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bucketbueckers · 1 day ago

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RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER TWO

content: language, a cam roman crash out disguised as humor, mention of a panic attack (not an actual one, literally a mention), implied mental health issues, HORSE as foreplay, author won't pretend to know anything about the dallas geography

wc: 7.2k

notes: not gonna lie, this was lowk a rly tough chapter to write but im happy with how it turned out 🙂‍↔️ i love paige and cam so bad and i can't wait until we get to the heart of their relationship once the season actually starts. also i honestly wasn't gonna post this tn but somehow the wings won so why not. do not expect future updates to be this fast. shout out li yueru tho thats my goat fr. if i missed anyone on the taglist pls lmk !!! anyways i really appreciate the love on chapter one and i love hearing from y'all 🫶 as always i hope y'all enjoy this one ❤️

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog @sillystarv @middyprincess @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers @user1269 @fivest4rbuecks @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @lilpaigeyherbo

Before now, Cam isn’t so sure that she’s ever thought much about retirement.

She’s 26. She easily has another ten years left in her, but she’s always dreamed of having a long career that could rival Taurasi’s. She knows for sure that she’s not turning in her resignation papers without a league MVP, a championship ring, and an Olympic medal. Whether she retired as a Dallas Wing or whether she signed elsewhere was another story entirely. Maybe she’d spend her final season in the league as a Golden State Valkyrie, giving her last year to the city that had raised her.

Either way, the end wasn’t ever something that was a topic of thought for her. Cam liked to stay focused on the present – on her workouts, her training. The seasons always passed by so quickly that dedicating your energy to anywhere but the present was wasting the already limited time you had.

But now, as Cam stares at a very naked Paige Bueckers, whose face is wrought with a sudden shock and a damning realization, whose hair is mussed and whose neck is littered with enough marks that Cam has half a mind to call the cops and report herself for assault and battery, she sees her entire career flash by her eyes.

She recalls her draft night vividly. She still has the white, floral dress she wore to it hung up in her closet. She remembers her first rookie press conference and the reporter who backhandedly called her a “decent player, given the options the Wings had in the draft.” She remembers her debut, her lackluster thirteen points and five rebounds, how the media considered her a bust only five games into the season. Cam remembers how she fought to show up every day despite the fact that all she wanted to do was curl up in her bed and cease to exist.

Cam remembers how she made a name for herself in spite of it all. She remembers their winning season, and how it all came crashing down in 2024 when they only won nine games. She remembers the embarrassment of not being selected for the 2024 Olympics and how quiet the dinner table was after Coley only brought home a silver. Romans display their gold, her father had said, hardly sparing a glance at his youngest. Anything else is as good as a coaster.

They always say that, when you die, your fondest memories replay for you in one final surge of happiness. Cam is sure that’s what she’s feeling now because clearly her career is over.

She’ll have to request a trade. The Wings organization is already being held together by a thin piece of twine and the hope that Curt Miller, Chris Koclanes, and Paige Bueckers can be the one to pull them from the depths of hell and turn them into something that the rest of the league wouldn’t laugh at. Cam doesn’t know how anyone would be able to recover if word got out that she slept with Paige Bueckers – number one draft pick, Wings rookie (Cam’s rookie), future of the franchise, in case you’d forgotten – on the very same night that she lifted her jersey.

Okay. Maybe it wasn’t the same night, considering they didn’t make it back to the hotel room until well after midnight, and Cam was sure that the clock on the wall read something like 2:49 by the time the last of their energy was depleted and Paige spooned her from behind like they’d been in a position a time or two.

Obviously, that’s not the point – not if Camille’s ensuing panic attack has anything to say about it.

The point is this entire situation is a major conflict of interest. Morally, technically, probably legally. Cam was supposed to be the responsible one, the veteran. Granted, she and Paige aren’t so far apart in age, but she’s going on her fifth year in the league. She knows better. And everything is so fragile right now. She might have just risked the health of the locker room in exchange for one night that, admittedly, was nice.

The most terrifying part of this entire situation was that Cam was supposed to take care of Paige. Not in a coddling manner – Paige could handle herself. She was grown. But adjusting to the league, to the pace, to the expectations…that wasn’t something you should do alone. She was supposed to help Paige find her footing, support her, advocate for her. She was supposed to do what any good veteran would do for their rook, but somewhere in between all of that anxiety bubbling in her gut, she feels that ever present feeling of failure creeping in.

She hadn’t even made it back to Dallas before she fucked it all up. And this feeling – this fear, the dread, the overwhelming sense that she just did something she can’t take back, it feels worse than anything she’s ever felt before. It’s worse than getting blown out in front of a home crowd that gets quieter and quieter with every turnover, every missed shot, every collapse on defense that leads to an uncontested three.

Welcome to the league, Paige Bueckers. Bet you wished it really was an Alyssa Thomas screen, huh?

“Okay,” Paige says after a while, her voice surprisingly calm given the gravity of the moment. “It’s not that bad.”

Cam throws her hands into the air, overwhelmed and exasperated. “Not that bad?” she exclaims, her heart hammering against her chest. “Paige, we just slept together.”

The blonde swallows, her eyes flickering down, and it seems like it takes a genuine effort to lift them back to Cam’s face. “Trust me,” she says, her voice cracking a little. “I ain’t forget.”

Cam glances down, taking in just how fucking naked she is, too, and with a growl that borders on equal parts panic and humiliation, she rips the comforter off the second bed in the room and wraps it around her body. It keeps Paige’s gaze off of her chest, but Cam isn’t sure what’s worse – having Paige see all of her or the fact that, despite the early morning, Paige’s eyes are impossibly blue, alert, and trained on her face. Somehow, it makes her feel more vulnerable than having stood in front of her naked.

“Are you…okay?” Paige asks tentatively.

That makes Cam’s shoulders sag, a huff of air escaping her lips. It’s hard to tell if it’s a scoff or something more like amusement, and she takes a seat at the foot of the bed as she digs through the pile of clothes on the floor for her underwear. “Yes,” she says, the word sounding stale. Paige makes a soft noise behind her that sounds like disbelief. Cam sighs. “No. I don’t know, Paige.”

“Are you hurt?”

That makes Cam pause, drawing her lip between her teeth in contemplation as she slides her bottoms over her legs. “Sore,” she admits after a while.

“Yeah?” Paige goads, and it fills Cam with the urge to turn around and smack her head. She rolls her lips so as to not smile and doesn’t give Paige the satisfaction of getting a reaction. “I’d apologize, but…you seemed pretty okay with it.”

“Paige,” Cam stresses. The reminder of last night makes her walls raise again. “Be serious.”

“Sorry,” she says for real, and it sounds genuinely apologetic. “Do you, uh, regret it? I didn’t like – force you, or anything?”

Cam sighs again, reaching for her bra, dropping the comforter to slide it over her torso. She feels Paige’s gaze leave her. The respect is touching. “I was drunk,” she admits, listening for the hitch in Paige’s breath. “We were drunk. Not helpless. Or out of control. You didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t…want. Or consent to.”

Paige exhales a relieved breath. She’s silent for a few moments, her eyes tracing Cam’s figure as she slides into her baggy cargos, then her crop top. “Then why are you freaking out? You’re okay. Mostly.” She adds the last part as an afterthought, and it makes the ghost of a smile spread across Cam’s lips. “You’re not hurt. You don’t regret it. Please tell me what’s wrong, Cam. I’ll fix it.”

Cam takes a deep breath, twisting around in bed and leaning against the headboard. Paige adjusts too, keeping the comforter pressed close to her chest, the chain around her neck glimmering. “We’re teammates,” Cam states. “Like, you know that was the whole point of the draft last night?”

Paige nods seriously, trying not to smirk at Cam’s sarcasm. “Trust me. I ain’t forget that either.” Cam rolls her eyes, the humor helping to make her relax. “Plus, we’re not technically anything until I sign that contract. And, you know…teammates sleeping together isn’t a new thing. Look at Dee and Penny. DB and AT.”

“Are you also aware that those individuals are married?” Cam emphasizes, exasperated again.

“You don’t have to be married to sleep with someone,” Paige retorts, and it makes Cam bury her head in her hands. Paige sighs. “Hey – I’m sorry, okay? I’m tryna be reassuring. Emotions were all over the place last night. You found out you really liked Shirley Temples. And…I guess we have really good chemistry.”

Cam can’t hide her smirk this time. “Hopefully that chemistry translates to the court, or we’re screwed for this season.”

“Cam,” Paige whines, pressing her face into the pillow. That draws a real laugh out of Cam now. Their eyes meet again, both gazes softening. “Look, I’m just saying that it’s okay. It happened. Can’t change it. I don’t regret it, you don’t regret it, and we can be mature adults about it. Yeah, we’re gonna be teammates. This won’t affect the locker room, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Cam exhales sharply, trying to find the right words. It’s not just the locker room. It’s everything. Cam has no idea who was at that afterparty, if anyone has any clips of her and Paige dancing on each other or leaving the party together. It’s the fact that she feels like she has so many eyes on her, even though there’s nobody but her and Paige in this room right now. Between the realization that this entire situation is a moral landmine and how guilty she feels because she let herself be free and indulge in one night, all Cam feels is overwhelmed. That emotion doesn’t mix well with the residual exhaustion. “It’s just–”

Her alarm rings again, causing both her and Paige to flinch, and she silences it quickly with a ragged sigh. She closes her eyes tightly in an attempt to regulate her breathing and her emotions.

“Hey,” Paige says softly, her hand extending to brush across Cam’s back. “You’re good. We’re good. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

Cam nods, not quite trusting herself to speak, and she sucks in a breath. She doesn’t meet Paige’s gaze when she says, “I have to catch a flight back to Dallas. When are you flying in for the rookie press conference?”

Paige sighs. “Fuck. I’on know.” She swallows thickly, nodding to the ground. “Can you…uh, grab my phone for me?”

“Yeah,” Cam says quickly, if not a little awkward, and she leans over to fumble with Paige’s clothes on the floor until she finds the blonde’s phone tucked into the pocket of her pants. She hands it over wordlessly and Paige breathes a sigh of relief when she finds that it still has some charge.

Paige scrolls through her phone for a few seconds before she clears her throat. “I’ll fly in on the morning of the 23rd.”

“That’s fine,” Cam agrees quietly. “We’ll talk after.”

Paige lifts her head ever so slightly as she watches Cam shuffle around the room, searching for wherever her shoes had ended up. She’s unlacing one just as Paige says, “What hotel are you staying at?”

“Hilton,” Cam answers. “Why?”

Paige hums, her attention back on her phone. “Getting you an Uber back.”

“Paige,” Cam sighs, standing up straight. When Paige glances back up, an amused smile is on her face – probably because Cam has only one shoe on, her clothes are rumpled, and her once neatly styled hair is out of place. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Least I could do,” she says, her tone a little softer. “I got you stressin’ for no reason on a Tuesday morning. What kind of rookie does that?”

Cam huffs out a laugh at that – a real one. She finds her other shoe and starts working on getting it on her foot. “A really annoying, yet really thoughtful one.” Paige pats her chest proudly as if to say that’s me. When Cam is finally dressed, she palms her pockets for her phone, keys, and wallet, exhaling in relief when she has them. “Hey.” Paige looks up, and Cam bounces on her heels, a sheepish expression on her face. “Sorry for freaking out on you. I just–”

“I know,” Paige interrupts gently. Cam’s shoulders sag, appreciating Paige’s understanding more than she probably knows. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you know that? It takes two to tango. It’s not like I was an unwilling partner.” Her cheeks are flushed when she admits, “Maybe a little too eager, though. That’s the last time I chase a shot with a Shirley.” Cam can’t help her laughter, shaking her head in amusement. “If there’s a blame, then we’ll share it. Or I’ll take it for you. Rookie duties or whatever. Just don’t freak out, okay? We’re good. We will be. I swear.”

“...Thanks, Paige,” Cam whispers, and Paige’s reassuring smile makes everything feel like it’ll be okay again. “See you next week?”

The reassurance falls victim to mischief, because something sparkles in Paige’s eyes when she says, “Don’t miss me too much, Cam.”

Cam rolls her eyes, pursing her lips to stifle a smile, and she and Paige exchange one last goodbye before Cam steps out. The door clicks shut behind her with a resounding noise and it takes everything in Cam to not pause and press her forehead to it dramatically. Instead, she sighs, and reminds herself of the Uber waiting for her, the flight she has to catch, and makes her way out of Paige’s hotel.

Maybe she overreacted a little. Truth be told, she still feels a little unmoored, like she’s not quite sure of her role anymore. She, the veteran, was the one freaking out in Paige’s, a rookie’s, hotel room as she reassured her and told her they didn’t fuck anything up. Cam can’t help but feel like that should have been her job.

It’s hard to understand why she’s fumbling so badly now. She didn’t have this issue last year with Jacy Sheldon – granted, Cam didn’t sleep with her, but Cam was confidently the veteran to Sheldon’s rookie. There wasn’t a single misstep. She coached the young guard, helped develop her, and did everything a veteran was supposed to do.

But Paige is something else entirely. An enigma. A challenge. Something Cam was prepared to be unprepared for because she knew that Paige was always a caliber above the rest. In her game, her mentality, her ambition.

As Cam slides into the backseat of her Uber, smiling politely at the driver, she realizes that she has to run a tighter ship. She has to be poised, professional, the exact things she was supposed to be anyways before she let Paige Bueckers unravel her.

She’s here to play ball, and as far as she’s concerned, making her relationship with Paige more complicated than it already is will be the reason why everything crashes and burns.

Cam lands back in Dallas around 10am. She takes an Uber to her apartment, where Bobby, her characteristic orange cat, and Gatsby, a very particular tuxedo, greet her at the door. She’d managed to squeeze a few hours of rest in on the plane but she feels ready to collapse as soon as she’s back in. Before anything else, she scoops up both Bobby and Gatsby and plants a long, dramatic kiss to their foreheads and diligently portions out some wet food for them.

She makes her way into the bathroom to get ready for her presentation at UTA, then she’s back out of the house as quickly as she’d made it there in the first place. The presentation is a breeze, holding enough of her attention that she doesn’t get lost in thought about the blonde rookie who she’d left in bed at 5am, and the subsequent workout with her trainer after lunch drains her to the point that she doesn’t think about anything that’s not how sore she is the entire way back home.

Cam doesn’t even make it to bed. She curls up on the couch, curls damp from the shower she’d taken at the facility, hoodie sticking to her skin, and promptly falls asleep with Gatsby stretched out across her stomach.

That’s how the rest of her week goes. She tries – and more often than not, fails, to keep her mind on task. She throws herself into workouts, into running mindless drills, but part of her still can’t help feeling anxious. Paige had said they were fine, but Cam wonders how much of that was true, or if it was just the easiest thing Paige could think of to stop Cam from crashing out in her hotel room completely.

Or – and this is the million dollar answer right here – maybe Paige was genuine, and meant it, and Cam had no reason to be freaking out like she was childish and ten years younger.

The return to routine had helped a little. She had no reason to catastrophize, anyhow. Paige was right. They weren’t really teammates – yet – and the whole teammates having sex thing was pretty accurate, too. As long as they were able to keep it professional, cordial, and responsible on the court, Cam didn’t think the front office would particularly care, unless they were at risk of being a PR nightmare. Although…considering Paige’s celebrity, they probably are bordering on PR nightmare territory.

Either way, both of them were adults. It was consensual, Paige was incredibly chill about it, which meant Cam could probably be chill about it, which meant she didn’t ruin the locker room chemistry before it had the chance to grow.

At risk of fucking up their own chemistry, Cam knew that night wasn’t something they were going to repeat. Like, ever. If anyone asks, Cam has developed a sudden allergy for alcohol and is getting too old to be up past 9pm. If locking herself in her room like a tower-trapped damsel is what it takes to keep her relationships clean, orderly, and distraction free, then she’d gladly do it. She was committed to being responsible. She and Paige would just have to be friends. Very platonic friends who, sure, slept together one time when they were celebrating the biggest night of Paige’s life and they were both drunk on Dirty Shirleys, but that doesn’t have to define the course of their friendship.

Cam’s fine. Everything is fine. She got scared, overreacted, and maybe took it out on a poor rookie who’d only had two hours of sleep and a hangover. They could move past this and work together on the court without blurring the lines. Just friends. Just a rookie and a vet. Nothing more.

When the day of the rookie press conference arrives, Cam feels as though she has a better grasp on reality. She’s up early, goes on a morning run, showers, and is out of the door by 9am, only stopping for a chai latte before she makes her way to the facility. The first part of the morning was set aside to introduce the rookies and Cam was planning on taking advantage of the empty courts to run some drills and clear her mind.

The court smells like wood and fresh wax, a scent that makes Cam relax immediately. She’s probably spent more time between the hoops than she has anywhere else. She can see the three point line when she closes her eyes, imagine the height of the basket in her sleep. If the world had no room for her, then the one place she can confidently say she belongs is on the court.

She started playing basketball at a young age. Story of any player’s life, she’s sure, but it’s been one of the constants in her life for as long as she could remember. Despite that, it took her a long time to find genuine love in it. Basketball was an expectation. Greatness was, too. Lacing up her sneakers and working with private trainers had become routine, a way to earn pride and affection. Her mother always told her – and Coley, too – that she and her father were proud of them regardless of whatever sport they played or what they didn’t play.

People have different aspirations, Valerie told her when she was seven, in the throes of a tantrum because she’d been invited to a weekend sleepover that she would have to miss because her father had signed her up for a basketball clinic in Brooklyn. Different dreams. But you’re allowed to make space for what you love to do and what you live to do. You’re allowed to be a kid.

But Cam was sure that her father only smiled when she had a ball in her hand. She just wanted to make him proud – she looked up to him in so many different ways and wanted to boast gold medals just like he did. She wanted a career and a life to be proud of. So she’d sucked it up and went to the clinic, even if she spent every water break thinking about what her friends were up to.

It took a few years. She struggled to differentiate whether or not she played for the love of the game or for the need for approval. If she played because she saw the court not as polished wood and painted lines, but as the X’s and the O’s and as rotations and cuts, or if she played because she just wanted to be seen by the one person she always looked for.

On her own terms, she found herself falling in love with basketball in a way that was hers completely. She lived for teamwork, for the fact that playing good basketball meant knowing your teammates completely. The box score shows an assist, but doesn’t reflect how years of practice, study, and playing together prepares you to anticipate how your teammates move. She lived for the sisterhood of it all, the trust built between people who had the same goal and the same dedication to achieving it. She lived for the stillness on the court when she was at the line and the only thing between her and the hoop was fifteen feet of surety.

But Cam blinks back the memory, exhaling calmly as she laces up her sneakers on the bench. She ties them the same way every time – tight, double knotted, the ends tucked into the mouth. She doesn’t like practicing with music because it throws off her focus. There’s a rhythm to basketball that you only become privy to after years of breathing the game. The rubber echo of the ball against the court, the squeak of her sneakers, her own heartbeat – it grounds her, keeps her locked in.

When she’s satisfied with her shoes, she stretches out her legs, not doing anything too insane since she stretched before her morning run and was still feeling loose from it. It’s more to settle the residual noise in her brain.

After she picks up the ball, palming it between her hands, everything fades to a distant hum. It’s just Cam, the ball, the swish of the net. She runs a few drills just to get reacclimated with the feel of the ball in her hands, the way it bounces between her legs as she dribbles.

She moves onto shooting drills about ten minutes later, starting with a classic five spot drill. She doesn’t move on to the next spot until she makes ten in a row, but when she finds herself at the top of the key, three makes into her routine, the sound of the door pushing open causes her shot to clang off the rim.

She sighs, having found a rhythm, but steps off to pick up the rebound. Cam is only partially surprised to find Paige standing at half-court with a sheepish expression on her face and a pair of basketball shoes clutched between her fingers. The blonde has her hair up in a sleek ponytail, donning a black and white striped Nike sweatshirt (looking something like the Hamburglar, if Cam has to be honest), and a pair of matching black pants.

“Already trying to escape from the media?” Cam asks teasingly, holding the ball to her hip.

Paige shrugs, a little smile on her face. “I was tryna be good and mind my business, but I heard you dribbling. It was calling to me.”

Cam laughs. “Oh, I’m sure,” she says. “You sure you didn’t peek in, see it was me, and decide that annoying me was more worthwhile than getting to the press conference on time?”

“I still got thirty minutes,” Paige argues smugly. “I’m punctual and shit. Plenty of time to make you reconsider which rookie you actually wanted first dibs on.”

Cam hums, noting how comfortable she truly feels with Paige. She was expecting their first time seeing each other again to be a little more awkward considering how they left things, but their casual banter and teasing makes Cam feel like nothing had truly happened at all. Maybe she didn’t actually have too much to worry about. They would be fine, and she’s sure that the conversation they’ll have later would truly round it all out.

Then, she smiles, the curve of her lip indicating a challenge. She checks the ball over to Paige, who grabs it reflexively, her eyes wide in question. “How about some HORSE, then? Prove to me that you’re worthy of being the Camille Roman’s rookie.”

Paige scoffs, but she grins, setting her shoes down on the polished wood as she dribbles the ball. “What, was the natty not enough for you?” she teases. “Or going number one? Or buyin’ all your drinks?”

“I seem to remember those drinks of yours getting us into a lot of trouble,” Cam retorts, but the reminder doesn’t fill her with as much anxiety as it used to.

“You call it trouble. I call it vet and rookie bonding.”

Cam raises a brow. “Yeah? You gonna bond with Arike, too?”

Paige flushes, losing the handle on the ball as it bounces off her shoe, and Cam grabs it instinctively as she laughs. Paige, to her credit, recovers quickly, and she’s smirking when she says, “Nah. My vet says I’m off limits. I’m a one woman kind of girl.”

“Good answer,” Cam says. She checks the ball back with a loose, carefree smile. “First shot’s yours, rook. Make it count.”

Paige dribbles it once, twice, the smile never leaving her face as she inches closer to the three point line. She sets her feet shoulder width apart, crouching slightly, and she throws the ball underhanded towards the net. It sinks in gracefully, and Cam shakes her head in amusement at her over the top celebration as she tracks down the rebound.

“Don’t miss,” Paige says unhelpfully as she and Cam swap places. Cam rolls her eyes, not bothering with a response, and she steadies herself for her shot. Just before she gets it off, Paige adds, “You gonna repay me for all the concealer I had to buy last week?”

Her words startle Cam, but the shot is still money – it bounces off of the rim into the net, and the blonde sighs when her distraction effort fails. “You are such a cheater,” Cam gripes.

“What?” Paige cries, feigning innocence. “It was just a question.”

“Yeah, right,” she mutters under her breath, but her cheeks hurt from grinning. She scoops up the ball and shoves Paige out of the way with her hip. Paige huffs, moving, and Cam sits flat on the ground. Cam can feel Paige’s gaze on her as she lines up her shot and sinks the ball in with ease. “Two for two.”

Paige extends a hand to help Cam up, shaking her hand, and Paige grabs the loose ball and takes her spot on the court. The blonde readies herself to shoot, but just before she flicks her wrist, Cam steps up next to her, her calf barely brushing Paige’s shoulder.

The ball sails off course, clanging harmlessly off the rim, and Paige looks at her with a betrayed expression. “You’re cheating for real!” she declares, gazing forlornly at the hoop, and Cam laughs as she helps her up.

“That’s H,” Cam states simply, a mischievous smile on her face. Paige doesn’t respond as she tracks down the basketball and studies the court to look for her next shot. “I don’t know, P. I think Aziaha would have made that one for sure.”

“Nah, don’t piss me off,” Paige grumbles, which makes Cam giggle. She steps up behind the hoop, squares her shoulders, and Cam is peacefully silent as Paige shoots the ball over the backboard. It circles around the rim once before falling in and she exhales a breath of relief.

Cam raises an impressed brow despite herself, grabbing the ball as it bounces back towards her, and Paige pats her on the hip with a smug look when she passes. “Make this next shot if I’m your favorite rookie,” she declares.

“How old are you?” Cam asks as she lines up her shot. “Twelve?” Paige grins in a way that makes Cam regret asking, having spent enough time at youth camps to know that Paige’s retort would sound a whole lot like twelve inches deep in your mom. “Don’t answer that.” She exhales to calm her mind. Paige, thankfully, watches in silence, but it’s for naught as the ball bounces off the rim, anyways.

“How’s that H taste?” Paige is beaming as she checks the ball back to Cam, who rolls her eyes in amusement.

“Like you’re not my favorite rookie,” Cam chirps sweetly.

Paige squawks in indignation, which elicits a round of laughter from Cam. They go back and forth like that for a few more rounds, trading buckets, misses, and banter that gradually decreases the distance between them. Before a shot, Paige would pretend to massage Cam’s shoulders like she’s a fighter in a boxing ring. Cam would nudge her elbow before she shoots, attempting to throw her off her game, but she pats her hip when she makes it regardless.

Cam didn’t think it could be this nice. She thought that night at the hotel would have ruined her and Paige’s friendship and chemistry – both on and off the court – but she’s finding that, in a way, it’s brought them closer. She would never call it a mistake. She would be the first to admit that she wanted it – in the moment. Paige is good company, keeps her on her toes, and is obviously attractive, although there are some things you can’t have twice.

She’s closer to making her peace with that night. The conversation that she and Paige plan to have later would hopefully give her some more clarity and comfort in it, but she knows without a doubt that they can’t have a repeat of it. They can’t let the lines blur or push the boundaries more than they already have. That’s enough for her.

Both her and Paige have accumulated HORS twenty minutes later, and the both of them know they have to wrap it up soon so Paige can freshen up before she actually has to head out for media. The thing about Cam is that she’s not going to bend over and let Paige win just because she won’t concede the game. She and Paige both nailed the half court shot, which meant that game point relied on whether or not they could make it from full court.

“I don’t even think I have the arm strength for this,” Cam admits, standing as close as she can to the back wall so she has plenty of room to run forward. “The fact that you’re a point guard gives you an unfair advantage.”

“You tappin’ out?” Paige goads, grinning, and Cam has to bite her tongue. If there was anything Paige was good at besides basketball, it was baiting Cam.

“Rookies first,” Cam states.

“You don’t want the smoke,” Paige responds. Cam has to fight the urge to shove her, but she’s sure that would only motivate the blonde more.

Paige glances up at the hoop, nearly one hundred feet away, and she readies her shot. With a running start, she plants her feet at the baseline and grunts as she lobs the ball across the court. Cam’s eyes track its movement, the clean arc, and her jaw drops in complete and utter disbelief when it hits the backboard and swishes in without further fanfare.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” she groans, not really enjoying the taste of defeat on her tongue, but she can’t really be mad for long as Paige grabs her by the shoulders and shakes in excitement. She rolls her lips to stifle her smile.

“Just go ahead and take that E,” Paige says, passing over the second ball they brought to the baseline. Cam takes it with an eyeroll. “You don’t gotta embarrass yourself in front of me.”

Cam doesn’t dignify that with a response. She palms the ball in her hands, pushing herself closer to the wall, and takes a deep breath like she’s about to sink a free throw instead of launching a ball almost one hundred feet across the court. With a running start, she plants at the baseline and lets her right hand do most of the heavy lifting, and the ball sails out of her grip.

Both her and Paige watch with a bated breath as it arcs in the air. It flies closer, and closer, and closer, until it circles around the rim once, then twice, and falls out unceremoniously.

As Paige celebrates for the second time that afternoon, all Cam can really think about is how badly she wants to fucking retire. Paige jostles her as Cam stares at the hoop, deadpan and unblinking.

Premonition might be a curse. She just had to tell Rickea that the 2025 class was all about energy and how they’d be welcoming vets to the league. Cam just can’t believe she got welcomed by Paige during a game of HORSE that started as a joke more than anything else.

Cam just sighs, extending her hand, and Paige daps her up with unadulterated glee on her face. “Say the thing,” she requests sweetly.

Cam’s tone is flat as she states begrudgingly, “You’re my rookie.”

Paige pumps her fist in the air, looking nothing like the nonchalant final boss she claimed she was. Then, if only to add salt to the wound, Paige nudges her with her elbow and says, “Welcome to the league, Cam Roman.”

Cam can’t find it in herself to be upset. She supposes Paige did earn it, and hypothetically if she does get tagged in a few press conference clips later about Paige claiming she welcomed Cam to the league, she only reposts the clip out of integrity on her Instagram story.

When Cam told Paige that they’d talk after the press conference, she wasn’t really expecting it to be over takeout at Paige’s barren apartment, but she figures it’s a good venue as any.

Paige welcomes her in with a sheepish expression and the smell of Chinese in the air. “I’m embracing the minimalist lifestyle,” she declares, gesturing minutely to the cardboard boxes sprawled around the room. There’s one in front of her couch, overflowing with a few trinkets like lego sets and framed photographs of Paige and her family and friends. Cam winces a little, briefly wondering who supervised Paige and her diabolical packing, but Paige’s apartment door clicks shut behind her and draws her attention back to the present.

Despite being lived in for only a few hours at most, Paige’s apartment is cozy and open. She has floor to ceiling windows in the kitchen overlooking the skyline, a cornucopia of takeout boxes littering the counter, and a few candles burning in the living room. They’re both dressed in casual clothes – Cam’s opted for a pair of comfortable, white gym shorts and a Wings t-shirt, while Paige has a loose pair of grey sweatpants hung low enough to reveal the band of her boxers and an old UConn tee.

“You’re doing better than I did when I first moved out here,” Cam admits, toeing off her slides and following Paige towards the kitchen. Paige throws a smile over her shoulder to let Cam know she’s listening as she sorts through the boxes. “I think I had takeout for a week straight because I didn’t have time to go buy pots and pans.”

“Shit,” Paige says instantly. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

Cam snorts. Paige passes a container to Cam, a simple order of lo mein and orange chicken, while she keeps the white rice and sweet and sour chicken for herself. There’s a bag of crab rangoons and eggrolls to share.

Almost absentmindedly, Paige pulls out the barstool at the counter for Cam before settling into the one next to it. Cam raises her brow but doesn’t say anything, taking a seat in the chair next to Paige, who passes a packet of plastic silverware and chopsticks like they’ve been in this position a hundred times before.

“You settling in okay?”

Paige shrugs a tired shoulder, shoveling a forkful of rice into her mouth. “Getting there,” she confesses. “Got a lot of shit to unpack, but…didn’t want it easy, right?”

Cam smiles knowingly at her. “I meant challenging as in getting your shot blocked by BG a couple of times. Not getting your ass kicked by cardboard boxes and IKEA instruction manuals.”

“I happen to be very handy,” Paige sniffs. “Don’t need no instruction manual. Or all those extra screws they pack in there.”

Cam stares at her unblinkingly. Paige stares back, something like mischief in her eyes as she spears a piece of chicken with her fork. The corner of her lips twitch ever so slightly. “Please tell me I’m not sitting on a chair that’s gonna collapse.”

“If you fell, I’d make sure you were okay before I laughed at you,” Paige offers unhelpfully.

Cam huffs. “Thanks. Just what any girl wants to hear.”

Paige smiles, and the two of them settle into a comfortable rhythm as they eat their dinner. Paige shares a couple of stories from media, telling Cam all about the embroidered cowboy hat she got and how done she is with random reporter questions about the Dallas heat and TexMex. That makes Cam laugh – it’s fitting to see that the reporters hadn’t gotten any better questions to ask besides food and the weather.

The peace lasts for a few moments until Paige’s fork hits the bottom of her takeout container and the last of her chicken is done. She clears her throat, taking a sip from her water bottle. “Elephant in the room?” she asks hesitantly.

Cam nods, pushing her leftovers away, and pauses for a moment. Finally, she settles on her words. “I think I might have overreacted a little,” she admits.

Paige offers a gentle smile. “I think it was a pretty valid crash out,” she states. “You were concerned about the locker room and making things awkward. I also get that the entire world would probably explode if word got out.”

“Yeah,” Cam agrees. She rests her chin in her palm. “I mean, I’m also…your vet,” she says carefully. The blue of Paige’s gaze is intense, but Cam forces herself to meet her eyes. “That night was out of character for me. I’m not usually so…”

“Carefree?”

“Reckless,” Cam supplies, and Paige nods, understanding. “I don’t regret it. You don’t either. That’s something we’ve got to stand on. I just wasn’t really thinking about…you know, the consequences of sleeping with my rookie.” Her words are dry, which makes Paige chuckle. “I don’t wanna deal with red tape from the front office. Definitely not the media. And I definitely didn’t want to make things weird with us.”

Paige’s smile turns a little crooked. “We’re good. I told you. We’re responsible adults.”

“Friends, if you will,” Cam adds.

Paige sounds all too smug when she pipes in with, “Best friends.”

Cam scoffs, rolling her eyes in amusement, feeling the final bits of tension leave her shoulders completely. They were good. No more issues. “Don’t push it, rook.” Paige raises her hands in surrender, a coy smile on her face as she slides out of the bar stool to start grabbing their trash. She waves off Cam when she tries to help, her expression far too adamant, so she bites her tongue and stays seated while Paige cleans up. “Paige?” she asks hesitantly.

“What’s up?” She glances at Cam briefly over her shoulder, the diamond studs in her ears glinting in the light as she turns, and Cam’s fingers drum lightly over the granite of Paige’s countertops.

Her voice is small when she says, “We can’t let it happen again.” It gives Paige pause, and she turns fully, leaning against the countertop. Her gaze is imploring – not offensive, just as though she’s trying to understand. “We’re friends. I’m your vet, you’re my rook. Nothing more. No need to make a good thing complicated, yeah?”

Paige raises a teasing brow. “You sure you can handle that, Cam?”

She narrows her eyes, which draws a laugh from Paige. “Can you?” she retorts. “You’re obsessed with me. It’s sickening.”

“I’m keeping you young,” she emphasizes. “Big difference.” Cam exhales, the noise sounding more like a breathless laugh. Paige clears her throat, fiddling with the towel in her hands. “I hear you,” she says, just so it’s absolutely clear, and the expression on her face eases when Cam meets her eyes. “I care about you and the team. We’ll keep it clean. But don’t think for one moment I’m gonna make your job any easier. You chose me on draft night – you’re stuck with me.”

Clean. Cam could work with that. There wasn’t any reason to change who they were or how they bantered, and if Cam was being honest, she didn’t want to. She liked this relationship she had with Paige, the slight push and pull and how they challenge each other. The mutualistic getting on each other’s nerves.

“Easy’s boring, right?” Cam reminds her, and a grin grows on Paige’s face, matching the sly one on Cam’s. Paige returns to the dishes, throwing jokes over her shoulder that Cam can’t help but laugh at. They’d keep it clean. Orderly. No chaos.

But entropy has to increase or remain constant. There was no circumventing that – it was a law of the universe. Ease wasn’t, though. Ease wasn’t just boring, and for Paige and Cam, they’d realize that it would be downright impossible.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #dallas wings #wnba #wnba x reader #paige bueckers fic

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be-xkyy · 9 hours ago

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𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔

Warning: obsession, forced marriage (mentioned), soft yandere?

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★ @dreamlessnight ★ @riawrld ★ @darkuni63 ★ @minshookie29 ★

Divider credits: @cafekitsune ★ @bernardsbendystraws ★

This is very short but I didn't want to leave you abandoned without publishing anything, in a week I will go on vacation and I will be able to upload more things and be more active. I hope you like it despite everything, take care of yourselves ♡

Yandere King who ascended to the throne after his three older brothers were murdered under mysterious circumstances, leaving him as the sole candidate for the throne (no, he didn't kill them... okay?).

Yandere King who reluctantly (and thanks to much insistence from the council) organizes a party at the palace with all the kingdom's nobles just to find him an ideal wife and queen.

Yandere king who isn't at all interested in the annoying and arrogant daughters of even more annoying and arrogant nobles; he makes a huge effort not to roll his eyes every time one of them opens her mouth (annoying rabble).

Yandere king who gets excited and fascinated when he sees you, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, standing in a corner, your hair beautifully up and adorned with pearls, matching your elegant, silky dress, fitted in just the right places, not at all exaggerated and pompous like the dresses of the other women around him, who look more like clowns.

Yandere King who walks away from the horde of women surrounding him, ignoring their whimpers and attempts to get him to stay, approaches you with a firm step. When he stands in front of you, you make a reference only for him to ask you in a serious voice.

"What's your name?"

Yandere King who nods curtly when you tell him your name before leaving as quickly as he arrived, only to retreat from everyone's sight by leaning against the wall of the empty hallway, one of his hands over his madly beating heart. Yes, you will be his.

Yandere King who is scolded by his advisors the next day for leaving the dance without notice, but he curtly silences them before announcing that he has already found his wife and queen. When he calls your name, the advisors aren't very happy, believing there are young women from more important, influential, and beneficial families for the kingdom. But they fall silent when he slams his hands on the table and says in a disdainful voice:

"You dare compare your future queen to that insignificant rabble? Do you want to die?!"

Yandere King who ends up getting his way and a month later marries you in a luxurious ceremony unlike any other seen in the kingdom (only the best for his queen). During the banquet, you are by his side, adorned in a beautiful wedding dress and sparkling jewels. You are undoubtedly the image of beauty.

Yandere King who, when it comes time to have his wedding ceremony, doesn't let anyone in as a witness; you are for HIS eyes only. HIS queen, HIS wife, HIS everything. He would kill anyone who dared to get close to you, but don't worry, he knows you're nervous. He promises to make you feel great...

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fresne999 · 19 hours ago

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Pulling out of the tags since it's relevant to a project.

Some backstory (and this will loop back evenually), the day / day after the June 14 No Kings protests, alt nat parks was posting there were 12 million protesters, which in the moment "yay!" but then after there some folks going um...really.

So, while my bias is that media under-reports protests, to be a person interested in facts is to acknowlege bias and then get data to prove / disprove said bias.

To wit, We Dissent has been running a count (as well as a fine set of protest maps) of the various mass protests. You can add values here, or see the running total here and the list of protests here.

At the time, they only had about 40% of the list filled in, and a quick glance told me they didn't have a lot of the mid-sized cities and large towns. So I got their list of events, did a comparison to what they had and started looking up location by location protests they didn't have data for. I realize there are actual organizations that do this kind of thing, but it's also not data that most of us have access to. So, having this resource updated will help in future protests to go, "hmmm...the protest I went to was x% larger than the last one, and there are y more protests, so I'd kind of expect that the total # will fall into x-y range, and if someone says "OMG ZZZ people showed up," I'll know it's a wild exageration.

Now being a completist means that I didn't want to skew the number by skipping the small very local protests happening in the small towns, which often don't have town newspapers.

A moment for the loss of local small town media.

But there is a rich source of data out there. Social media. But looking at FB means I'm also seeing the posts by the MAGA folks. Which to a fault always say, "There were only 10 people there." or "They looked so miserable," the occasional "bet they were paid" and then some often genuinely worrying threats toward those folks safety. On continued digging, the next 5-10s posts would be images of 50, 100, 200 people having a grand time with color signs.

Its a really interesting contrast between what is actually going on, versus what's actually going on. Though, at the time of writing this, their list is 64% of the way filled in. Which is better than 40%.

Germaine to all of that, a fascinating video that ties into the above about why gutting bureaucracy results in short lived empires.

youtube

I appreciate that Andor and Rogue One showed us that the bad guys aren't having a good time. Oppression is unimaginative, dull, shallow, reductive. The lies required to sustain it chafe against the moral conscience. And every scheming military officer working for the glory of the Empire is one misstep away from being tossed into the destructive machine they helped create - and they know it.

#us politics #star wars andor #Youtube

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unabashegirl · 2 days ago

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Crave — part III

Y/N x Professor Harry Styles share a secret passion that could destroy them both. Crossing the line means risking everything.

Author's Note: Hello everyone! I hope you all had a wonderful weekend. As promised, here is a new chapter of Crave. Let me know what you think, and if you’d like to be tagged!

📌 Love exclusive stories and early updates? 💫 Join my Patreon for behind-the-scenes content, bonus chapters, and more! Your support means the world ❤️ -> Patreon

📌 Please consider submitting your one shot request -> Forms

The morning buzzed with its usual energy as students streamed into the classroom, chattering about upcoming assignments and deadlines. Y/N slid into her seat, a quiet hum of thoughts already swirling in her head. But today, it wasn’t the usual classroom stress that held her focus. Something more intriguing had caught her attention.

Whispers filled the room. “Did you hear?” a girl nearby murmured. “Professor Styles is looking for an assistant for grading.”

Y/N’s ears perked up.

“Yeah,” another student replied. “It’s for extra credit. He’s selecting based on applications, and it’s practically like a job.”

That last part made Y/N sit up straighter. A job? With Harry?

Her mind raced, torn between the logical part of her that screamed how dangerous it could be, and the part that was undeniably drawn to the possibility of being closer to him. Extra credit would certainly help her grade, and the idea of being handpicked by Harry only fueled her curiosity—and something darker she didn’t want to name.

Just then, the door opened, and Harry walked in, effortlessly commanding the attention of the room as usual. His eyes swept across the sea of faces before settling briefly on hers, making Y/N's heart skip. He took his time setting down his books, before turning to address the class, his voice steady and calm.

“Before we begin today, I have an announcement from the department,” Harry started, his eyes scanning the room. “We’re looking for a grading assistant for this semester. It’s a chance to earn extra credit for my class.” His gaze lingered on Y/N for just a moment, almost too brief to catch, but enough to send her heart racing. “If you’re interested, you’ll need to submit an application and include a few sample essays you’ve written.”

The room buzzed with murmurs again, the offer clearly piquing everyone’s interest.

“The position will involve helping with grading papers, organizing research projects, and assisting with administrative work,” Harry continued, his tone professional but with a subtle undercurrent that Y/N couldn't ignore. “I’ll be reviewing applications personally, and selection will be based on your academic performance and attention to detail. Consider it a part-time job, in a way.”

Y/N’s thoughts swirled. This wasn’t just an opportunity for extra credit; it was an official position under him, one that would place her in his orbit, closer than she ever had been before. Her fingers tightened around her pen. She could feel the weight of his words, the subtle implication beneath the surface.

“Applications are due by Friday,” Harry added, glancing around the room. “If you have any questions, feel free to reach out.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t looked at her again, but she could feel his presence more acutely than ever. The challenge was there, unspoken but clear.

The class proceeded as normal, with Harry diving into the day’s lecture, his voice washing over her like a steady rhythm. But Y/N barely heard the words. Her mind was too preoccupied with the idea of applying for the position. It wasn’t just about the extra credit anymore. The idea of being around him more—alone—was intoxicating. Even dangerous.

And when the class ended, as students began filing out, Y/N stayed in her seat, her mind racing through possibilities.

Suddenly, Harry was standing beside her, his presence casting a shadow over her desk. “Y/N,” he said softly, his voice calm, yet holding that same edge of control that always sent her pulse racing.

Her eyes darted up, meeting his. “Yes, Professor?”

“I assume you’ll be submitting an application for the assistant position?” His words were smooth, casual, but there was something in his tone that hinted at a deeper meaning, something unspoken between them.

Y/N hesitated, her throat tight. “I’m… considering it.”

Harry’s lips twitched slightly, forming a hint of a smirk. “Good,” he murmured, his voice dropping just a fraction, making her pulse quicken. “I think you’d be an… interesting candidate.”

His eyes lingered on hers for a moment, long enough to make her feel like she was standing at the edge of something dangerous. Something thrilling.

Without another word, he straightened up, his smirk fading into a more professional expression. “If you have any questions, you know where to find me.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving Y/N staring after him, her thoughts more tangled than ever. The idea of applying had shifted from a simple extra credit opportunity to something much more—something charged, daring, and impossible to resist.

As she gathered her things, her mind whirled with the possibilities. This could change everything. And Y/N wasn’t sure if she was ready for what that might mean.

But one thing was certain—she was no longer just a student in his class. Something between them had shifted.

And it was only a matter of time before it all unraveled.

Harry sat in his office, a stack of applications spread across his desk. The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting faint lines of light over the papers in front of him. He wasn’t surprised that only a handful of students had applied for the assistant position. It was expected, really—grading papers and handling tedious tasks wasn’t exactly appealing to most students.

What didn’t surprise him either was that most of the applicants were women. He was well aware of the effect he had, though he tried not to let it cloud his judgment. The glances, the lingering stares in the hallways, the way some of them tried a little too hard to impress during class discussions—he noticed it all.

Harry wasn’t blind to his own charm, his natural attractiveness. It was something he had learned to wield carefully over the years. He had always maintained a strict line between professionalism and personal attraction, but he couldn’t deny that the attention was there. He could feel it every time he walked into a room. And it wasn’t just the students. Colleagues, too, were not immune to his magnetic pull.

As he leafed through the stack of applications, he glanced over the names. A few of them were promising, academically speaking, but none that truly stood out—until the last one caught his eye.

Y/N.

He felt a faint stir of anticipation in his chest as he pulled her application to the top of the pile. She had been the last to apply, barely making the deadline. But her timing didn’t bother him; in fact, it intrigued him. Why so last minute? he wondered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He flipped through the pages of her essays, scanning over the familiar handwriting.

She had always been sharp in class, quick to pick up on the nuances of the material he taught. But beyond her academic performance, there was something about her that had caught his attention early on. Something he couldn’t quite place but felt simmering beneath the surface whenever she was around.

As he began reading through her essays, he couldn’t help but be impressed. Her thoughts were meticulously organized, her analysis deep and thorough. Each sentence seemed to carry a weight of consideration, as if she was writing not just to impress, but to challenge herself—and maybe him. Her perspective was bold, even daring in parts, pushing the boundaries of the topics he’d assigned.

Harry leaned back in his chair, his eyes lingering on the pages. He wasn’t the only one reading the applications; other professors in the department had weighed in on the candidates, and Y/N had garnered favorable comments from them as well. Her work spoke for itself—she was undoubtedly qualified.

But there was more to it. He couldn’t ignore the way she had looked at him during class, the quiet curiosity in her eyes whenever she thought he wasn’t paying attention. He had felt the tension between them—unspoken but palpable. It was a delicate line they both walked, a line that could easily blur if either of them let it.

And now, with her application in his hands, the possibility of crossing that line seemed more real than ever.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at his door. He straightened, pulling his expression into something neutral. “Come in.”

Professor Adams, one of his colleagues in the literature department, stepped into the office, a casual smile on his face. “Any luck with the applications?”

Harry nodded, leaning forward to gather the papers into a neat stack. “A few promising ones.”

Adams glanced at the pile, his eyes landing on Y/N’s name before flicking back to Harry. “I read over her work,” he said with a knowing smile. “She’s sharp. One of the best in your class, isn’t she?”

Harry kept his face neutral, though he could feel the unspoken question behind Adams’ words. “She is,” he replied simply, placing her application at the top of the pile. “I’ll need to make a decision soon.”

Adams lingered for a moment, then gave a nod. “Good luck with that,” he said lightly before turning and leaving the office.

Once the door clicked shut, Harry let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of Y/N’s application. He had no doubt she was the right candidate for the position. But offering her the job would mean more than just an academic arrangement. It would mean proximity—hours spent alone in his office, reviewing papers, discussing assignments, their interactions no longer limited to the confines of a classroom.

It was a dangerous game, and Harry knew it. But there was something about Y/N, something that made the risk worth considering.

He glanced back down at her essays, his eyes tracing the words she’d written. There was a challenge hidden in her work, a spark that mirrored the tension he felt whenever they locked eyes.

Harry leaned back in his chair once more, the faintest smile playing at his lips.

Maybe it was time to see just how far that spark could go.

The next day, Y/N sat in class, trying her best to focus on the lecture. Her mind had been racing ever since she submitted her application for the assistant position. Part of her had felt a thrill, knowing it would put her closer to him, while the other part screamed at the idea of stepping into something so dangerous. She hadn’t even told Liv—she wasn’t sure she could explain why she wanted it so badly.

Harry’s deep voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her attention back to the front of the room. He was going over a passage from a novel they had been studying, his tone steady and commanding, as usual. But today, Y/N found herself watching him more closely, the way his fingers casually flicked through the pages of the book, the way his eyes scanned the room, as if always observing but never giving too much away.

When the class finally came to an end, students began packing up their things, but Y/N remained in her seat, her nerves buzzing. Harry hadn’t said anything about the assistant position yet, and she wondered if he would just send an email or announce it in class. She was halfway out of her seat when she heard his voice.

“Y/N,” Harry said, his tone soft but commanding enough to stop her in her tracks.

Her heart raced as she looked up. “Yes, Professor?”

Harry’s eyes held hers for a moment, the intensity of his gaze making her pulse quicken. “Could you stop by my office after class? I’d like to discuss something with you.”

She swallowed, her nerves tightening in her chest. “Of course.”

As the rest of the students filed out of the room, Y/N packed her things slowly, trying to calm the storm of emotions that swirled in her head. When she finally walked toward his office, her heart was pounding in her ears. There was no turning back now.

When she arrived, Harry’s door was slightly ajar. She hesitated for a moment before knocking softly.

“Come in,” his voice called.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside. His office was neat, the shelves lined with books that were meticulously organized. Harry sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, his gaze calm and unreadable.

“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Y/N sat down, her fingers clutching her bag on her lap as she tried to steady her breath. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and the silence between them was heavy with anticipation.

Harry took his time, leaning forward slightly as he folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’ve reviewed all the applications for the assistant position,” he began, his voice even. “And I’ve made my decision.”

Y/N’s heart hammered in her chest. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her breath catching when she saw the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I’d like to offer you the position,” Harry said, his voice low, yet filled with meaning.

She blinked, stunned for a moment as his words sank in. “Me?” she breathed, feeling her pulse quicken. She wasn’t sure if she was surprised or if she had somehow expected this all along.

Harry nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “Your essays were the strongest, and you’ve demonstrated a consistent level of dedication in class.” He paused for a beat, his eyes flickering with something darker as they held hers. “I believe you’ll be an excellent fit.”

Y/N’s mind raced. She could feel the weight of his words, the way he seemed to choose them so carefully, and the way the air between them seemed to thicken with every passing second.

“Thank you, Professor,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I—I won’t let you down.”

Harry’s smirk deepened, almost imperceptibly. “I’m sure you won’t.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the tension between them building, unspoken but undeniable. Y/N felt like she was standing at the edge of something far more dangerous than she had ever anticipated. There was a magnetic pull in the air, something dark and thrilling, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that accepting this job would change everything between them.

“There’s no need to rush into the workload right away,” Harry continued, his voice returning to its professional tone. “We’ll meet tomorrow after class to discuss the details of your responsibilities.”

Y/N nodded, trying to steady her breath. “I’ll be there.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on hers for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “Good. I’ll see you then.”

She stood up, her legs feeling weak as she gathered her things and turned toward the door. But before she could step out, Harry’s voice stopped her once again.

“Y/N,” he said, his tone softer this time.

She turned back, her heart racing.

“You’ve earned this,” he said, his eyes locking with hers in a way that made her pulse spike. “But remember—this is still a job. Keep that in mind.”

Y/N swallowed, nodding quickly. “I will, Professor.”

With one last glance, she left his office, the door closing softly behind her. As she walked down the hallway, her thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions. She had gotten the job, but something about the way he had spoken to her, the way his eyes had lingered on hers, left her with a sinking feeling in her chest.

The job, Y/N soon learned, was more involved than she had anticipated. As Harry’s assistant, her primary responsibility was to help with grading papers and assignments, offering feedback to students on their work. It was mostly routine—reading through essays, checking for grammar and structure, and making sure students followed the guidelines. Occasionally, she would also organize notes for Harry, compiling reading lists for future lectures, or researching topics for upcoming classes. It wasn’t difficult, but it was time-consuming, especially since Harry had high standards, expecting thoroughness in every task she performed.

She spent a few hours each day in his office, reviewing stacks of essays while Harry worked at his desk. Sometimes they spoke casually, but for the most part, they worked in comfortable silence, the air always carrying an unspoken tension.

A few days had passed, and Y/N found herself once again in Harry’s office, the evening sun casting long shadows through the window. They had been working for hours, trying to get through the final batch of essays that needed grading. The deadline to upload grades was fast approaching, and the pressure to finish was beginning to weigh on them both.

Y/N glanced at the clock. It was already past 8 p.m., and her stomach growled in protest. She hadn’t eaten since lunch, and the fatigue of the day was starting to catch up with her.

Harry, sitting across from her, stretched his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Are you hungry?” he asked, the casualness of his tone surprising her.

She blinked, a little caught off guard. “A bit,” she admitted, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”

Harry gave a small smile, his eyes softening slightly. “Neither did I. We’ve been at this for hours.”

He stood up, walking over to the window to glance outside before turning back to her. “We’ll be here a while longer if we want to meet the deadline,” he said, almost apologetically. “How about I order us some dinner? My treat.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment. The idea of staying in his office late into the night, alone, felt like walking a tightrope she wasn’t sure she could balance on. But they were both committed to finishing the work on time, and the rational part of her knew there was no harm in it.

“Sure,” she said finally, offering him a small smile. “That sounds good.”

Harry nodded, pulling out his phone. “Any preferences?”

“Anything’s fine,” she replied, feeling the growing anticipation in the pit of her stomach.

He placed the order quickly, opting for something simple—a couple of salads and sandwiches from a nearby diner. Once the food was ordered, he settled back into his seat across from her, his eyes lingering on her just a moment longer than necessary before turning back to the essays.

They worked in silence again, the quiet hum of the office broken only by the occasional sound of paper rustling or the tapping of keys as Harry entered grades into the system. Y/N’s focus drifted, her thoughts flitting between the work in front of her and the growing awareness of his presence, just a few feet away. She could smell the faint hint of his cologne, fresh but with an edge of something darker, more intoxicating. Every movement he made seemed deliberate, controlled, and it only heightened the tension that lingered between them.

A knock at the door broke the quiet, and Harry stood to answer it, retrieving the bags of food. He placed them on his desk, opening one and handing her a salad.

“Thanks,” she said softly, taking it from him. She realized just how hungry she was when the smell hit her, making her stomach growl again. She picked up her fork, eating a few bites in silence while Harry did the same, the weight of the day beginning to settle in.

“You’ve been doing good work,” Harry said after a while, his voice softer now, almost conversational. “I wasn’t wrong in picking you for this.”

Y/N looked up, meeting his gaze across the desk. There was something different in his tone, something that sent a shiver down her spine. She swallowed, unsure of how to respond. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “I’m glad you think so.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, studying her for a moment. “I do. You’ve impressed me.”

The way he said it made her heart skip a beat. It wasn’t just the words, but the way his eyes lingered on her, the unspoken tension that hummed between them.

Y/N took a breath, focusing on her food to ground herself. She had known, ever since she took this job, that it would put her closer to him, but she hadn’t expected it to feel like this—this quiet, dangerous pull that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

After they finished their dinner, the conversation faded back into silence as they returned to their work. But the air in the room felt heavier now, charged with something neither of them acknowledged.

As the clock edged closer to midnight, Harry glanced at the screen of his computer, frowning slightly. “We’re nearly there,” he muttered, his eyes scanning the final few grades that needed to be uploaded.

As Y/N adjusted her posture in the chair, her shirt tugged slightly, revealing more of her neck and the soft line of her collarbone. Harry noticed without wanting to—his eyes drawn by the simple movement, a quiet shift that made his breath hitch for just a moment. She was dressed casually, but it was impossible to ignore the way her top hugged her form, accentuating the delicate curve of her chest and the smooth, bare skin of her shoulders. He tried to focus on the work at hand, but his mind wandered.

Against his better judgment.

He glanced at her again, the way her legs stretched out before her, her skirt riding up just slightly. The smooth length of her legs, accentuated by the heels she wore, seemed to go on forever. A part of him wanted to look away, to refocus, but another part—the darker, more primal part—couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to have her here, in this office, bent over his desk. His hands gripping her waist, her breathy whispers filling the air.

His fingers tightened around the papers he was pretending to focus on, his jaw clenching slightly. He couldn’t think like this. Not now, not when she was sitting just feet away, oblivious to the thoughts that ran rampant through his head. He had always prided himself on control, on maintaining a professional distance. But Y/N—she made it harder to keep those boundaries intact.

"That should be the last of them," Y/N's voice broke through his thoughts, casual and unaware. She glanced up, pushing her hair back as she stretched again, completely innocent in her movements, though they felt like a test of his willpower.

He didn’t look up this time, knowing that if he did, he might not be able to stop himself from staring. He could feel the weight of her presence, like an invisible pull that was slowly unraveling the restraint he had so carefully built.

There was a pause, the room falling into a tense silence.

Harry risked a glance at her, but quickly looked away again, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to the image of her body against his desk, her breathless gasps mixing with the sound of papers fluttering to the ground.

Focus. He needed to focus.

Y/N leaned forward, scanning over the last page of an essay. Her hair fell slightly over her shoulder, catching Harry’s attention as it framed her face. She seemed so focused, so unaware of the effect she had on him. He had been watching her all evening—small glances, trying to keep his thoughts in check. But it was harder tonight. The dim light of the office cast soft shadows across her skin, and the quiet made every subtle movement between them feel amplified.

“You’ve got a good eye for this,” Harry said, his voice low, deeper than he intended. “I can see why your writing’s so strong.”

Y/N smiled at the compliment, looking up from her paper to meet his gaze. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice softer than usual, as if the weight of the night had settled on her too.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Harry hadn’t meant for it to linger, hadn’t intended for the silence to stretch out the way it did. But something unspoken passed between them, something that had been building slowly, night after night, moment after moment. He could see it in her eyes—the way her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before flicking back up to meet his.

He wanted her.

He knew it.

But he couldn’t.

Not here. Not now. Not ever.

“Y/N—” Harry began, his voice quiet, but the words failed him. He didn’t know what he was going to say, what excuse he would make to put some distance between them before it was too late.

But Y/N stood up suddenly, moving around the desk until she was standing closer, her body mere inches from his. The soft scent of her perfume filled the space between them, intoxicating him, making it harder to keep his resolve. Her eyes flicked down again—more deliberate this time—lingering on his lips before moving back up.

Harry’s heart raced, pounding in his chest as she stepped closer. She shouldn’t be this close. They shouldn’t be this close.

“Do you want me to go?” Y/N asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her words hanging in the air like a dangerous offer.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Yes, he should tell her to leave. He should say it right now, before he did something they couldn’t undo. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he found himself frozen, his body betraying him, wanting her more than he should.

When she didn’t get an answer, Y/N took a step closer, her hand brushing lightly against the desk beside him, her fingers grazing the papers they had been grading. The simple touch felt electrifying, and Harry’s resolve slipped further away.

“Harry,” she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips broke whatever thread of control he had left.

In one swift movement, he was out of his chair, closing the space between them. His hands found her waist, not roughly, but with a firmness that spoke of his struggle—of how long he had fought this, how much he had wanted to keep his distance. Her body pressed against his, soft and warm, and every breath he took seemed to carry her scent, filling his lungs with something he couldn’t escape.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They were so close now, close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin through her shirt, the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. His eyes searched hers, looking for hesitation, but all he saw was the same hunger, the same desperate pull that had been gnawing at him.

His hand slid up, brushing lightly along her side until his fingers found her jaw, his thumb resting just beneath her chin. He tilted her face up, his breath mixing with hers in the space between them. He could feel her pulse beneath his thumb, quick and erratic, mirroring his own.

And then, with a soft exhale, Harry leaned down and kissed her.

It was slow at first, tentative—a soft press of lips that sent a shockwave through both of them. But the restraint didn’t last long. The moment her mouth opened slightly against his, the kiss deepened, growing more intense, more desperate.

Y/N’s hands moved up to his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt as if she needed something to hold onto, something to ground her. But Harry was already lost, his other hand slipping into her hair, pulling her closer, pressing her body tighter against his.

It was dangerous, reckless, and every rational part of Harry’s brain screamed at him to stop, to pull back before this went any further. But he couldn’t. Not now, not after wanting this for so long.

The kiss grew hungrier, their bodies pressing against each other as the tension between them finally broke, spilling over in a rush of need and desire.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their lips swollen, their bodies still close, unwilling to let go.

----

-> part IV

let me know if you would like me to tag you!

TAGLIST: @cathy-1997

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pineconnie · 3 days ago

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russian roulette sketch pages bless

#pinecone art #wifies #is the only one here enough to feel safe to tag #pinesona #i dk if this needs a tag for the organs drawing stuff #??? * i’ll put one just in case idk #cw gore

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loricciardo · 1 day ago

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CHAPTER ONE | SO THIS IS HOW IT STARTS?

tags. original female character, jos verstappen, depictions of physical and verbal abuse in reference to max & jos, mild references to childhood loneliness and emotional isolation, mentions of of pressure and high expectations in youth sports, neglectful parenting.

taglist. want to join or be removed from my taglist? send me an ask or comment below!

rules pinned navigation ysv masterlist next →

The first time Natalie Schumacher met Max Verstappen, she was seven years old.

They were in Wackersdorf for the weekend. It was another karting event, another lineup of engines echoing across the tarmac and the familiar scent of petrol clinging to everything. Natalie already had grease under her nails and a smear of oil on her cheek from helping Mick zip up his suit too fast.

In the beginning, her mama had been hesitant about letting her race. Not because she didn’t believe Natalie could do it but she’d seen too much of what the sport could take. The injuries, the pressure, the loneliness that sometimes came with living life on a pedestal. “One Schumacher on the track is enough,” she’d said once, half joking. But Natalie wanted it too badly. She wanted to follow in her papa’s footsteps, to chase what her big brother Mick chased. It wasn’t expected of her but it called to her. And eventually, her mama stopped protesting. Not because the fear went away, but because she saw how Natalie lit up every time she got behind the wheel.

But what mattered the most, arguably, was that their father was here. Not just in the “he brought us and paid our entry fees” way, but really here. Michael Schumacher had been away a lot that year, just like every year, swallowed up by Ferrari duties and sponsor meetings. Luckily, it was his last year as a driver. And this weekend, he had cleared everything just to watch them race.

Natalie knew that because she’d asked him twice.

Now, sitting criss-crossed on a folding chair next to their kart, she picked at the velcro strap on her glove while Mick paced the tent with quiet nerves. He always got like that before the race started. His mind would buzz in circles. Natalie liked to think it was because he wanted to win, but deep down, she suspected it was because he didn’t want to disappoint their dad.

“Meinst du ich sollte in Turn 5 später bremsen?” Mick asked suddenly. (Do you think I should brake later in Turn 5?)

Natalie shrugged. “Sie haben dort das letzte Mal abgeschlossen.” (You locked up there last time.)

“Ich habe fast abgeschlossen.” (I almost locked up.)

She raised a brow. “Okay… Du wärst fast ins Schleudern gekommen.” (Okay… You almost spun into the gravel.)

That earned a look from Michael, who was crouched by Natalie’s rear tires, double checking the pressure gauge like it hadn’t already been done by five other track mechanics. “You two, be nice,” he scolded in English, without turning around. “You’re both here to learn. No one’s perfect.”

Natalie held back rolling her eyes at him. Papa always said that. No one’s perfect. Even though, to her, he was.

Mick frowned but nodded slowly. Natalie leaned back in her chair and watched the other kids trickle into the circuit. Some in karts, some dragging helmets behind them like they were too heavy to carry. Regardless, all the boys looked older, taller. More serious.

She didn’t feel out of place, despite being the only girl. At least, not in the way people expected her to. Natalie didn’t flinch when boys stared too long or made snide comments under their breath. She was used to it by now. The double takes, the raised eyebrows, the occasional series organizer asking her if she was in the wrong tent. None of it mattered once the kart turned on. Out there, she wasn’t someone’s sister or someone’s daughter or that girl who thinks she can race. She was just a racing driver. And that was all she needed to be.

Michael stood up, brushing his hands off on a rag, and turned to look at them both. “Remember,” he smiled gently, “you don’t have to win. Just drive your best. That’s enough for me.”

Natalie tried not to smile too hard. She hated when Mick called her soft. He always did it in that annoying older brother way that meant he did care, but didn’t quite know how to say it. Mick always got weird when their papa said things like that. Like he didn’t know how to hold onto praise taking it to heart. Natalie understood that a little.

Natalie Schumacher did not expect to win that race.

She knew she was fast but this track was always brutal to her used tires. Papa always insisted that he put them on her and Mick’s karts. He said it was to teach them how to adapt. To feel the loss of grip, to wrestle with unpredictability. “You have to learn how to win with worse equipment,” he told them, tightening a lug nut with calloused hands. “I didn’t grow up with the best parts. I would fish them out the bin. If you can drive well on these, you’ll fly on brand new ones.”

And of course, the name Max Verstappen had was being whispered all weekend. Her papa had warned her about him, too. “He’s aggressive,” he’d told her, kneeling beside Natalie’s kart that morning. “Clever as well. You’ll have to be smarter, not just quicker.”

And the Max boy was quick. He took different lines than she did. They were wider, riskier ones. He would break late, causing her to almost fly off track. In practice, he had flown past her twice. It had made Natalie’s jaw clench, made her papa sigh, and made her stomach twist in that sickening way it always did when she felt like she was falling short.

But that wasn’t the case for today.

Today, she drove that kart with fire in her veins and dirt under her tiny fingernails. She fought for her spot every turn, and when the chequered flag dropped, she crossed the line first. Barely, in front of the Max boy, but she did.

Again: Natalie Schumacher had just won her first karting race.

She couldn’t stop smiling as she slowly climbed onto the taller podium, her blonde hair a mess beneath her winners cap, her race suit dusted with mud. The cheers of the small crowd were loud, and the sun caught the edge of the little gold trophy in her hands, making it glint like something bigger than it was.

But something felt off.

Max, the boy who was supposed to be standing beside her, wasn’t there.

His name was still printed neatly on the silver trophy that lay on the second place pedestal, waiting for his little boots to fill the space. But he never came. The officials called for him once, maybe twice, before giving up and continuing with the ceremony. Natalie frowned, scanning the crowd, trying to spot that unmistakable bright orange and white helmet or the sharp blue eyes beneath the weight of his little scowl.

Natalie didn’t see Max near the tents. Instead, her eyes caught movement far behind the motorhomes barely visible beyond the chain link fence.

Ah! There he was!

Max stood stiff and still, his face bright red, head cast toward the ground. A tall man hovered over him, speaking rapidly in some foreign language. The language wasn’t German. Not French either. Natalie’s young self couldn’t place it, but the meaning didn’t need translating. The scary man’s hand was clenched tight around Max’s shoulder, shaking the boy once, sharply, before releasing. Max didn’t flinch, but even from this distance, Natalie could feel something sour twist in her chest.

The scary man wasn’t just angry. He looked furious. She wanted to march over there and tell the scary man how hard Max fought her for first. And honestly, the thought made Natalie wish she had gotten second. She didn’t understand the words, but she didn’t need to.

Natalie had never seen a parent look at their child that way before. Her papa never raised his voice like that. Even when she messed up, or rather, especially when she messed up. His voice stayed calm, steady. We’ll work on it, he’d say. You’re getting there.

Before she could watch any longer, a sudden POP! beside her made her flinch.

“Hah!” a young boy’s voice chirped, high and teasing.

Small but mighty, there was Charles Leclerc, triumphant in third place, grinned as he sprayed her with cheap pretend champagne, half of which missed and splattered onto her race boots. Natalie squealed, laughing despite herself, raising the little bottle in defense and catching him in the chest.

And just like that, Max and the scary man disappeared. Natalie Schumacher felt like a real race car driver.

Natalie sat on the steps of the Schumacher motorhome, her tiny race suit rolled down to her waist, the arms tied in a loose knot around her hips. Her hair was still messy from the fake champagne, and her cheeks were warm from the evening German sun. Across from her, their papa crouched low over the little fire pit he’d built out of bricks and gravel, carefully turning the sausages he’d set on a metal grate.

“Paaaaa! Don’t poke them so much,” Mick spoke from behind him, nose wrinkled. “They’ll split.”

“They won’t split,” Michael replied, amused as he looked at his son. “They’re fine. Do you want yours burnt, or not burnt?”

“… Not burnt.”

Michael grinned. “Then stop giving advice and let the sausage master work.”

The fire hissed, and the smell of charring meat mixed with the nearby scent of gasoline and fresh cut grass. Someone else at the campground was cooking too. It was something buttery and smoky, yum. And with the sun slowly setting, it was finally starting to cool off. Natalie was realizing that this was her favorite smell in the whole world: grease, petrol, and campfire.

She was still holding her little gold trophy in one hand. She hadn’t put it down yet, not really out of pride. Well, yes, she was proud, but, because the weight of it in her hand reminded her that it had actually happened.

Natalie leaned her head against the edge of the doorframe, eyes scanning lazily across the lot. Until a sharp slam cut through the quiet.

Her gaze snapped to the source of the noise. It was Max. And that scary man from before.

They stood a few motorhomes down, under the weak yellow glow of a lamp post. It was the second time that weekend she’d seen that man yell at him like that.

It was happening again. Worse, maybe. The man was louder this time, more animated. His hands sliced through the air like he was trying to cut something that wouldn’t go away. Max stood perfectly still, staring up at him with this blank sort of expression. He’d learned a long time ago that it was better not to respond. His face was red from holding his tears all in.

She didn’t know what the scary man was saying, but it was clearly bad. He looked very mean. He was the kind of grown up that made your stomach knot just from being in the same space.

The man turned to walk away, then spun back around suddenly and shouted again, louder this time. Max flinched, just barely, but didn’t move otherwise.

When the man finally stormed off for good, Max stayed behind. He just sat right there in the grass beside his motorhome, legs pulled up, elbows resting on his knees. His hands moved automatically, picking at the dirt and stray blades of grass. It was something to do, something to focus on instead of whatever had just happened.

Natalie’s cautious, curious eyes stayed on him longer than she meant to.

“Dinner’s ready,” Papa smiled gently beside her, handing her a bun with a sausage tucked neatly inside, wrapped in kitchen roll.

“Danke,” she murmured, taking it with both hands. But instead of taking a bite, she stared down at it.

Then she glanced sideways at Max again. Still sitting there, still quiet, still alone. She shifted on her feet. Thought for a second. Then looked up at her papa.

“Papa?” she asked, softly. “Do you.. think I could give one to him?”

Michael looked up again, this time following her gaze. He saw little Max Verstappen, alone in the grass, and his expression changed slightly. His brow creased, just a little. He took a breath, slow and steady.

Michael, of couse, had raced against Jos Verstappen. He remembered him well. Not for his skill, which was average at his prime, but for his temper. The way Jos shoved mechanics in the garage. The way he barked orders at engineers like they were below him. He remembered the way Jos had spoken to people when he thought no one important was listening.

And everyone had heard the numerous stories. Everyone knew that Jos was hard on his son. Way too hard. Hell, he even boasted about it! Michael had never seen it up close, but he had heard things. Seen the way the little boy flinched when Jos raised his voice behind the fences of junior events.

Michael looked back at his daughter, her little face scrunched with concern, thumb nervously brushing the edge of the paper napkin.

“Nat… I think it’d be a very nice thing to do,” he spoke finally, his voice quiet. “But you can’t take it personally if he doesn’t say thank you.”

Natalie slowly nodded, trying to understand why Michael would mention such things.

“You have to remember, he’s not used to kindness, Kleine,” Michael added, almost more to himself than to her. “Not from people who don’t want something from him.” (Kleine = little one)

She looked up at him, confused. “But.. Papa, I don’t.. want anything from him?”

Michael smiled softly. “I know you don’t,” He nodded, slowly. “You can go ahead,” his voice quiet. “But don’t stay too long, okay?”

“I won’t, Pa,” she promised.

Natalie spun around and walked across the gravel with no hesitation, sausage bun in both hands, toward the boy no one seemed to look at twice. Her eyes moved from the food to Max, then back again.

The boy didn’t look up right away. He was crouched low, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the dirt. His fingers were smudged with mud, busy pulling up little weeds just for something to do.

But when her racing boots crunched softly against the grass, Max tensed. His head snapped up, and cold blue eyes met hers. Wide, suspicious, a little red around the edges. Natalie froze; she hadn’t expected his stare to feel like that. She felt her face go warm, suddenly too aware of how quiet it was between them. But she held up the hotdog anyway.

“Um… hi,” she slowly smiled.

Max didn’t answer. Just blinked at her, not moving an inch.

They hadn’t spoken before. Not even once. She didn’t know if he spoke English. Or German, or anything she knew. But she figured she had to try something.

“I… I brought you food,” she added awkwardly, holding it out a little further.

Max glanced at the hotdog, then back at her. His shoulders stayed hunched. His small face didn’t soften.

“Why..?” he asked confused, voice quiet.

Natalie shifted her weight, unsure what to say. She didn’t have the guts to explain all of it. That she’d seen the way his father yelled, how it reminded her of stories Papa never told but the adults sometimes did. That she didn’t think anyone should have to eat dinner alone, especially not after working so hard to win a race.

So instead, she shrugged. “Because you didn’t get one,” she settled on. “And it’s good. And I thought you might’ve wanted one.”

Max looked at her like she’d just said something in a completely foreign language. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment she thought he might stand up and walk away.

But then, slowly, carefully, Max reached out and took the hotdog from Natalie’s hands. Their fingers brushed for a second, and he flinched, just barely, but didn’t let go.

Natalie smiled, relieved. “See? Not poisoned.”He didn’t smile back, but he didn’t scowl either. Which felt like progress.

Natalie sat down beside him in the grass, close enough to be friendly but not enough to crowd him. Her knees brushed against a dandelion, and she plucked it absentmindedly as he stared down at the food like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“You can eat,” Natalie raised a brow, glancing sideways at him. “I told you it wasn’t poisonous.”

She watched with quiet curiosity as Max slowly unwrapped the hotdog in his lap. His tiny fingers moved carefully, like he was afraid of tearing the paper wrong, or maybe just buying time. Then, without saying a word, he tore the hotdog in half. He glanced sideways at her, a little shy, then held one half out in her direction.

She didn’t move at first, too surprised to. “Huh? You can have it,” Natalie said softly. “It was for you.”

Max shrugged, still holding it out. He didn’t explain, and Natalie didn’t push him. Eventually, she took it from his hand, their fingers brushing again for the briefest second. It wasn’t a big piece, but her stomach was grateful anyway. She hadn’t even realized how hungry she still was.

With a smirk, she took an overly dramatic bite, exaggerating the chew and letting out a satisfied “Mmm” that made Max’s lips twitch. Then he giggled. Just a little, barely more than a breath. Natalie tried not to make a big deal out of it, but it made her grin widen.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he finally brought his half to his mouth and took a small, cautious bite, like he was waiting to make sure it wouldn’t disappear before he could finish it.

“Natalie,” she spoke after a moment, pointing to herself. “I’m Natalie.”

Max tilted his head, swallowed his bite, and echoed, “Nah-lee?”

“Close enough,” she smiled.

He paused, then pointed to himself. “Max.”

“I know,” she shook her head, and then laughed softly. “You’re very fast.”

Max blinked, surprised by the compliment. His face shifted a little. It was less guarded, and more curious.

“You too,” he acknowledged, the words slow and thick with what she realized was a Dutch accent. “Very fast.”

Natalie nodded, chewing the last bit of her food. She liked the way he said it. His voice sounded better now, separated from the fright of his father.

They didn’t talk much after that. There wasn’t really a need to. They sat there in the grass, the firelight from the camps scattered around the grounds casting flickers of gold across Max’s face as he ate quietly beside her.

When they finished, Natalie stood, brushing crumbs from her knees. Max looked up at her unsure.

She reached out and took the crumpled kitchen roll from his lap, combining it with hers in one hand. Max blinked at her, clearly surprised, but didn’t argue. Just folded his hands awkwardly in his lap.

“Uhm… Bye,” Natalie offered him a little wave and a small smile.

Max hesitated, then returned it with the same tiny wave. “Bye.”

And just like that, Natalie turned and walked back toward her motorhome, toward the warm hum of her father’s voice and the quiet comfort of knowing she was loved. Never realizing that for Max, that hotdog and that five minutes of peace might be the kindest thing anyone had done for him in months.

taglist @anamiad00msday @norstappenvibes @maxswhore33 @ragioniera @anedpev @dannydancer1 @beyond-the-ashes @flowersofdeath @camilahpg03 @iisa-bellla @haileyweinstein @butterflygxril @c3lest328 @toxicthotsyndrome68 @d-aydr3aming-in-stars @itsjustmyopinionf1 @quelinameowl @lagrandeoursee @havaneselover08 @luckyladycreator2 @linneaadele @softmhm @gabriellepearce96 @cryinghotmess @manuztb @embonbon @lelevs @athanasia-day @darkkingchild @wallowinmemories

#f1 #charles leclerc x reader #fanfic #charles leclerc x you #formula 1 #formula one #ao3 #charles leclerc #max verstappen f1 #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x female oc #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 15 hours ago

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isekai and in over my head.

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn't a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT │ 2.3 k words. f!reader x 5 Li (non-romantic so far). slice of life.

TAGS │ isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: wow. absolutely wow. i went in to this not expecting anything. just writing for my own sanity. and the fact that you guys love it this much? fuck this community is amazing. thank you sm for the support!

INDEX │ chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧ chapter three ✧

chapter three │ there's no wiki for this.

THE DOOR CLICKED...shut behind Tara with a chirpy, “Rest up!” and the second her footsteps faded down the hall, I dropped the smile I’d been holding like a tray of drinks that had overstayed its welcome.

One beat.

Two.

Then I doubled forward, bracing my hands on my knees, and let out a noise I can only describe as part whimper, part wheeze, part this-can’t-be-happening-to-me.

Because I’d done it.

I had successfully faked normalcy long enough to be left alone.

And now—I was alone.

In an apartment I didn’t recognize but was apparently mine. Sleek. Immaculately organized. Suspiciously dust-free. The kind of place that came scented like bergamot and quiet breakdowns. Stainless steel accents. Dimmable lights. Not a single dish in the sink.

I was standing in someone else’s life.

Someone composed. Someone capable. Someone who didn’t show up to their interdimensional apocalypse wearing bloodstained pants and one sock.

I stumbled over to the coffee table—real wood, glass top, coasters no one ever used—and collapsed onto the couch like a marionette whose strings had just been very politely severed.

A framed photo on the sideboard caught my eye.

I blinked at it. Once. Twice.

It took three full seconds to realize I was in it.

Me. Smiling. Positioned neatly between Caleb and Zayne. All of us laughing like we shared inside jokes and complicated history and the occasional brush with death.

Which, sure, might’ve been sweet—if it weren’t borderline existentially catastrophic.

Because I didn’t belong in that photo. Didn’t belong in this apartment. Didn’t belong in this story.

Not with them. Not here. Not like this.

I grabbed a throw pillow and clutched it like a life preserver. The silence pressed in, thick and padded, the kind that didn’t care how close I was to falling apart.

My legs wouldn’t stop twitching. My heart kept thudding like it was trying to get ahead of something. I couldn’t breathe without noticing how weird breathing had become.

I wasn’t panicking. Not yet.

But the runway was cleared. Engines on. Takeoff imminent.

I leaned forward, pulled the pillow tighter, and muttered, “Okay. Okay. Let’s think.”

Which was optimistic, really—considering half my brain was still screaming about Zayne’s jawline and the other half was building an isekai survival flowchart using crayons and fear.

I shifted the pillow to my lap and reached for the notepad I’d found earlier—tucked beside the bookshelf like a secret. Cream pages. Gilded edges. It looked far too expensive to be defiled by my nonsense.

Naturally, I grabbed a pen and got to work.

The Isekai Disaster Log. Title at the top. Underlined. Bold. Possibly cursed.

Step One: Identify Method of Entry. – Truck-kun? No. – Fell into a book? Also no. – Video game glitch? Closer… but there was no dramatic boss fight screen-suck. – Summoned by higher power? Still pending.

I tapped the pen against my lips, trying not to think about how unhinged this all looked—sitting cross-legged in someone else’s apartment (mine, technically, fictionally), scribbling genre tropes like a conspiracy theorist with a soft spot for K-dramas.

Because that’s what I was, wasn’t I? A placeholder. In high-waisted pants.

Next Section: Potential Exit Routes. – Defeat final boss → unlock return. – Earn true love → reset cycle. – Regain original body → body-swap reversal. – Die → classic dramatic reset (not ideal). – Confess truth → universe implodes?

That last one I underlined three times. Then drew a skull. Then a frowny face. It made me feel slightly better.

I tossed the pen aside and flopped backward into the cushions, arms flung wide like a swooning opera widow. The ceiling stared back—matte, pale, too sleek to be real. Probably had hidden heating vents and mood lighting triggered by emotional instability.

I blinked.

“Okay,” I said to no one. “Let’s say this is an isekai. Let’s say I got pulled into the body of the character I’ve played for years. Let’s say I’ve overwritten her like some cursed save file from hell.”

I sat up again—faster than necessary—and seized the notepad like it had personally offended me.

New Heading: Ethical Implications. – I stole her life. – I stole her wardrobe. – I stole her contact list, her unread messages, and—oh my god—I stole her men. – Her SSRs. – Her entire romance arc with the most devoted, animated, emotionally generous love interests ever coded.

I scrawled across the page: I AM THE PROBLEM. IT’S ME.

Taylor Swift would be ashamed.

Some small, rational part of me whispered, It’s not like you meant to. You didn’t hit “Steal MC Identity” in the settings menu.

But that part was quickly drowned out by a louder, nastier voice—one that sounded suspiciously like the YouTube comment section under a spoilery reaction video:

You’re ruining the canon. They loved her, not you. You’re breaking the story. You’re just a fan with access.

My throat tightened.

I reached for the water bottle on the counter, then stopped. It wasn’t mine. Nothing in here was mine. Not the framed photos. Not the notes in my inbox. Not the half-unwrapped gift on the kitchen island with a tag that read:

Don’t open until tomorrow – C.

I didn’t even know if C was Caleb or someone else entirely.

The guilt settled in my chest like a paperweight—heavy, cold, polished by years of fandom, lore, and longing.

I was a reader who’d fallen into the game.

But I wasn’t supposed to edit it. I was supposed to cheer from the sidelines. Cry when the confession finally happened. Not be the one getting tackled mid-battle by Caleb or scanned under sexy-doctor scrutiny by Zayne.

I pressed both palms to my face.

What if I couldn’t leave? What if this wasn’t temporary?

What if I was stuck here forever—playing the part of a woman who had earned every bit of love this world gave her, while I just flinched every time someone touched my shoulder?

My hands dropped. I stared at the notepad.

Pages torn. Corners dog-eared. Ink smudged by my own uncertainty.

A new plan began to form.

Not an exit strategy. That wasn’t coming anytime soon.

But a coping mechanism. A survival guide. A soft reboot.

If I couldn’t leave—if I was here for the long haul—then I would be so nice. So harmless. So deeply inoffensive that if the real MC ever came back, she’d look at my log of wholesome side quests and say: Wow. You really took care of my save file.

I nodded to myself. Out loud.

“I’ll smile more,” I told the wall. “I’ll bake muffins for Caleb, even if I nearly die turning on a space-age oven.”

And above all?

I would say nothing.

Not one syllable. Not a single whisper about who I really was.

Because this world had rules.

And I had read enough manhwa to know exactly what happens when you break them.

Best-case scenario? Narrative collapse. Worst-case? A tear in reality. Everyone dies. Caleb cries. The End.

So I was going to be good.

Like, really good.

I was going to smile at everyone like I’d graduated top of my class at the Hunter’s Association Charm Academy. I’d say things like “great teamwork” and “thank you for your service” with such radiant sincerity that even Zayne would log it as medically viable.

I’d become the kind of woman people described as “so lovely” and “just a joy” and maybe even “strangely polite given the circumstances.”

With that sacred vow in place, I folded the notepad shut, gave a resolute little nod, and stood.

Immediately tripping over my own foot on the way to the sink.

Because grace, it seemed, was not included in my starter kit.

Still, I rinsed my face. Brushed out the knots in my hair with something called an ionizing detangler. Changed into a pair of sweatpants I prayed were actually mine and not something the real MC had once emotionally bonded with. Every motion was deliberate. Precise. Good girl on her best behavior.

I was going to pass for normal if it killed me.

Which, frankly, it still might.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Polite. Almost apologetic.

I froze mid-sip from a pastel mug that read: Hunters Do It Better.

One gentle knock. Then another.

A beat. Then—

“Your lights are still on.”

The voice was deep. Calm. The kind of voice you’d hear during a power outage and just trust. Familiar, too—like velvet cut with steel.

I crept toward the door like it might bite.

Then—

“It’s Xavier.”

My entire soul left the chat.

No. No-no-no-no—

Because Caleb and Zayne coexisting in the same timeline made sense.

But Xavier?

The quiet, lethal swordsman with the voice of a lullaby and a gaze that could skewer you into next week?

That meant—

Oh god.

That meant they were all here. All of them.

Not spaced out by chapter unlocks. Not split across plot branches. All. Together. In canon proximity.

I flung the door open more out of panic than purpose.

Xavier stood there like a moodboard come to life—hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair slightly tousled, expression unreadable. One hand in his pocket. The other holding—

A thermos.

He blinked, slow and unbothered.

“I saw your lights.”

I nodded. Then realized I was nodding like a socially anxious bobblehead and stopped.

“I—yeah. Lights.” I cleared my throat. “They’re… on.”

Another blink. Another pause.

Then, tilting his head just slightly:

“You okay?”

Which, to be fair, was a complicated question.

Physically? Fine. Mentally? A patchwork quilt of anime tropes and impostor syndrome. Spiritually? Somewhere between “lost in a cutscene” and “actively dodging God’s gaze.”

“I’m great,” I lied. “Perfect, even.”

He gave a small nod—slow, deliberate, as if filing the answer away in a database for later review.

Then he held out the thermos.

“Chamomile.”

My brain short-circuited.

Because nothing in the romance route prep guides—nothing in the character notes or fandom wikis or fan-translated interviews—had ever warned me about this.

Not quiet night visits. Not sleep tea. Not the soft weight of care wrapped in a mundane gesture.

“Oh,” I said, brilliant as ever. “Thanks. That’s… nice.”

“I can stay.”

He said it without drama. Without loaded meaning. Just a simple, solid offer, like staying was something people just did when they noticed someone might need it.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Then, very, very dramatically—

Shut the door.

Because this world didn’t make sense.

Because if Xavier was here, calm and lethal and handing out herbal tea like it was standard field protocol—

Then Sylus might be next.

And Rafayel.

And if that happened?

I really would die. Right there. On canon soil. Of romance-induced heart failure.

From the other side of the door, his voice came again—low, steady, perfectly calm.

“If you change your mind…”

I didn’t answer.

Just leaned my forehead against the cool wood and whispered, half to myself, half to the devs:

“Fucking hell, InFold. Are you trying to murder me?”

I stayed like that for a while.

Just breathing.

Forehead pressed to a door that had no idea how high the stakes were. That didn’t care about timelines or fan theories or character routes or the logistical nightmare of making muffins in a kitchen where you didn’t recognize the knives.

The air on the other side stayed still.

Eventually, footsteps.

Not angry. Not impatient. Just quiet.

Xavier didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t knock again. He simply left—offering space like someone who understood the weight of silence and had no desire to fill it.

Which was kind, really.

And also maddening.

I peeled myself off the door like a sticker someone had given up on and slumped back into the living room, thermos still in hand. The tea was warm—floral, faintly sweet. It tasted like a lullaby I hadn’t earned.

I sank into the couch and stared at the ceiling.

Plain. Elegant. Ambivalent to my suffering.

“I’m in a dating sim,” I muttered.

It wasn’t a revelation. More like a Google Maps reroute: You are here, even though I’d known for hours because nothing around me had changed. Except here, the landscape was made of heartbreak rendered in high definition, elite military uniforms, and a doctor who looked like the human embodiment of a soft-focus lens.

And they were all in love.

Not with me.

But with her.

The one who belonged. The real MC.

I looked down at my hand—the same hand Caleb had held, Zayne had examined, Xavier had offered tea to—and curled it slowly into a fist.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whispered. “But I have it.”

So maybe I couldn’t fix it. Maybe I couldn’t undo the weird narrative tumbleweed that rolled me into this story. Or explain why no one could see through me. Or how I’d managed to fall face-first into the Super Bowl of boyfriend content without so much as a strategy guide.

But I could survive it.

One kind gesture at a time.

I would become the world’s politest interloper. The most considerate impostor. The human equivalent of a please and thank you wrapped in seasonally appropriate gift wrap.

I would make muffins. I would compliment everything. I would be so pathologically nice that if the universe did collapse, it would at least whisper, thank you for your service on the way out.

And I would say nothing.

Not to Caleb. Not to Zayne. Not to Xavier. Not to Sylus or Rafayel or anyone else who might appear in this dimension like it was just another Tuesday.

No world-breaking honesty. No selfish confessions. Just saintlike patience, passive support, and possibly chamomile-induced enlightenment.

“Okay,” I exhaled.

I curled into the corner of the couch, clutching the thermos like it held divine answers.

Lights still on. Ceiling still boring. Tea still warm.

“I can do this.”

Beat.

“I think.”

To be continued...

♡ taglist : @spicypomegrana2 @asilaysdead @sunshine-angel08 @demon-master-zero @mosscoveredmist @glassandhoney @adrasteiax @mentaltrouble2201 @inutrasha94 @aweebs @noxus123 @in-a-far-away-land @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

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aventurineswife · 3 days ago

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“The Star Returns Home”

Summary: After years aboard the Astral Express, forging your path and becoming a Nameless, your journey takes an unprecedented turn—you’re revealed as an Emanator of Trailblaze, chosen by the path itself, with no Aeon’s blessing required. The universe is stunned. The IPC confirms it. And suddenly, Belobog becomes a tourist hotspot, fans eager to see your hometown. Amid the chaos and cosmic fame, the Landau siblings—Gepard, Serval, and Lynx—react in their own distinct ways. Pride, nostalgia, and deep familial love fill the air as the sibling they once protected returns home not just a traveler, but a symbol of Trailblazing itself.

Tags: Landau Siblings x Reader, Found Family, Sibling Bonding, Reader is a Trailblazer, Reader is an Emanator, Soft Angst, Bittersweet Reunion, Proud Siblings, Comfort, Emotional Reunion, Fame Whiplash, Homecoming.

Warnings: Light emotional themes (e.g., identity, change, fame), Mild angst (mostly comforting and wholesome), References to interstellar politics/fame.

Requested by: @slowkib

It started with a data leak from the IPC.

Some intern posted a news brief too early—"Astral Express Member Confirmed as Emanator of Trailblaze"—and within hours, it was everywhere. Not just across star systems, but buzzing in Belobog's freezing streets, echoed in the halls of the Silvermane Guard, humming through the amps of The Neverwinter Workshop.

You.

Their little sibling.

The one who used to sit in Serval’s workshop fiddling with old sound chips.

The one Gepard used to carry home when you fell asleep reading by the fireplace.

The one Lynx gave her last piece of jerky to on those grueling family hikes up the snowy ridges.

You weren’t just part of the Astral Express anymore.

You were an emanator. The Trailblaze itself had chosen you.

And Belobog—Belobog was suddenly on the map of the cosmos.

He stood in his office, data-pad forgotten on his desk, the IPC headline glowing back at him. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Didn’t move either.

To most, his face was unreadable as ever—but inside, something twisted and warmed all at once.

Pride. Fear. Awe. Worry.

You had always been bold in your own quiet way, challenging traditions without needing to shout about it. He’d known you were meant for more than Belobog could offer. That didn’t stop him from feeling like his chest was too small for how much his heart swelled with this news.

When a junior officer burst into the room, panting and excited:

"Captain! Did you hear? Your sibling—they’re the Trailblaze Emanator! There are tourists flooding the lower district asking for their childhood hangouts!"

Gepard only nodded once, calm as ever.

“…Then we’ll increase patrols in the entertainment sector. Make sure the people are safe.”

But when the soldier left, he reached for the picture on his desk. A worn photo of all four Landau siblings, taken before you’d left. He brushed his thumb across your face, voice low.

“…You’ve really gone and done it, haven’t you?”

And for once, a soft, rare smile broke across his features.

“They did what now?”

Serval practically short-circuited when Pela rushed into her workshop with the news, a crowd already forming outside, chanting your name like you were some interstellar rockstar.

She had known you were extraordinary. Encouraged it. Pushed you toward it.

But even she hadn’t seen this coming.

Emanator. You were now an embodiment of everything she stood for: freedom, passion, blazing your own trail.

“HA!” she cackled, spinning in her chair, sparks flying from a neglected amplifier behind her. “That’s my little sparkplug! Didn’t even need an Aeon’s blessing—just raw grit and a whole universe to explore.”

She wasted no time.

Within minutes she was organizing a "Homecoming Concert" in your honor—part celebration, part welcome, part very-public bragging-rights.

She also may or may not have started selling custom guitars modeled after your Trailblaze insignia.

No regrets.

Lynx was the one who took it all in with quiet wonder.

Not because she didn’t care. Far from it.

She was the only one who wasn’t surprised.

Lynx had seen it in you for years. The spark, the weight of something bigger settling in your bones before even you could name it.

So when the news broke and her communicator exploded with messages, Lynx just shrugged, smiled, and bit into an apple like it was Tuesday.

“Guess that means I’m related to a cosmic phenomenon now. Do I get a fan club too?”

But later that night, she sat outside the edge of the Underworld, looking up at the sky.

The stars seemed brighter than usual. Your path, maybe, shining extra for home.

She whispered to herself, just barely audible:

"Don’t go getting too heroic without me, alright?"

And she sent you a voice message, no preamble:

“Bring souvenirs. I want at least three. Also, I’m telling everyone you used to eat glue as a kid. Love you.”

The Astral Express touches down on a newly upgraded platform, mobbed by tourists, journalists, and screaming fans with "Trailblaze Me!" signs.

You step off, slightly overwhelmed, slightly bemused—and then…

Gepard is there, standing at the bottom of the ramp. Stoic, straight-backed, silver and blue uniform pristine.

And then—he hugs you. Just once. Just long enough. A silent I’m proud of you in every breath.

Serval nearly tackles you next, laughing so hard she almost drops her custom amp backpack. “You better have juicy stories or I’m making them up!”

Lynx shows up late, climbs onto your back, and just says, “So, hotshot—how does it feel being a universal icon?”

A beat.

“You still snore, by the way.”

And you laugh, because somehow… this still feels like home.

You, the Emanator of Trailblaze.

And the Landaus—your family, your grounding stars—shining beside you.

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red5cars · 1 day ago

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been a minute since i talked about a hybrid!au so bringing back service pup reader x jack abbot

tags: dog-hybrid!reader, heats, fingering, p-in-v, just soft sleepy sex

warm.

that’s the only word his sleep-addled brain can muster, “warm”.

an unusual feeling considering he keeps the house fairly cool, leaning into how comfortable his life is if he ignores all the thundering thoughts in his brain.

he opens one eye, not expecting to be met back with two, half-lidded and glassy.

it’s pretty normal to wake up with you on top of him, your weight grounding, breaching his subconscious and pulling him out from the night terrors. what’s not normal is the way you grind your hips onto his thigh.

thankfully, this isn’t an isolated incident.

both eyes open now, he greets you with a lazy smile, one of his hands settling on your back, “well this definitely beats an alarm clock,” he mumbles, other hand coming up to the pet the spot between your ears. a quiet huff leaves your lips, leaning more towards satisfaction than annoyance.

with a grunt, he moves his hands, urging you to lift your hips as he adjusts himself underneath you. when he brings your body back down, your legs straddle him, stray fur from your tail tickling the inside of his thighs.

jack hums, smoothing a hand over your ass, “heat came a little earlier than we planned,” and you nod, speech harder during the beginning of your heats. he can only tut in sympathy, “poor baby.. been like this for a hot minute, yeah?”

while words may have left you, your judgement hasn’t as you roll your eyes, giving him a look that says get on with it.

and he’s more than happy to.

the hand on your rump slides into your panties, already dripping so much slick he’s surprised there wasn’t any on his thigh. he strokes two fingers over the hole, slipping in easy as they push inside.

your lips part, quiet moan sounded out against his chest. he does his best to listen, to feel you out. noting what makes your breath hitch or what has pushing back against his hand. brings the hand on your head down to grab one of your cheeks, pulling and spreading your whole even wider around his fingers.

he continues to tease you like that, taking his time. sometimes, he’ll even pull his fingers out, using two more to rub over your hole, earning a soft whine from you.

after a few more thrusts of his digits you come, frenching his fingers as you clench. your breathing is heavy, the rise of your chest pushing against his own. he’ll never get used to seeing you like this, savoring it all like it’s the first time.

sliding his fingers out of you results with you whimpering, and jack can’t help but chuckle. his (dry) hand comes back to rest on your hand, ruffling your hair before pinching your cheek, “greedy girl,” he admonished fondly, pushing a finger between your lips. sharp canines poke at his flesh, even piercing against it in hopes to pierce him. it’s satisfying, but the way your eyes go out of focus for a minute bests that.

removing his hand from your face, he uses both to give you what you need. takes him a good minute to work down his boxers, sleep still wrapped around his bones. you being on top of him doesn’t help either, but he’ll never complain about any of that.

if he were a few years younger his cock would spring up, hitting you right against your folds. shame what time does, jack having to give himself a few extra pumps before he’s ready.

slowly, he eases you down onto his cock, watching you wince from the intrusion. it strokes his ego, even if he knows it’s more about your sensitivity then his size. someone like you is meant to take something bigger.

it’s in his dresser for later.

the whole time you sink down, you nudge your face further against his chest. it’s like you’re trying to bury yourself inside him, chasing that warm feeling, pulling on the cords of his heart till you’re tied up in them, wrapped around like some organic shibari.

he’s wide awake the moment your ass is flat on his hips, taking in lungfuls of his scent. the two of you stay like that, for a minute, the only noise your deep breathing. after a couple of clicks, you’re moving.

jack watches you take what you’re owed, his own breathing picking up and he’s hardly doing anything. the way you move is just so exhilarating, any smart comments leaving him because he’s too focused on you bouncing on your cock.

in place of those comments is praise, murmurs of “good girl” make your tail wag and your hips move even faster.

isn’t long before you cum, the telltale signs like you’re jaw clenching and eyebrows furrowing letting jack know. his arms wrap around you just as you do, lifting his hips to kiss that gummy spot inside you while you meet him with a rough slam of your hips.

your tongue lolls out of your mouth as you come down, your breath hot as it hits jack’s shirt.

his hold loosens, rearranging his hands so they’re rubbing your sides now. “better?” he asks, bit breathless from you bouncing on his cock.

you find your voice, nodding as you mumble a quick “yes,” emphasized by the slow wag of your tail.

he can only smile, leaning forward to kiss your temple, “‘m glad,” it’s spoken into your hairline, the intimacy leading you towards a more syrupy headspace.

without fully pulling you off his cock, he tugs you a little closer, holding you tight while resting his chin on your head.

“let’s take a quick power nap before the next round, okay?” he’s met with a quiet mmf which sounds like an “okay” to jack.

#reds writes #jack rabbit abbot #jack abbot x reader #hybrid!reader #just soft sleepy-ish sex #also needed a little break from thinking up cod ideas #the pitt

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ficwritersretreat · 2 days ago

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Still Spaces Available!!

(Honestly, they usually fill up faster? Am half expecting a flurry of registrations all in one go...)

BUT ANYWAY, YOU (YES YOU) ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO THE

EIGHTH annual Fic Writers' Retreat, first held in Canada in 2016, coming once again in 2025.

To Register, Click Here

When: August 7-10 2025

Where: Five Oaks Retreat Centre, Paris, Ontario, Canada

What is it? Four days spent with other fic writers, from Canada, the United States, and anywhere else we can convince people to come from! There will be a mix of workshops (Topics TBA and open to suggestions), prompts and challenges, and plenty of independent writing time for your own personal projects.

It’s also an opportunity to make connections with people who share your interests and passions, and where you can focus on your own goals and creativity.

Cost (in CANADIAN DOLLARS): $480.00

(approximately $350 US, €301 and ¥2,511.45, as of this posting)

Here’s what you get for it:

All meals (dinner Thursday to lunch Sunday)

Accommodation (Shared rooms but NOT shared beds - sorry)

Daily workshops and writing sessions (planned and delivered by participants - you too, if you want!)

A retreat in a beautiful riverside setting

WiFi included

Registration Process:

Click on the Registration Link, above.

Complete the form and submit it.

Select a payment option: a) e-transfer (Canadian residents only) or b) PayPal (link in registration form)

Make your deposit of $240 CAD (50% of total cost) to complete your registration

Second payment is due on July 10, 4 weeks before the retreat begins.

Space will be allocated on a first-come, first served basis. There are 22 spaces available, after which names will be placed on a waiting list (no payment will be required unless you are offered a spot).

Travel to the venue is not included. However, shared transport from Toronto (airport or other hubs) can often be arranged with other participants.

Several participants (and the organizer) live in the area, and we have always been able to arrange ride-shares from the Toronto Airport to the various venues. These connections will be arranged after registration.

Contact me with any questions! Or see the FAQ Page

Tags under the cut

@keirgreeneyes @stellacartography @anotherwellkeptsecret @inexplicifics @inevitably-johnlocked @ivyblossom @mkengland @addictedstilltheaddict @totallysilvergirl @kettykika78 @fluffbyday-smutbynight @antheiasilva @blogstandbygo @doctornerdington @rianneeyre @elodieunderglass @myuglyone @cirquedereve @hoppip @helloliriels @muaddib-iswriting @amindamazed @lololollywrites @musical-chan @body-n-soul @gay-pirate-anime @shelleysprometheus @missdaviswrites @thegildedbee @pippn-frodo @otter-von-bismarck

#fic retreat 2025 #THERE IS SPACE #slightly concerned there is too much space?#fanfic writers #fic writers retreat 2025 #Signal boost please!

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onlyforsebastianstan · 3 days ago

Text

The Mission

Summary:

Bucky, your partner, is assigned in a solo mission to retrieve intel from NexTech, the organization that made you, the ones who tortured you. Bucky strictly told you not to follow, but this made you even more concerned, so you disobeyed him and followed him only to be captured by NexTech.

📎Genre: Romantic Drama | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Family | Redemption

⚠️ Warnings:

→ Emotional Distress → Betrayal → Verbal Cruelty → Trauma and Guilt → Pregnancy → Medical Themes → Mature Emotional Content (MINORS DNI!)

The Avengers compound was a fortress of controlled chaos, but your shared bedroom with Bucky Barnes was a sanctuary. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting golden streaks across the rumpled sheets where you lay tangled in his arms. His metal arm rested across your stomach, its cool weight a familiar anchor against your skin. You stirred, blinking awake, and found his face inches from yours—eyes closed, dark lashes fanning over his cheeks, his breathing steady but light, like he was already half-aware.

“You’re staring again,” Bucky murmured, voice gravelly with sleep, his lips twitching without opening his eyes.

You smiled, brushing a soft kiss along his jaw, the faint stubble scratching your lips. “Maybe I like what I see.”

He hummed, a low, warm sound, and tightened his hold, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed flush. “Careful, doll. Keep that up, and we’re not gettin’ out of bed.”

You laughed softly, tracing a finger along the seam where metal met flesh at his shoulder. “And that’s a bad thing because…?”

His eyes cracked open, blue and piercing, softened by the morning light. “Because Steve’ll drag us to that damn meeting.” He shifted, propping himself on one elbow to hover over you, his dog tags dangling between you. “Or we could stay here. Just you and me.”

You arched a brow, teasing. “You trying to bribe me, Barnes?”

“Is it working?” His metal hand slid up your side, cool fingers grazing the curve of your hip, sending a shiver through you.

“Maybe.” You leaned up, capturing his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of mint from the night before, and he deepened the kiss with a soft groan, his flesh hand cupping your face.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled against your lips, pulling you back under the sheets as you tried to sit up.

“We’ve got a meeting in—”

“No,” he said, voice firm but playful, pinning you gently to the mattress. His lips brushed your forehead, then your cheek. “Five more minutes. World’s not ending today.”

You sighed, melting into him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

Your relationship with Bucky wasn’t loud or flashy like Tony’s theatrics or Clint’s banter. It was quiet, steady—built on moments like this, where words weren’t always needed. He knew how you took your coffee—black, two sugars, never stirred—and you knew he’d linger in the shower until the water ran cold, lost in thought. Late nights were for whispered confessions, promises you both kept close, too fragile to say too loudly. This morning, wrapped in his warmth, you felt safe, like the world outside could wait.

By mid-morning, you and Bucky had a rare day off, courtesy of Steve owing you both after a grueling mission in Sokovia. The kitchen was lively—Natasha was flipping pancakes with a precision that bordered on terrifying, while Sam tried to steal one and nearly lost a finger to her spatula.

“Get your own, Wilson,” Natasha said, not looking up.

Sam grinned, undeterred. “You’re hoarding the good ones, Romanoff.”

Bucky, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, caught your eye and smirked. You were perched on a stool, sipping orange juice, trying not to laugh. He sauntered over, opening the fridge door for you to grab more juice, then holding it open like a gentleman.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, nudging his shoulder as you poured.

“You say that, but you’re still smiling,” he shot back, his voice low, just for you.

Natasha rolled her eyes from the stove. “Get a room, you two.”

“We have one,” Bucky said, not missing a beat. “You’re just jealous.”

You laughed, swatting his arm. “Behave.”

“Never.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Wanna get outta here?”

You nodded, and soon you were strolling through a quiet park near the compound, hand-in-hand, the autumn leaves crunching underfoot. The air was crisp, and Bucky’s leather jacket brushed against your arm as you walked. You talked about nothing and everything—movies you’d never have time to watch, what you’d name a dog if you ever got one.

“Max,” Bucky said decisively. “Short, strong, no nonsense.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Max? That’s so… basic. What about Luna?”

He snorted. “Luna’s for cats. Dogs need grit.”

“Says the guy with a vibranium arm,” you teased, bumping his hip.

He grinned, pulling you closer. “Keep talkin’, doll. I’ll toss you in that fountain.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “Kinky.”

His laugh was deep, and he stopped walking, turning to face you. His eyes lingered on yours, warm but intense, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you. “You’re trouble,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You blushed, caught in his gaze. “You like it.”

“More than I should.” He kissed you then, soft and unhurried, right there in the middle of the park. A few passersby glanced your way, but you didn’t care. Bucky’s hands settled on your waist, and you felt the world tilt, just a little.

You moved on to your favorite bookshop, a cozy place with creaky floors and shelves packed to the ceiling. Bucky wandered the aisles with you, pulling out a worn copy of The Hobbit and flipping through it, pretending to read while stealing glances at you.

“You gonna buy that or just use it as a prop?” you asked, browsing a stack of poetry.

He smirked, closing the book. “Depends. You gonna read it to me later?”

“Only if you say ‘pretty please’ first.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Pretty please, doll.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you shoved him lightly. “You’re dangerous.”

“Only for you.” His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, but you noticed him check his phone for the third time that hour. His expression flickered—something guarded, tense.

“Everything okay?” you asked, keeping your tone light.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Just… mission stuff.”

You wanted to press, but the moment passed. He squeezed your hand, pulling you toward the checkout with a grin. “C’mon, let’s get you that poetry book. I wanna hear you read it all dramatic later.”

Evening settled over the compound, and you were back in your room, curled up on the couch with Bucky. The playful energy from the park had faded, replaced by a quiet tension. He sat beside you, running his fingers through his hair, a telltale sign he was wrestling with something.

“Bucky,” you said, setting your book down. “What’s going on?”

He exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve got a mission tomorrow.”

Your stomach tightened, but you kept your voice steady. “Okay. What’s the job?”

“Recon. Some tech corp. In and out, nothing big.” He avoided your eyes, focusing on the floor.

You shifted closer, already calculating loadouts in your head. “I’ll come with you. We can—”

“No,” he cut in, sharper than you expected. He softened immediately, reaching for your hand. “They only need one. It’s quiet recon. Shouldn’t take long.”

You frowned, searching his face. “You sure? I don’t like you going alone.”

He managed a half-smile, kissing your temple. “You don’t have to worry about me, doll.”

“That’s the thing,” you whispered, leaning into him. “I always will.”

His silence stretched too long, his hand stilling on yours. You saw something flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or fear. “Bucky, talk to me.”

He shook his head, pulling you into his lap instead. “Just… let me have tonight, okay?” His voice was low, almost pleading.

You nodded, not pushing, but the unease lingered.

The bedroom was awash in moonlight, the curtains parted to let the silvery glow spill across the hardwood floor and tangle in the sheets. The Avengers compound was silent at this hour, a rare stillness that made the world feel small, just you and Bucky Barnes in this sacred space. He sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his usual steady presence frayed at the edges. You felt it in the air—a quiet unrest, a shadow in his touch when his fingers brushed yours earlier, hesitant, like he was afraid to hold too tightly.

You crossed the room, the soft cotton of your shirt brushing your thighs, and climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands settled on your hips, warm and cool in tandem, but his grip was lighter than usual, like he was holding something back. You framed his face with your hands, thumbs tracing the faint stubble along his jaw, and kissed him to fill the silence. Your lips were soft, coaxing, tasting the faint salt of his skin as you lingered, willing the tension in him to melt away.

“Don’t disappear on me,” you whispered against his lips, your voice barely audible, laced with a vulnerability you rarely let show.

His blue eyes searched yours, shadowed with something you couldn’t name—guilt, fear, or maybe just the weight of tomorrow. He hesitated, his breath catching, then kissed you deeper, slower, like he was pouring his entire soul into it. “Never,” he murmured, but the word trembled, a crack in his armor that made your heart ache.

His hands moved to your shirt, fingers deft but reverent as he worked each button free, parting the fabric to reveal the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He undressed you with a tenderness that stole your breath, his calloused fingertips tracing every inch of exposed skin like he was committing it to memory. He lingered on the delicate hollow of your throat, the dip of your waist, the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his touch both worshipful and aching. His lips followed, pressing open-mouthed kisses that burned like promises—along your shoulder, down the valley between your breasts, across the faint scar on your hip from a mission long past. Each kiss felt like a vow, but there was a bittersweet edge, a whisper of goodbye you couldn’t shake.

“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice catching as you tugged at his black t-shirt, needing to feel him, to anchor yourself in his warmth. He lifted his arms, letting you pull the fabric over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that mapped his history, and the seamless meld of vibranium and flesh at his shoulder. Your fingers traced the line where metal met skin, a gesture so intimate it made his breath hitch. You leaned in, kissing the scar tissue gently, feeling the rapid pulse beneath.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, voice rough with emotion, his eyes dark and intense, pupils blown wide in the dim light. His hands slid to your pants, unbuttoning them with care, easing them down your legs until you were bare beneath him, vulnerable in a way that felt sacred. He leaned back, taking you in, his gaze roaming over your body like he was seeing you for the first time—every curve, every freckle, every mark that told your story.

“Bucky, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need, desperate to chase away the shadows in his eyes, to pull him back to you. You reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans, but he caught your hand, kissing your palm before guiding it to his chest, letting you feel the steady thump of his heart.

“I’ve got you, doll,” he murmured, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that was both tender and urgent, a clash of longing and restraint. He stood briefly, shedding his jeans and boxers, the fabric pooling on the floor, and you drank him in—the lean muscle of his thighs, the sharp cut of his hips, the undeniable evidence of his desire. He settled between your thighs, his dog tags cool against your skin as they dangled, brushing your chest as he hovered over you.

He kissed you again, slow and deep, his tongue teasing yours, tasting of mint and something uniquely him. His metal hand gripped your hip, cool and firm, grounding you, while his flesh hand slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. He moved lower, lips trailing fire down your neck, pausing to suck gently at the pulse point until you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.

He lingered at your breasts, kissing the soft skin, his tongue circling one nipple before taking it into his mouth, the wet heat making you gasp. His metal hand cupped the other, the contrast of cool vibranium and warm lips sending shivers through you. He lavished attention on you, slow and deliberate, until you were writhing beneath him, your breaths coming in short, needy pants.

“Bucky, I need you,” you pleaded, your hands roaming his back, nails grazing his skin as you pulled him closer. His eyes met yours, raw and unguarded, and he nodded, understanding the depth of your need—not just for his body, but for him, all of him.

He positioned himself, the tip of him brushing against you, and you gasped at the contact, your body aching for more. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, voice low, his forehead pressed to yours. You shook your head, wrapping your legs around his waist, urging him closer.

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, the stretch exquisite, filling you in a way that felt like coming home. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through you. He paused, giving you time to adjust, his breath hot against your neck. “You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice strained, like he was holding himself back.

“Move,” you urged, rolling your hips, and he obliged, pulling back before thrusting deeper, finding a rhythm that was steady but laced with desperation. Each movement was deliberate, his hips angling to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur, stars bursting behind your eyes. His metal hand gripped your hip tighter, guiding you, while his flesh hand tangled in your hair, anchoring you to him as he kissed you, his lips bruising, like he was afraid this was the last time.

“Bucky,” you gasped, your voice breaking as pleasure built, coiling tight in your core. His name was a prayer, a plea, and he answered with a thrust that sent you spiraling, your body trembling as you clung to him. His kisses were frantic now, swallowing your moans, his dog tags clinking softly with each movement.

“God, I love you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice raw, almost broken. The words sent you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, your body shuddering as you cried out his name. Your walls clenched around him, and he followed moments later, a low groan rumbling through him as he buried himself deep, his release spilling inside you. He collapsed against you, his face pressed to your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

You held him close, your fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against yours. Your bodies were still entwined, slick with sweat, the air heavy with the scent of sex and something deeper—love, fear, unspoken promises. You traced lazy patterns on his back, savoring the quiet, the way his weight grounded you.

“I love you,” you said, curled in his arms, your voice soft but certain, your cheek pressed to his chest.

He didn’t answer right away, his arms tightening around you, his metal hand stroking your spine with a gentleness that made your heart ache. Then, barely audible, his voice thick with emotion: “You don’t know how much.”

You fell asleep tangled together, his warmth lulling you into a dreamless haze, your legs entwined, his breath soft against your hair. The moonlight bathed you both, a fleeting moment of peace before the storm waiting just beyond the horizon.

At 3:14 AM, the room was silent, save for the soft rhythm of your breathing. You were asleep, peaceful, one hand curled against the pillow. Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, his gear packed. He leaned down, pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple, his lips lingering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so quiet it barely disturbed the air.

He stood, leaving his dog tags on the nightstand—a glinting, silent promise. He glanced back at you, your face soft in sleep, reaching for the space where he’d been. The door closed soundlessly behind him, and the room went still.

You stirred, your hand brushing the empty sheets, but you didn’t wake. Not yet.

The night was sharp and unforgiving, the cold biting through your stealth suit as you trailed Bucky through the industrial sprawl of NexTech’s facility. The complex loomed like a fortress, its concrete walls studded with security lights that flickered like predatory eyes. You’d slipped out of the Avengers compound hours after Bucky, driven by a gut-deep certainty that he couldn’t face NexTech alone. They weren’t just a tech corporation—they were your past, the ones who’d forged you into a weapon with needles and screams before you broke free to become an Avenger. The memory of their labs clung to you like damp rot, and you couldn’t let Bucky walk into that hell without you.

“Doll, stay home,” his voice echoed in your mind, soft but resolute from last night’s argument. You’d nodded, but the shadow in his eyes—the one he thought you didn’t see—had pushed you to follow. Now, crouched behind a rusted shipping crate, you scanned the perimeter, your breath shallow to avoid detection. Bucky was inside, somewhere, and you’d find him.

A guard’s flashlight swept the darkness, and you pressed yourself flatter against the crate, the metal cold against your cheek. “Sloppy,” you muttered, tracking his predictable patrol pattern. When he turned, you darted across the open ground, slipping through a side door left ajar—careless, or maybe a trap. The corridor inside was sterile, all white walls and humming machinery, the air heavy with a chemical tang that twisted your stomach. You moved silently, guided by the subtle signs Bucky had taught you: a scuff on the tile, a faint creak of a hinge.

“Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, your pulse a steady drum in your ears. You hacked a security panel with a device Tony had rigged, its green flash granting you access to a deeper hallway. The air grew colder, the hum louder, and your senses screamed danger. Then you heard his voice—Bucky’s, low and clipped, coming from a control room ahead.

You crept closer, peering through a cracked door. Bucky stood with his back to you, facing a man in a crisp suit—Dr. Elias Voss, you realized with a chill, his face etched in your nightmares from years ago. Armed guards flanked him, and monitors glowed with data streams and footage of labs—sterile tables, restraints, the kind that still haunted your sleep.

“Everything’s in place,” Bucky said, his voice colder than you’d ever heard, devoid of the warmth he’d whispered to you last night. “The intel’s secure. What’s next?”

Voss adjusted his glasses, a smirk curling his lips. “Well done, Soldier. Keep the Avengers off our scent, and you’ll get what we promised.”

Your heart stopped. Soldier. The word was a blade, slicing through the trust you’d built with Bucky. Your hand pressed against the wall, steadying you as your mind reeled. He couldn’t be… not again. Not with them.

“Good,” Voss said, his voice smooth as oil. “Now, about the asset we’ve acquired—”

A gloved hand clamped over your mouth, yanking you back into the shadows before you could react. You thrashed, elbow slamming into a solid chest, but the grip was unrelenting. A sharp prick stung your neck, and warmth spread through your veins, heavy and numbing. “You shouldn’t be here,” a gruff voice hissed—an operative, not Bucky, his face obscured by a tactical mask. Your vision blurred, limbs going slack as the drug took hold. The last thing you saw was Bucky’s silhouette, still facing Voss, oblivious to your capture.

Darkness claimed you.

Pain dragged you back to consciousness, a throbbing ache in your skull matched by the cold metal cuffs biting into your wrists. You were chained to a chair in a stark, windowless cell, the air thick with antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood. Your stealth suit was gone, replaced with a thin gray jumpsuit that did nothing to ward off the chill. Bruises bloomed across your arms, and your body felt sluggish, heavy with the aftereffects of whatever they’d injected you with.

The door hissed open, and your breath caught. Bucky stood there, his face a granite mask, his blue eyes stripped of the warmth you’d clung to in bed last night. Behind him was Voss, his clinical gaze sweeping over you like you were a lab specimen. Two guards lingered at the door, their rifles glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Bucky,” you croaked, your throat raw, your voice barely above a whisper. “What the hell is going on?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. “You put this on yourself,” he said, his voice flat, cutting like a knife. “If you just listened to me, You shouldn't be in this condition. You should’ve stayed home.”

The words hit harder than any blow, stealing your breath. You strained against the cuffs, the metal clanking. “What are you talking about?” you demanded, your voice rising despite the pain. “Bucky, it’s me. Why are you doing this?”

Voss stepped forward, his smile cold. “He knows his place, unlike you. You were a problem we thought we’d buried years ago.” He tilted his head, studying you. “But you’ll be useful again, after we… rebuild you.”

Your eyes snapped back to Bucky, searching for a flicker of the man who’d kissed you under moonlight, who’d whispered he loved you. “Bucky, please,” you said, your voice cracking. “If this is some kind of play, stop it. Tell me what’s happening.”

He stepped closer, his boots echoing on the concrete, and crouched to your level. His eyes were ice, empty of everything you’d known. “You were a means to an end,” he said, each word deliberate, a hammer to your heart. “The Avengers, the relationship—it was all a cover. You really think I’d tie myself to someone like you?”

Your chest caved, a sob choking you. “No,” you whispered, tears burning your eyes. “You’re lying. Last night—everything we did, everything you said—was it all fake?”

He stood, his jaw tight, his gaze unyielding. “Yes.”

The word was a death knell, shattering something deep inside you. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, the pain sharper than anything NexTech could inflict. Voss signaled to a guard, his voice calm. “Prep her for reconditioning.”

A technician wheeled in a machine that made your blood freeze—a chair rigged with wires and electrodes, a twisted echo of the one that had broken you years ago. “Bucky,” you pleaded, one last desperate attempt as they dragged you to it. “Don’t let them do this. Please.”

He turned away, his silhouette stark against the harsh light. “You shouldn’t have followed me,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, and the door slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone with your tormentors.

Days bled into weeks, each one a relentless descent into agony that stripped you bare. NexTech’s reconditioning was a nightmare you thought you’d buried—a hellscape of pain engineered to erase the Avenger you’d become and resurrect the weapon they’d forged years ago. The cell was your world now, a claustrophobic cube of gray concrete, its walls slick with condensation and stained with the ghosts of others who’d broken here. The air was thick with the acrid stench of antiseptic, ozone from the machines, and your own sweat and blood. Every moment was a battle to hold onto yourself, but the cracks were spreading, and you felt them widening with each session.

The first week was a blur of disorientation and defiance. They dragged you from your cell daily, your wrists chafed raw by the cuffs, to a sterile chamber dominated by a chair that haunted your nightmares. Its metal frame gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, rigged with wires and electrodes that hummed with malevolent promise. They strapped you in, the restraints biting into your skin, and the sessions began—electric shocks that seared your nerves, each pulse a white-hot lance through your body. You screamed until your throat was raw, your voice splintering into gasps, but you clung to your anger, spitting curses at Dr. Elias Voss as he stood over you, clipboard in hand, his face a mask of clinical detachment.

“You defied us once,” Voss said during one early session, his voice cold and precise, his glasses glinting as he leaned close, the electrodes humming against your temples. “You won’t again. Tell us about the Avengers’ plans, their safehouses, their weaknesses, and this stops.”

“Go to hell,” you rasped, your voice hoarse from screaming, your body trembling from the latest shock. Your defiance was a lifeline, the only thing keeping you from dissolving into the pain. You thought of Bucky—his laugh, his touch, the way he’d held you under moonlight—and it fueled you, even as his betrayal gnawed at your heart.

Voss sighed, almost disappointed, and nodded to a technician. “Increase the voltage,” he said, and the world exploded into agony, your back arching against the restraints, a scream tearing free as your vision whited out. When it faded, you were panting, sweat stinging your eyes, your muscles twitching uncontrollably. Voss scribbled a note, his pen scratching like a taunt. “Again,” he said.

Bucky was there sometimes, a silent specter in the corner, his presence a deeper cut than any shock. You hated how your eyes sought him out, how your heart still ached for the man who’d called you a liability, who’d said your love was a lie. He stood with his arms crossed, his face unreadable, his blue eyes—once your safe harbor—now cold and distant. You’d scream his name in the worst moments, a reflex you couldn’t stop, half-curse, half-plea, but he never reacted, never spoke. His silence was a blade, twisting deeper each time, carving out pieces of you. You wanted to hate him, to burn away the love that lingered like a bruise, but it clung stubbornly, a cruel reminder of what you’d lost.

“Why are you here?” you gasped once, between shocks, your voice ragged as you glared at him. “To gloat? To make sure I break?” He didn’t answer, didn’t even flinch, but you thought you saw a flicker in his eyes—something fleeting, gone before you could grasp it. Voss noticed, his lips curling faintly.

“Focus, Soldier,” Voss said sharply, and Bucky’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the floor. The word Soldier made your stomach lurch, dragging up memories of his Winter Soldier files, the ones you’d read in secret, hoping to understand him. Was that who he was now? Had he always been?

The second week brought new torments. Injections burned like acid in your veins, each dose a cocktail of drugs designed to dull your will, to make you pliable. They left you feverish, your skin clammy, your mind fogged with whispers of surrender. Interrogations followed, Voss’s voice a relentless drone as he demanded secrets—Avengers’ protocols, Stark’s tech, Steve’s strategies. You gave him nothing, even when a guard’s fist split your lip, even when your ribs ached from a kick that stole your breath. Defiance was your armor, but it was cracking under the weight of exhaustion and despair.

“You’re only prolonging the inevitable,” Voss said one day, his face inches from yours as you slumped in the chair, your body trembling from a fresh injection. “The Avengers won’t come for you. Your Soldier doesn’t care. Give us what we want, and you’ll rest.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, blood trickling down your chin, your voice weak but venomous. You thought of Natasha’s smirk, Tony’s quips, the team you’d fought for, and it steeled you. But Bucky’s silence in the corner was louder, his presence a reminder of his betrayal. “You’re wasting your time,” you added, glaring at Voss. “I’ll die before I betray them.”

Voss’s smile was thin, predatory. “We’ll see.” He gestured to the technician. “Double the dose.”

The needle pierced your arm, and fire spread through you, a scream clawing its way out as your vision swam. You heard Bucky shift, a faint scuff of his boot, but when you looked, he was still, his face carved from stone. “Coward,” you whispered, too low for Voss to hear, but you hoped Bucky felt it.

By the third week, hope was a fading ember. The pain was constant now, your body a map of suffering—bruises mottled your arms, your ribs throbbed with every breath, your wrists were raw and scabbed from the cuffs. Sleep was a luxury, stolen in fitful moments on the cell’s cold floor, haunted by nightmares of Bucky’s voice: You were a means to an end. Food was meager, a gray sludge that turned your stomach, and water came irregularly, leaving your throat parched. You stopped counting the days, time marked only by the rhythm of torture—cell, chair, pain, repeat.

Voss grew impatient, his calm facade fraying. “You’re stubborn,” he said during a session, his clipboard discarded, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced. “But we built you once. We’ll do it again.” He leaned close, his breath sour. “Tell me about Rogers’ shield schematics, or we’ll carve the answers out of you.”

You laughed, a brittle, broken sound that startled even you. “You’re pathetic,” you said, your voice a croak. “You think you can scare me? I’ve been through worse.” It was a lie—nothing had been worse than this, not even your first time in NexTech’s labs—but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Voss’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded to a guard. The man’s fist connected with your jaw, snapping your head back, stars bursting in your vision. “Again,” Voss said, and another blow landed, blood filling your mouth. You spat it at his feet, glaring through the pain.

Bucky was there that day, his presence a silent scream in the room. You didn’t look at him, couldn’t bear to, but you felt his gaze, heavy and suffocating. “Enjoying the show, Soldier?” you muttered, loud enough for him to hear, your voice dripping with venom. He didn’t respond, but the air shifted, a tension you couldn’t parse through the haze of pain.

By the fourth week, your body was betraying you. Your vitals flickered weakly on their monitors, your pulse erratic, your breathing shallow. The shocks were less frequent now—they couldn’t risk killing you—but the injections continued, each one a slow poison eroding your strength. Your ribs screamed with every movement, the guard’s kick from days ago leaving a deep bruise that pulsed with your heartbeat. Your wrists were a mess of scabs and fresh cuts, the cuffs never loosening. You barely recognized yourself in the reflection of the chair’s polished arm—hollow eyes, gaunt cheeks, matted hair streaked with blood.

During one session, the pain was too much. The electrodes hummed, and electricity tore through you, a relentless fire that burned out every thought but survival. Your scream was animal, raw, and the world tilted, your vision darkening as your body gave out. You collapsed forward, the restraints catching you, but your head hit the concrete with a sickening crack, blood pooling warm beneath your cheek.

“Stabilize her!” Voss barked, his voice distant, panicked, as you faded. Technicians scrambled, a needle piercing your arm, but you were slipping, the world a haze of pain and betrayal. Bucky’s cold words looped in your mind, a cruel mantra: You were a means to an end. You saw his face, not the lover who’d held you, but the Soldier who’d stood by as you broke, and it was the last thing you clung to as darkness swallowed you.

You were barely conscious, a ghost in your own body, when they dragged you back to your cell. The concrete was cold against your skin, your jumpsuit torn, blood crusting on your lips. You curled into yourself, shivering, your mind a fractured mosaic of pain, love, and loss. Bucky’s silence was louder than the shocks, his betrayal a wound that wouldn’t heal, and as you lay there, you wondered if you’d ever find your way back—or if you even wanted to.

The days in NexTech’s grip were a relentless spiral of torment, each one grinding you closer to oblivion. Their reconditioning was a nightmare reborn—electric shocks that scorched your nerves, injections that seared like molten lead, interrogations that clawed at your sanity. The cell was a tomb, its damp concrete walls reeking of antiseptic and blood, your torn jumpsuit offering no shield against the cold. Dr. Elias Voss wanted the Avenger erased, the weapon they’d forged years ago remade, and every session in their torture chamber was a step toward that end. Your body was a canvas of bruises and burns, your spirit splintering, but you held onto defiance, even as it bled you dry.

The final session came on what felt like the twenty-eighth day, time a meaningless smear. They dragged you from your cell, wrists raw and oozing under the cuffs, your ribs throbbing from a guard’s kick. The torture chamber was a sterile hell, its fluorescent lights glaring off the chair’s metal frame, wires and electrodes humming with menace. Strapped in, the restraints cut into your torn skin, and Voss loomed over you, tablet in hand, his clinical calm fraying into impatience.

“You’re wasting time,” he said, his voice sharp as he scanned your vitals. “The Avengers aren’t coming. Your Soldier doesn’t care. Give us their plans—safehouses, tech, anything—or you’re done.”

You spat blood at his feet, your voice a broken rasp. “Burn in hell.” Defiance was all you had, a flicker against the dark, fueled by memories of Bucky’s touch, now tainted by his betrayal.

A technician interrupted, her voice urgent. “Dr. Voss, the scans—look at this.” She handed him the tablet, and his eyes narrowed, then gleamed with cruel interest.

“Well,” he said, a smirk twisting his lips. “You’re full of surprises.” He tilted the tablet, showing a medical scan—your hormone levels, a faint anomaly. “Pregnant. Early, but clear. A complication we can use.”

Your heart seized, the world lurching. Pregnant. That last night with Bucky—moonlight, his trembling hands, the desperate love—flashed through your mind. It was his, yours, a fragile spark in this nightmare. Fear choked you, your chained hands twitching toward your stomach, instinctive, protective.

Voss leaned close, his breath sour. “Tell me what I want, or this child won’t survive the next session.”

“No,” you gasped, tears streaking your bruised face. “Please, don’t—leave it alone.” The plea tore from you, raw and desperate, your strength crumbling under the weight of this new terror.

Voss nodded to the technician. “Maximum intensity. Break her.”

The electrodes screamed to life, and pain consumed you—white-hot, all-encompassing, a fire that burned out thought and hope. Your scream shattered the air, your body convulsing against the restraints, vision fracturing into light and shadow. You clung to the thought of your child, of Bucky’s whispering I love you, but the agony was too much, your vitals spiking, alarms blaring as your pulse stuttered. Your eyes found Bucky in the corner, his face pale, eyes wide with horror, fists clenched until his knuckles bled.

“Stop it!” he roared, voice raw, lunging forward. “Voss, you’ll kill her!”

“Stand down, Soldier,” Voss snapped, but Bucky’s eyes were on you, wild with despair.

You collapsed, the restraints catching your limp body, your head cracking against the chair’s arm, blood pooling warm down your temple. The world faded, your last glimpse Bucky’s face—anguished, breaking—as he moved, a lethal shadow against the light.

Chaos erupted—gunfire, screams, the crunch of bone. You were barely conscious, a ghost in your body, as Bucky fought, a whirlwind of violence. He crushed a guard’s throat with his metal arm, drove a knife through another’s chest, blood spraying the walls. Bullets grazed him—shoulder, thigh, a deep gash in his side—but he fought through, blood soaking his tactical vest, his face etched with pain and resolve. A guard’s knife sank into his ribs, and he staggered, grunting, but snapped the man’s neck with a brutal twist. He was dying on his feet, but he reached you, the room a slaughterhouse of bodies and sparking monitors.

That night, you lay curled on the cell’s cold floor, shivering, blood crusting on your lip, your body a ruin. The door creaked open, and you flinched, expecting more pain. Instead, Bucky stumbled in, blood dripping from his wounds, his face raw with fear. He knelt beside you, hands shaking as he fumbled with the keys to your cuffs, his breath ragged.

“Doll, it’s me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Stay with me, please. You gotta stay awake.” His hands cupped your face, warm against your bruised skin, but you couldn’t focus, your vision swimming. “Look at me, sweetheart. Don’t close your eyes.”

You tried to speak, but your voice was gone, your body too broken to respond. “Bucky…” you thought, the word a faint echo in your mind, your eyes heavy.

“No, no, no,” he pleaded, his voice thick with panic, tears streaking his bloodied face. “Stay with me, doll. For me, for… for our baby. Please.” He unlocked the cuffs, catching you as you slumped, his arms trembling from his wounds. “I’m getting you out. Just hold on.”

He lifted you, cradling you against his chest, his blood mingling with yours. The hallway was a massacre—guards and technicians dead, blood pooling under flickering lights. Bucky had killed them all, his face grim, but his eyes were fixed on you, desperate. “Keep your eyes open,” he begged, his voice breaking as he staggered, pain lancing through him with each step. “I love you, doll. I’m here. Don’t leave me.”

He laid you gently in the van’s backseat, his hands shaking as he checked your pulse, faint but there. “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, his tears falling onto your bruised face. “I love you. I’m so sorry.” Your eyes fluttered shut, and panic seized him. “No, stay awake!” he shouted, voice hoarse, but the darkness was too strong, pulling you under. Everything went black, his desperate pleas—“I can’t lose you”—the last echo in your fading consciousness.

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