the strange exhilaration of it all, I also feel perfectly safe. As if this is exactly where I belong, where everything finally makes sense. In between kisses he whispers my name like a confession of love. It is from his lips. When we finally part for air we stare at each other with endless wonder, then start smiling deliriously. I reach out to cradle his face in my palm and he leans into it with a sigh. “Ben,” I murmur, the name unfamiliar but sweet in my mouth. He beams at me. “Come here, darling.” Without hesitation I let him pull me into his lap, just as desperate to be close. I no longer care if anyone finds us like this, am no longer terrified of scandal. Not when I know for certain that I will marry the love of my life, unfazed by gossip and propriety. I nestle into the crook of his neck, deeply inhaling his scent, revelling in the warmth and solidness of his chest. His arms encircle me as I feel his heartbeat slow. Knowing it was I who made it race in the first place fills me with a fervent glow. “Do you have the slightest idea how incredible you are?” I say quietly as I lean back a little to look at him. “I cannot believe you would have provided for me if my father had turned me away.” “Without hesitation. You're everything to me, Y/N.” “What would your future wife have said?” “I cannot imagine there ever would have been a wife.” My eyes widen. “Oh Benedict…” “Never mind that.” He gives me a half-smile. “I would have had my family. And hopefully you in some way still.” My heart aches for the unhappy people we would have almost become and I pull him in for another kiss, assuring him and myself that will never be us. Then I am hit with one more realisation. “Wait, when you said that Daphne ‘knows’, did you mean...?“ “About my utter adoration for you? Sweetheart, they all know. Always have. You were the only one who never seemed to see.” “But no one ever–“ “I made sure they wouldn’t bring it up. Although you can imagine how excruciating it was for them.” “But why? Maybe one of them could have pulled me out of my head for once.” He gently caresses my face. “I wanted you to find your own way. Whether it would lead to me or not.” My heart swells with love as I lean my forehead against his. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For waiting. For saving me from myself. For everything.” “You have always been worth it.” We once again lose ourselves in a long kiss and I wonder how I would have made it through life without even a fraction of this bliss. Eventually, Benedict draws back, pure warmth in his eyes. “As much as I would like to stay here forever, I’m afraid we have to leave. Daphne may or may not still be standing guard outside.” I raise a hand to my mouth, trying in vain to suppress the giggle spilling out. He grins widely, then releases me and lets me pull him to his feet. “She is truly the best friend one could ask for.” “Oh, make no mistake, she will use this against us for the rest of our lives.” I smile up at him. “And I will cherish every second of it.”

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MASTERLIST

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