#the intensity of the blues today!

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Me, trying to write a sanguine: What would Chester Arthur do?

[unopenablebox]

my girlfriend is so fucking hot

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

One of the main reasons why I silently freak out so much after talking to people in a group setting is because I listen to them (or at least try to act like I’m listening to them) but the very instant I open my mouth to speak, they start talking to someone else, or someone else talks right fucking over me even though they know I‘m trying to speak. Every. Single. Time.

And it’s not just so-called “neurotypical” people. Oh no. It’s neurodivergent people too. And the neurodivergent people I understand; but they also have to understand that not all of us are fast talkers and some of us need people to be patient or we will never get our information out. My brain-to-mouth processing speeds are extremely extremely slow and I cannot talk quickly to save my life unless I am reciting something I already have memorized. If someone cuts me off in any way before I am finished, my brain gets stuck in a buffering mode for three seconds at the very least, and more if they continue to cut me off when I’m trying to communicate “No that’s not the end of what I’m saying and that’s not what I even meant by that. Stop making hasty generalizations about a point you haven’t even heard through yet.”

But no matter who I am talking to, right before I am able to finish my extremely well-thought-out point that I’ve been formulating in my head for months or years prior in the mirror, I always, without fail get cut off because everyone gets impatient with my long pauses and doesn’t even want to attempt to listen to what I have to say because they think what they’re about to say in reaction is more important. And it’s not like I’m taking over the conversation or talking more than I listen; I’m just taking more time than they are comfortable with to say a typical amount of words.

And then those same people always tell me, in a somewhat patronizing tone, “You’re so quiet! You’re such a good listener!” Yes because that’s what you’ve made me. Why should I talk to you if you won’t fucking listen to me for three seconds. And no, after a certain point I stopped listening to you because why should I listen to you if you don’t ever listen to me?

Everyone’s nice to me and says they want me there at their social functions but they still subtly exclude me. God damn.

I suppose they want to look at me, or perhaps inhale my aroma. Like I’m a house plant.

[mika-makes-things]

Blue linen dress part 2: first day’s progress!

I cut out the front and back body pieces (though only rectangles for now) as well as the sleeves/yoke.

Combining the sleeves and yoke is definitely the most experimental part of this project. I’ve tested the pattern out with a mockup, but I’m still a little nervous. Even here I’m working with the grain of the linen as much as possible. Hopefully that will keep things stable.

I completely forgot to buy thread for this project, and nothing in my stash was cutting it, so I couldn’t do any of the actual sewing I had planned for today. Instead I basted in the pleats on the sleeves.

And that’s it for today! Tomorrow I’m off to the craft store for some thread.

[hauntingblue]

Why do they say dragon is luffy's father but doesn't look much like him... I mean it is true but why point it out... in that way he doesn't look like garp either

[linguenuvolose]

??????

[crabs-but-better]

since i use the label asexual instead of something more specific like greyasexual, i often forget that I do, in fact, experience sexual attraction on occasion and well. it sure is an experience. hoo boy. and you’re telling me some people deal with this constantly? and not just like every two years?

[s0dium]

Warning: Male masturbation, fantasizing

Sukuna Ryomen cannot believe that he is jacking off to fucking you.

Why? Because your fucking detestable, vexing, a god damn nasty woman who didn't know her fucking place. But here he is, unable to shake the intrusive thoughts of you that invade his mind. The more he tries to push them away, the more persistent they become. His desire mingles with his hatred and his hatred only fuels his desires which makes fantasies even more intense and uncontrollable.

So here he is, hidden in his throne room, dark blue kimono untied and open as he guides his hand up and down his length. His mind is buzzing, hazy with pleasure, hazy from the thought of you.

A wave of warmth washes over him as thoughts of you flood your mind. His mind mulls over the details of what you were wearing when he saw you today, the tight cloth of your shirt around your breasts, the skirt that barely hung over your ass. Such a slut. You were probably trying to turn him on werent you? But Jesus, how would your skin feel? It looks so plush, so smooth like silk. Sukuna speeds up his rhythm. His breath hitches, and a slow, contented smile curls his lips.

He closes his eyes, allowing the memory of your voice to envelop him. It's as if he can feel your breath against his ear, whispering dirty things that only makes pre cum dribble from his tip.

"Cum in me" You would probably beg.

"Fuck me please." He groans.

He is so close but its not enough. He needs sicker fantasies and dirtier thoughts to bring him over the edge.

How would you look ontop of him? What if he bent you over his knee and fingered your tight hole? Could he fold you up and fuck you in a mating press? Could you take him? Probably not. But he's close now, he can taste his orgasm on his lips.

How about if he fucked you from behind and came on your cute face? What would your pussy feel like gripping him? How would your plush breasts feel in his hands?

Sukuana's hips stutter into his fist and thick ropes of cum coat his hand. The pleasure makes his legs and mind go numb and he’s left panting, groaning from the after shocks.

He wants to know, Jesus, he wants to know.

[tojisun]

found you today through your plumber simon story and hngggg how can you take a concept that's so overdone and still nail it??? THE TALENT

(I need more of those plss)

aww im glad u liked the lil drabble teehee and thank you so much!!

(idk if this will serve the way the first past did but—)

just. blue collar simon makes me shrivel up in need. he’s just so…capable. so competent. he’s suave and ruggedly charismatic. he sees what he wants and knows how to take it; how to coax it out of you.

simon sees how wide-eyed you are when you look up at him, sees the shyness in the way you give him that drink he asked for, sees the way you curl into yourself while you explain to him the problem you’re having with your kitchen sink, and he physically has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from preening.

you stuttered out your concerns, ducking your head down when you noticed how much eye contact he’s keeping, only for your lungs to constrict when all what your quiet murmur did was make him lean ever so closer to you.

“sorry, miss,” he drawled, shuffling to rest his hand on the counter. “just can’t hear y’well, s’all.”

“oh, okay,” you replied, voice all sticky because what else could you say?

and simon just watched with narrowed eyes and pinched lips because darlin’, you didn’t even know what you do to him.

simon didn’t really fuck you then, not with how you laid there on your kitchen table, loopy and twitching, eyes faraway while your body came down from the intensity of your orgasms.

little lady, you fuckin’ squirted. you drenched his mouth and made his fingers all pruny with your slick.

god, doll, you were so pretty, all sweaty and drooling, unable to even properly kiss him back when he leant down to nab a taste of those spit-slicked lips. all you could do was whine, your body locked while your cunt spurted uselessly, still so overstimulated by the way he stuffed you.

you pawed at the tent in his jeans when you finally came back to, and who was simon to deny you of his cock?

you sucked him messily, but simon’s never been so horny until then. you couldn’t even swallow his prick properly, your mouth tired and your body still putty, but simon came the fastest he’s remembered, shooting his spunk all over your sweaty face.

simon would’ve snagged a photo of how you looked but the pipes really needed some fixing. so he tucked himself back in his jeans, then slapped the inside of your thigh softly, his eyes still on your puffy cunt.

“a’right. this bloke need t’work again, is that not right miss?” simon crooned, dragging his hand along your leg, watching your skin dimple with the weight of his hold.

you warbled a response.

simon chuckled and pressed forward to brush a kiss on your forehead before forcing himself to walk away because he’s still on the clock.

not like he’d even charge you after all of that.

.

it’s two weeks later when you finally called the plumber again. sure, you had to slam the hilt of your knife on your pipe until it finally dented, but it’s not like the plumber—mr. simon—would need to know.

your call gets picked up after the second ring but before you could even offer any greetings, all of which you’ve rehearsed in front of the mirror over and over again, he says, “well, that sure took y’while, didn’t it doll? almost had me worried that you wouldn’t call.”

you breathe in sharply, your pussy tingling already. he chuckles.

“same address?”

“yes, please,” you rasp out before licking at your chapped lips. then, “can i request for an asap service? it’s…leaking right now.”

mr. simon laughs loudly this time. you end the call before he can say anything more, dutifully ignoring the way your cheeks thrum with feverish heat.

because you’re sure that this time…

[hoonietual]

god.

[atsvmi]

my dumb ass has GOT to start watching the news

[ma7moudgaza2]

🚨IMPORTANT 🚨

Today 8/25/2024, my family and I are suffering from the heat in the tent. After we left northern Gaza, we could not bear the heat of the tent in southern Gaza, so we rented a residential apartment in Hamad Towers, but the occupation forced us to evacuate it because it was bombed in the previous days until... The operation ended yesterday and I went to inspect the apartment until I found it completely destroyed!!

So we were forced to go to displacement camps and live in a tent!! We have a blue tent, but it is very bad. I cannot describe how bad it is in terms of humidity and heat. A normal person cannot sit in it for a minute due to the intense heat inside it due to its strong skin!!😱🙏🏼

So I need your help in buying a good white tent in which the temperature may be better. Its value is about 2500ILS, approximately $800. I hope to donate and share this as soon as possible.♥️😔

My family and I sit every morning in front of the tent because we cannot sit inside it due to the intense heat. I hope to spread this widely and achieve the goal within these two days.🙌🙌🍉🍉

[yzzart]

between white sheets.

pairing: tom blyth x actress!reader.

summary: a lazy morning with your boyfriend after a long night.

word count: 721!

notes: just a quick little thing, i thought of this scenario and here it is.

"Oh, i know you're awake…"

A typical and familiar British accent, with a deep and smug tone, vibrated against your bare neck; causing a kind of tickling and a wave of goosebumps in the region. — It was impossible not to squirm against the soft, fragrant sheets.

Even with your failed mission to pretend that you was still sleeping, your eyes remained closed but it was impossible to contain a warm and bright smile on your lips. — Your lips were traitors, you believed that. — And, in a matter of seconds and due to the lack of interaction, that smile turned into a loud and vibrant laugh.

Your neck received, once again, attention but now due to the small beard, not so annoying, that grew in the region of Tom's face; this time, an intense tickling sensation. — You tried to remove his face from between your neck with your hands but, unsurprisingly, you failed when he held both of you with just one hand.

Tom's laugh, which was muffled between your neck and pillow, joined against yours and echoed throughout the large and tidy room where you were staying. — Well, apart from just some of the clothes you guys had to wear to more TBOSAS opening night and accessories; the room was organizing. — And you swear, with the old, childish pinky promise, that you could listen to your laugh for hours.

Last night was so tiring, but so good; in fact, it was magnificent. — Once again meeting with the cast, giving interviews and taking countless photos with fans and in print; it was a special night.

Lifting his head and directing it towards the pillow, as it was in previous minutes, Tom finds himself observing the image before his eyes. — Your chest rose and fell gently, trying to recover and manage your breathing, your hair, with some stubborn and messy strands, spread across the pillow. — A radiant and fascinating scene for the eldest.

Not to mention, a sleepy smile on your lips. — If Tom had the opportunity and absolute power, he would stop time and stay like this with you forever.

"Good morning, my love." — His voice is hoarser than normal, and Tom wraps an arm around your covered waist, bringing your body even closer to his. — "How did you sleep, huh?" — He asks, giving small, loving kisses on your shoulder. — "The most beautiful woman in this world."

"Good…" — You replied, sleepy with red and embarrassed cheeks, and ran a hand through his hair; leaving a prolonged and attentive caress and then, moving your head, to leave a kiss on his forehead. — "What time is it?"

"I don't know…?" — Blyth raised his head and now you had the opportunity to admire his blue orbs so crystal clear, deep and enchanting; you found yourself falling even more in love with the boy every time his eyes met yours. — "Maybe it's eight, nine or even twelve hours?"

It was ironic to think that the clock was just a few steps away from the bed where you were and neither of you really cared. — Maybe it would be laziness, sleepiness or an excuse to spend more time together. — And the correct option was the third, no surprises.

Your eyes roamed between the dark locks and a few shy curls of Tom's hair, and all the comments about the idea of him actually opting to dye him blond — just like Coriolanus — played in your mind. — and every time they talked to you about this subject, you replied: "that wouldn't be a bad idea."

But, you always made it clear that you were the number one fan of his natural color. — And there were fans who agreed with you; you saw it on your social media and thought it was so funny and always showed it to Tom and the rest of the cast.

"What are our plans today?" — You whispered. — "… i'm seriously thinking about the idea of staying here all day." — In the middle of the sentence, you couldn't contain your laughter again; which this time was brief. — "Really." — Fatigue ran freely through your body and he wanted a long rest.

"Really?" — Blyth murmured, placing his face between your neck for the second time in a row that morning; you just nodded in confirmation, now felt prolonged kisses on your sensitive area. — "Then make your words mine."

[pucksandpower]

hiii! with the chaos that was today’s career, could I request one with driver reader that she started telling her team that she wasn’t feeling good but still wanted to continue but the next moment she isn’t answering her radio because she fainted in the car and the car goes out, the marshals take her out of the car and she doesn’t wake up, maybe she has extreme dehydration and is hot to touch, etc.

How the other drivers react when they found out, her team, etc.

Thank you

Too Hot To Handle

Max Verstappen x Red Bull driver!Reader

Summary: the Qatar Grand Prix pushed every driver to the limit … and some past the limit

Warnings: heat stroke, dehydration, crash, medical conditions

The Lusail International Circuit hums with electric anticipation, its asphalt ribbon shimmering under the floodlights. The roar of the crowd fills the night but the oppressive heat weighs on everyone, creating a contrasting atmosphere of excitement and cautious apprehension.

Standing alongside your Red Bull Racing car, you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow. In only your first year with the reigning double champions, you already have a record that has quickly become the talk of the paddock. But for all the praise and whispers, there is one voice that stands out.

“Remember, liefje, it’s not just about speed tonight. Keep hydrated, alright?” Max’s voice is full of warmth and concern. His hand rests gently on your arm.

You flash him a confident smile even though you’re battling your nerves internally. “I’ve raced in heat before, Maxie. I won in Singapore. I’ll be fine.”

He pulls you into a quick embrace, the temperature doing little to dampen the spark between you. “It’s different here. This heat ... it’s like nothing I’ve ever raced in before.”

Pulling back, you raise an eyebrow teasingly. “You worried about me, Verstappen?”

He laughs but there’s a hint of steely seriousness in his blue eyes. “Always. Just ... promise me you’ll be careful out there. For both our sakes.”

You nod, touching your helmet to his. “Promise.”

The intercom in your ear crackles to life. “Drivers, to your cars!”

You both exchange a final glance. Racing is in your blood, it’s what brought you together, but it also keeps you apart, if only for the few hours you’re no longer partners in life but competitors on track.

Sliding into your car, you secure your helmet and gloves. The world outside becomes a bit muffled but your focus sharpens. The engine’s purr is a familiar comfort, but tonight, it’s edged with the unease Max’s words left behind.

Your race engineer, Hugh Bird, checks in over the radio, “Everything good, Y/N?”

You take a deep breath, “As good as it’ll ever be. Let’s light up this track.”

“Give them a show.”

Lights out and away we go.

***

The Qatar Grand Prix unfolds with its usual mix of intensity and skill, drivers navigating tight turns and overtaking with precision. But beneath the spectacle, a subtle tension mounts. The oppressive heat, the stark floodlights, and the weight of expectation — all of it seems to be building to something.

In the garage and on the pit wall, your team closely monitors the race and your performance. Hugh occasionally chimes in with updates, “You’re doing great, Y/N. Remember to hydrate whenever you need to.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, “Understood. The heat’s something else in here.”

A pause. Then, “Just keep stead. And Max told GP to tell me to tell you to remember what he said.”

A smile touches your lips, “I always do.”

***

The track is a blur as you push your car to its limits, feeling the adrenaline surge in tandem with the roar of the engines. It’s as if the heat has seeped into your very core, burning with intensity. Each lap feels slightly longer, every turn a tad sharper, as the humid air takes its toll.

“Y/N,” Hugh radioes through, sounding distant and slightly distorted by the pounding in your head, “you’re P2. Great pace. Remember to sip some water.”

A trickle of sweat runs down the side of your face, stinging your eye. Blinking rapidly, you reach for the button that activates your hydration system.

“Got it,” your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. The water is lukewarm and tastes metallic, not as refreshing as you had hoped.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he urges.

With every lap, the world outside your visor seems to grow brighter, the floodlights shimmering like mirages in a desert. The race has become a battle, not just against other drivers but against the environment and, increasingly, against yourself.

“You’re dropping pace. Is everything alright?” Hugh’s concerned voice crackles through.

A knot tightens in your stomach. “I don’t know. I ...” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as a wave of overwhelming dizziness hits.

You can hear the alarm in your engineer’s voice becoming more pronounced. “Y/N, talk to me. Do we need to pit?”

The heat wraps around you, constricting, making it difficult to breathe. Your hands, slick with sweat, struggle to grip the wheel even through your gloves. “Guys ... I don’t ... feel ...” The world spins and your words falters.

“Y/N? Y/N, talk to me!”

But before you can respond, before you can even finish your sentence, the world tilts and blurs into an incomprehensible whirlwind. The sweltering heat, the relentless pursuit of victory, and the weight of expectation converge into a maelstrom that engulfs you entirely.

Your hands, once deftly steering the RB19, now hang limply by your sides. The car veers off the track, careening towards the barriers. Panic rises in you but it’s too late. Your body refuses to act.

The deafening sound of metal against metal fills your ears, followed by the nauseating sensation of impact. The world outside your cockpit twists and spins, a kaleidoscope of colors and chaos. Then, abruptly, it all goes dark.

In the garage, your team watches in horror as the monitors show the violent crash. The radio falls silent, the connection severed. In that heartbeat, the world goes eerily quiet, punctuated only by the distant echoes of screeching tires and the blaring alarms.

Moments pass like hours and finally the static on the radio clears, replaced by your frantic race engineer, “—please respond. Y/N? Are you okay?”

But there’s no response. Your world remains shrouded in darkness as the circuit comes to a standstill, gripped by an eerie silence that drowns out even the most deafening of cheers.

The track is plunged into chaos. Red flags wave fervently, signaling danger. Marshals rush towards your wrecked car, their fluorescent jackets contrasting brightly against the night.

“Get her out! Get her out!” One of the marshals shouts as they reach your car. Your limp form is carefully extracted and they begin immediate first aid. The severity of the situation is clear — the heat, the dehydration, it’s all taken its toll.

The crowd watches, a collective gasp filling the air soon replaced by a thick, heavy silence. As your unconscious form is stretchered away, the weight of all those warnings crashes down.

Back on the pit wall, four words whispered into the radio are the first of many about to turn your boyfriend’s world upside down.

“Safety car, safety car.”

***

“Max, we’re pitting this lap. Box, box,” the calm, steady voice of Gianpiero Lambiase, Max’s race engineer, instructs over the radio.

Max’s voice is curt, his mind still on the race. “Why? Tires feel fine.”

“Non-negotiable. Safety car is out. We need you to pit now.”

The urgency in GP’s voice is not lost on Max and he immediately senses that something is wrong. “What happened? Why is there a safety car?”

Silence follows for a heartbeat too long. “There was an incident. Just focus on your race.”

An icy dread seeps into Max’s bones. The circuit is massive yet his world feels terribly small at this moment. “Who was it? Who crashed?”

His engineer hesitates, and in that pause, the weight of a thousand possibilities presses on Max.

“Who. Was. It?”

GP wavers, “It’s … Y/N.”

Max’s breathing becomes ragged. Panic and fear flood his system. “Why the hell wasn’t I told immediately?”

“It was team orders. The decision was made to keep you focused on the race.”

Max laughs but it lacks any humor. “Team orders? You’re saying Christian decided not to tell me that Y/N ... my Y/N is hurt?”

“Yes,” the reply is uncharacteristically soft, “It was believed to be in everyone’s best interest for you to be fully focused on the race.”

Max has never felt such white-hot rage. He spits into the radio, seething with fury and pain. “You tell Christian that if he ever makes a decision like that again about someone I love, I’ll cut his balls off with a rusty spoon.”

“Max, I understand you’re upset. But right now, we need you to stay focused.”

Stay focused? When the love of his life is in potential danger? The weight of what that means presses down, threatening to crush him. “I need to see her,” he finally rasps out, voice breaking.

The plea hangs in the air, met by another long silence. Finally, the radio clicks on again, softer than ever. “Y/N would want you to finish. You know that. Win this for her.”

Tears blur Max’s vision, mixing with the sweat already pooling in his helmet, but he nods, a silent assent. The roaring engine now sounds distant, the glinting lights a backdrop to the storm that rages within him. Every second is an eternity, every turn a test of his resolve to keep racing. But Max drives on, pushing his limits for you.

Every fiber of his being silently screams your name, a prayer or a promise or both, Max doesn’t know. All he knows is that the faster he crosses the finish line, the sooner he can be with you.

For the world watching, the race continues, cars whizzing by. But for Max Verstappen, each lap, each second, is a race against his own heart, torn between duty and desperate love.

***

“Her pulse is erratic! Get the defibrillator ready!” A medic shouts as the emergency team frantically works around you, the ambulance parked haphazardly nearby.

Another voice, calmer but filled with urgency, counters, “Wait, give her a moment. She might come around.”

“Come on, Y/N,” A young medic mutters, pressing an oxygen mask to your face. “Don’t do this.”

The ambulance door opens again, the head medic speaking into a radio, “We need an airlift, now. The situation’s deteriorating rapidly.”

Another voice, muffled, replies, “The helicopter’s on its way! Clear the area.”

As the medics continue to administer aid, working desperately to stabilize you, the chief medic tries to maintain order, “Every second counts. This heat stroke is severe, coupled with dehydration ... it’s a nightmare scenario.”

“We should have had more cooling stations,” the younger medic mutters. “The humidity coupled with the heat ... it’s brutal tonight. And we’re not even the ones out there driving.”

The older medic takes a deep breath. “That is on the organizations. We can’t fix there mistakes but we can focus on what happening now and do everything we can to get her through this.”

The thrum of helicopter blades soon overwhelms the noise of the circuit, growing louder as it approaches. Soon, the bright light from its landing spotlight punctuates the night. “The helicopter’s here!” Someone shouts.

“Alright, team, on three,” the chief medic commands. They work in perfect sync, lifting you carefully but quickly, your body still unresponsive.

As they approach the helicopter, the pilot shouts over the roar, “We’ve got the best onboard. She’s in good hands.”

“She’s one of our best,” the younger medic shouts back. “She has to be okay.”

The chief medic, securing you inside, murmurs more to himself than anyone else, “Come on, Y/N. The race isn’t over. Keep fighting.”

***

“You expect me to smile and stand on that podium knowing she’s been airlifted to a hospital?” Max’s voice trembles with rage as he confronts the FIA officials blocking his way.

“Mr. Verstappen, there are rules, procedures,” an official replies stiffly.

“Rules? Y/N might be fighting for her life right now and you want to talk to me about rules?” Max’s hands clench and unclench as he physically holds himself back from throwing a punch.

Another official steps forward, trying to mediate, “Max, we understand your feelings but millions of viewers are watching. The podium is an essential part of the race.”

Max’s eyes flash with anger. “You think I care about a trophy when my girlfriend is in a hospital? Do you really think that piece of metal means anything to me right now?”

“We sympathize— ” the first official begins but is cut off by Max’s heated response.

“You sympathize? Do you even know what that word means?” He’s on the verge of breaking, voice barely above a whisper as he continues, “She is everything to me. Everything. And you want me to smile and wave for the cameras?”

The air grows thick with tension. The two drivers from McLaren waiting for their cue to go to the podium are silent, their eyes darting between Max and the officials.

A new voice interjects , “Let him go.”

It’s Lewis Hamilton, who despite DNFing early in the race, made his way across the paddock after seeing the distress on his rival’s face. “There are things more important than a ceremony.”

The officials exchange glances, clearly not expecting this intervention. But before they can reply, Max levels them with a final scathing look. “Fine me if you must! Penalize me! Suspend me for all I care! But I am going to her.”

And off he goes.

***

A nurse at the desk recognizes Max immediately when he runs into the hospital. “Mr. Verstappen,” she begins hesitantly, “Miss Y/L/N is in the ICU. Room 302.”

He doesn’t need any further prompting to sprint down the hall. Reaching the room, he stops dead in his tracks. You’re there, surrounded by machines that beep and whirr, tubes running to and from you, an oxygen mask on your face. The sight of you, once so full of life, now frail and vulnerable, breaks him.

His voice, when he finally managed to finds it, is a choked whisper, “Y/N ...”

Approaching the bedside, Max gently takes your hand, feeling its clamminess. “Hey, liefje ... it’s me,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles. His tears fall freely, wetting the back of your hand.

“Come on, love,” his voice cracks as he continues, “You’ve got to pull through this. For us.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tracing the familiar curves and lines he’s come to adore. “Remember that time in Monaco? When we snuck out for that secret dinner that our trainers would have killed us for? We promised each other forever that night. You can’t leave me now. Not when we’ve got so many more memories left to make.”

The room’s silence is punctuated only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor in a cruel reminder of the fragility of the moment.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs. “Please ... please come back to me.”

Leaning in, he rests his forehead against yours, allowing the weight of his anguish, love, and hope to flow between the two of you in the sterile room.

***

Nothing has changed. The steady beep of the heart monitor still punctuates the silence of the hospital room. Max sits vigilantly at your bedside, his hand gently clasping yours.

It’s been three days since the crash and you still have not woken up. The doctors say your condition is stable but uncertain.

Max leans in close and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Morning, liefje. I’m still here. Not going anywhere.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle as if you might break. In the stark hospital lighting, the dark circles under his eyes are visible. Sleep hasn’t come easy to him, not with you lying here.

A soft knock at the door draws Max’s attention. Hugh pokes his head in hesitantly. “Hey, Max. Any change?”

Max shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Nothing yet. But she’s fighting. I know she is.”

Your race engineer steps further into the room, his expression solemn. “I should have seen the signs earlier. Pushed her to hydrate more. Slowed her pace.” His voice catches, “It was my job to look out for her.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Max says firmly. “Y/N is stubborn. We both know that. She wanted to prove herself.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “It’s what makes her brilliant.”

Hugh pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. For a moment, the two men sit in pensive silence. Then your race engineer speaks again, softer this time. “Has she ... has she responded at all? Squeezed your hand or anything?”

Max clenches his jaw and stares past Hugh at the blank wall. “No. Nothing yet. But I know she can hear me. I tell her about training, the team ... I update her on everything. She’ll want to jump right back in when she wakes up.”

Footsteps approach and a nurse enters, checking the equipment and your vitals. After making some notes on a chart, she offers an encouraging smile. “No change but she seems stable. Just keep talking to her. Familiar voices help.”

After she departs, Hugh leans forward, clasping your still hand. “Hear that, Y/N? You’ve got to wake up. The team needs you. Your fans are all rooting for you. And ...” His voice cracks. “I need my driver back.”

Max looks at him gratefully. “We all need her back.” Reaching out, he gives your race engineer’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Another knock sounds. This time, it’s Christian. His face is etched with guilt and worry. “Max. Any improvement today?”

Max’s expression hardens. He hasn’t forgotten Christian’s decision to withhold news of your crash. But his voice remains even as he responds to the team principal. “Nothing new.”

Christian pulls up a chair next to Hugh. He chooses his next words carefully. “Max, I need to apologize. I made the wrong call that night. You deserved to know immediately about Y/N. My priorities were skewed.” His voice shakes slightly. “Seeing her like this ... I would give anything to go back and change what I did.”

Max studies him for a long moment and some of the hardness leaves his eyes. “I appreciate that. But right now, the past doesn’t matter. All that matters is her getting better.”

Christian nods. Reaching out, he gently smoothes your hair. “You hear that, Y/N? We’re all here for you. Your whole team. Now you need to come back to us.”

A heavy silence settles on the room once more. The three of them remain clustered around the bed … keeping vigil … willing you to show any small sign of recovery.

After some time passes, the ringing of Hugh’s phone snaps the three men out of their thoughts. “Sorry to interrupt,” your press officer’s voice filters through the speaker, “but the team’s on the line. They want to send their well wishes to Y/N.”

Hugh glances at Max questioningly who nods, “Patch them through. Let the whole team remind her why she needs to wake up.”

A smile tugs at your race engineer’s lips. “You got it. Go ahead, team. She can hear you.”

A chorus of voices floods the room. Your mechanics, pit crew, strategists, PR team … everyone chimes in with encouraging messages.

“Come on, Y/N! We need our star girl back on the grid.”

“You can do this, kid. You’re the toughest one out there!”

“We all believe in you. Keep fighting!”

Max grips your hand tighter, emotions threatening to spill over. Even Christian and Hugh have sheens of tears in their eyes.

“Alright,” your race engineer says after the team signs off. “You heard them. Time to wake up.”

And that’s when Max feels it. A short, weak squeeze of his hand.

Then your eyelids begin to flutter.

“Y/N?” Max leaps to his feet, leaning over you anxiously. “Can you hear me?”

Slowly, painfully, your eyes open, taking in the scene around you. Confusion clouds your expression. “M-Max?” You rasp.

A brilliant smile breaks across Max’s face. Relief floods through him so powerful that his knees nearly buckle as he chokes out, “Yes, yes it’s me! You’re back, liefje. You’re really back.”

Hugh lets out a shaky laugh, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Welcome back, superstar.”

You try to speak again but Max hushes you gently. “Save your strength. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk.”

Christian grins, looking years younger. “Oh thank god. I need to tell the team. They’ll be thrilled. Welcome back, Y/N.” He hurries from the room, phone already in hand.

Your race engineer squeezes your shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll all be here when you wake up.”

As he and the nurse move discreetly out of the room, you gaze up at Max. “You ... you stayed.”

Max lifts your hand to his lips, blinking back tears. “Of course I stayed. I’ll always stay by your side.”

He leans down, pressing his lips against your chapped ones. All the fear, the uncertainty, the heartache of the past few days melts away.

You’re back. You’re really back. And Max knows, without a shred of doubt, that your lives from this day on will be greater and more meaningful than all your wildest dreams.

***

In the following days, drivers from across the grid make the pilgrimage to your hospital room. They come bearing gifts — flowers, balloons, even a nearly life-size plush race car. But more importantly, they come bearing a message.

“That race should never have happened,” Lewis says solemnly, handing you a get-well card covered in signatures. “The heat was dangerous. We should have acted sooner.”

Esteban grips your hand tightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N. We should have spoken up about the conditions sooner. We all suffered but you suffered most.”

“Your crash woke us all up,” Lance adds. “No trophy is worth risking drivers’ safety even more than we already do each race.”

You’re moved by their solidarity but sigh knowingly. “The FIA would never have listened to just one driver saying something. But maybe they’ll listen to all of us.”

Max’s jaw clenches, residual anger simmering beneath the surface. “They have to listen. We won’t race in unsafe conditions again.”

The other drivers nod, They know the power that you all wield together and for the first time in a long time, you are going to use it.

In a show of outspoken unity, the GPDA drafts a strongly worded letter condemning the lack of caution around extreme heat and demanding tangible changes to make sure drivers aren’t put in avoidable jeopardy.

All twenty of you threaten to strike.

To your surprise, the FIA not only apologizes for the oversight but pledges to implement the requested changes immediately.

“Your crash was a wake-up call,” the FIA president says solemnly during a visit to your hospital room. “We should have protected you better. That will never happen again.”

When he departs, you let out a long breath, leaning back against the pillows. The anger and hurt from that night haven’t disappeared entirely but you feel a sense of hope, that some good has come from the experience.

Max clasps your hand between both of his. “What you went through is unacceptable but you used that to make the sport safer for every driver out there. I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a tired smile. “We did this together. All of us.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest. When you’re better, we’ve got plenty more checkered flags to take. Side by side.”

The long road to full recovery still lies ahead. But with Max by your side, and all the drivers behind you, you know everything will be okay.

The race goes on but it will be a safer race thanks to you.

[verstappen-cult]

Could you do a Lestappen one where Max and Charles see you wearing glasses for the first time, since you dont know where your contact lenses are

“What are you… wearing?”

You stop in the middle of the living room, looking back at Max who is already looking at you with an indecipherable expression on his face.

“What?” You look at your outfit, sweatpants and a top. Something you use to wear when you’re gonna be home all day, cozy and comfortable. “I always wear this around the house.”

“Not your clothes,” He turns his body to take a better look at you, his gaze fixed in something on your face. “that on your face.”

“Oh, my glasses!” You laugh, but your expression immediately changes when he keeps looking at you. “You don’t like them? I can’t find my contact lenses.”

“No, it’s just—” Max can’t seem to snap out of his head, blue eyes still looking at you.

“You like them.” You tease him, Max’s cheeks heat up immediately. He avoids looking at you now, turning around and going back to play on his phone.

You take the phone away from his hands and sit on his lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders.

“You think I look sexy with them?”

Max opens his mouth, stuttering, as Charles appears from around the corner. “Sexy with what?”

When you look at him, Charles’ mouth falls open.

“Are you - what are - what?”

You giggle, hiding your face in Max’s neck.

“You’ve seen me wearing glasses before, what are you acting like this?”

“We’ve never seen you wearing glasses before,” Charles says, finally remembering how to talk and be a normal person. He walks over to the couch and sits next to Max. “You’re - you look good.”

Charles cheeks are flushed and, just like Max, can’t take his eyes off of you.

“These are just glasses,” You snort, suddenly feeling shy under their intense gazes. “you’re overreacting.”

“You’re pretty, you know that, right?” You open your mouth to talk but end up nodding instead. “But with glasses. God,” Charles groans, leaning closer. “I want to do so many things to you.”

Your heart skips a beat and your eyes glaze over, pupils expanding. You shudder when Max lifts a hand and touches the glasses ever so slightly, just feeling them under his fingers.

Charles puts his hand on the back of your head, tilting it back to have access to your neck. He leaves a kiss on your jaw, slowly moving down.

“We don’t have plans today, right?” Charles asks in a low voice that has you taking a sharp intake of breath.

Max catches your entranced look and a lopsided grin appears on his face. “We have now.”

[heizlut]

Closing the Distance

ꕀ cw: mention of blood/injury (nonsexual related)

ꕀ tags: fem!reader, inexperienced and possibly ooc!calcharo, oral f!receiving, first-time sex, breeding kink, creampie, mostly proofread

ꕀ nsfw under the cut

ꕀ m!list here

Calcharo didn't expect this at all. He only agreed to help you find and fight against the tacet discords that had sprung up from a particularly strong tacet field. But here you were, laying underneath him and looking up at him with big eyes, your chest heaving with heavy breaths and your lips looking quite inviting.

All he was trying to do was get you out of harm's way by practically tackling you to the ground and caging you in with his own body as the final tacet discord emitted an explosive energy as it was struck down. It wasn't anything special, he swears it's not.

You clear your throat awkwardly, blush evident on your cheeks, "You can uh... get off me now..." You avert your gaze, unable to properly look him in the eyes, not now, and not since you felt something particularly...hard brush against your stomach. Your words snap Calcharo out of his daze, heat rising to his own pale features, "Ah, y-yes. I apologize..." He moves off of you and stands up, extending his hand towards you to help you up as well.

You take it, pulling yourself up and let go abruptly, "Thanks for your help today." Calcharo looks down at his hand where the warmth of your touch still lingered, then curls it into a fist, "It was no problem." The air felt heavy and awkward. There was something bubbling up inside of him that felt wholly unfamiliar. He rolls his eyes at himself and he turns away from you. Why was he acting like this? As if he's never seen a pretty girl before... How pathetic.

He peeks over at you as you absorb the echoes, taking in your strong but soft form. Calcharo could at least admit he found you to be a strong fighter, you were part of the Ghost Hounds after all. He was familiar with you, so why was he feeling like this now. He's never had time to form a romantic relationship with anyone nor has he ever felt the need to. He had more important things to worry about than getting his dick wet and being all soft with someone.

You meet he gaze, noticing that he's staring at you again with his intense blue-grey eyes. You raise a brow as you walk back over to him, "What's the matter with you today? You seem off." Calcharo huffs, looking annoyed as he turns his face away from you and crosses his arms, his voice deep and monotone as usual, "I'm fine." You study him for a moment and then shrug, "Whatever you say. Let's get going." As you move past him, Calcharo notices your gait, "You're limping."

You freeze in your tracks, having hoped that whatever was bothering him would keep him distracted enough to not notice. He already did so much for you today, you wanted to handle your injury yourself. You feel his large hand on your shoulder as he stops beside you, "Why didn't you say anything?" You want to shrug off his hand, but you don't; instead you sigh, "It's not a big deal. Let's just-" "No", Calcharo cuts you off quickly, moving in front of you, "At least let me take a look."

"I don't think that's such a good idea...", you say a little softer than you had liked. Remaining stern and stoic as ever, Calcharo crosses his arms as he looks down at you, "And why would that be?" His question sounds icy and he must've realized it because he tone softens when he speaks again, "You're injured and I wouldn't be a very good leader if I didn't look out for another member." Thunder rumbles in the distance, a sure sign that a storm was on its way. You look down and then grab his arm, surprising him, "Fine. But let's not be out in the open..."

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If you hadn't been injured and limping, the two of you wouldn't be soaked from the rain you had gotten caught in. Slamming the wooden door shut of the run-down cabin you found in the woods, you immediately sink down onto the floor. "How did you know this place was...", Calcharo's voice trails off as his blue-grey eyes find the growing patch of blood on your upper thigh, immediately crouching down to your level.

His intense eyes take in your features, your face flushed red from a slight fever and a couple droplets of water run down your face to your neck. Calcharo's hand reaches for your wounded thigh before pausing, hovering right over the wound, "May I?" You grit your teeth and nod. With uncharacteristically shaky hands, he undoes your pants and helps you lift your hips off the ground as he lowers them. In his head, he repeats over and over that this is just to treat you. That's it!

But he can't help glancing at your cotton panties... There was nothing particularly special about them, but the way they hugged your hips, pressing close against your pussy underneath; it had him inadvertently licking his lips. Calcharo shakes his head and looks to the open cut on your thigh. He does his best to make sure his voice comes out even as he speaks, "It's not too deep. There's just a lot of blood from straining yourself." You point to your bag, "There's a first aid kit in there..."

With a single nod, he grabs the bag and rummages through it til his fingers brush against the small first aid box. He grabs it and mentally prepares himself to give you stitches while also trying so damn hard to stop from popping a boner at the sight of you.

You were injured, for fucks sake! Now wasn't the time to suddenly sprout inappropriate thoughts that he had never had an issue with before. Sensing his hesitation, you practically snatch the kit from his hands, making him blink in shock.

Though flushed with a bit of a fever, drenched from the rain, and injured, you still have the nerve to narrow your eyes at him, "I can do it myself." His jaw hangs open for a moment but he quickly shuts it, returning to his usual cold demeanor, "Fine." He sits back, watching as you thread the curved needle and piece your own flesh as you stitch yourself up. Mentally he cringes on your behalf, but you barely react as your skin closes with the thread.

If anything, seeing just how strong you are, not just physically, but mentally, it makes things even harder for him, quite literally. His cock throbs in his pants and he presses down on it, willing it to just go the fuck away. After tying up the thread and cleaning off the remaining blood, you look his way, noticing his hands pressing down in his lap and you raise a brow, a weak smirk playing on your lips, "Are you seriously hard right now?"

Calcharo's eyes flick to yours, all wide-eyed as he looks at you, then he frowns and looks away, "No, I'm not." You breathe out a laugh that does nothing to help the ache in his pants, "Really? Then move your hands." Calcharo grimaces, his nose scrunched in what looks similar to a snarling dog, "I don't want to." You just shrug, looking amused albeit still a bit weak from your condition, "Suit yourself then. It just looks like you're having a bit of a rough time."

He turns his body away from you, not wanting to listen to anymore of your teasing. "It wouldn't be very nice of me to not show my gratitude to my leader for helping me so much today...", you trail off with a teasing lilt in your voice. Calcharo straightens up and peeks at your over his shoulder, "What do you mean...'show your gratitude'?" Hook, line, and sinker. You put on a more nonchalant look and sigh heavily, "I'm simply saying that since you helped me out..." You look into his eyes again, "I could help you out as well."

Too many thoughts race through Calcharo's mind. How could he even take you up on that offer, especially when you're injured. Especially since he shouldn't be having thoughts like this. Especially because you were special to him. Wait... You were... special to him? When did he feel this way towards you? I mean, sure he always went with you whenever you were itching for a fight and he did talk with you a little more frequently than the others, albeit not too much.

You can tell his mind is racing, so you lean forward, ignoring the bit of pain in your wounded thigh, and place your hand on his shoulder, "Just quit thinking, Calcharo." Your hushed voice and hot breath fan across his ear, sending tingles straight down to his cock. Fuck it. He turns around and faces you once more, his face close to yours as he speaks low and deep, "I don't want to hurt you." His eyes are on yours, but yours are on his lips as you speak again, "You won't."

Before he can protest again, your lips are on his in a soft, but demanding kiss. Calcharo is frozen for a moment, having never done this before. Hell, he's never done anything romantic or sexual in the past. But the plush softness of your lips on his has him beginning to melt. He returns the kiss hesitantly at first, but once he finds the right rhythm with you, he finds himself leaning into you more. His hands are on your flushed cheeks and your heat radiates into his palms.

Your tongue prods his lower lip, begging for entrance to which he allows, parting his lips as you tongue slips in and moves against his. It's a slippery feeling, but you taste so sweet.

Without having realized it, Calcharo has you caged in underneath him yet again, although this time is was special. Your legs are spread to accommodate his body between your legs and your fingers are tangled in his wet, but long silver hair.

Your lips brush against his, "As much as I'd like to help and take things over, my injury-" Calcharo cuts you off with a kiss, "I know. Tell me what to do and I'll do it." His voice sounds husky and breathless, needy for more of you. You grab his hand and place it on your breast, making his breath hitch, "You can touch me."

He looks down at where his hand rests on your breast, taking in the way it fills his palm so perfectly, and he squeezes lightly. Truthfully, he wants your shirt off so he can feel the soft skin against his own calloused hands.

Calcharo's eyes go to yours and his fingers hover over the buttons of your shirt, "May I?" You chuckle a little at his formality, "Please do." With your affirmation, he unbuttons your shirt, tugging the material gently down your shoulders. He takes in the sight of you under him in just a bra and panties. You truly were a sight to see. Without asking for permission again, he fumbles with the clasp of your bra before eventually unhooking it and sliding it off.

Calcharo licks his lips again when he finally sees your bare breasts, so round and perfect. His hand makes its way back to your breasts, gently palming them. His thumb flicks over your nipple, making you draw in a breath. His gaze break away from your chest and back up to your face in alarm, "Did I hurt you?" You smile tiredly at him and shake your head, "No, it felt good." Calcharo visibly relaxes and returns his attention back to your chest.

Leaning down, he captures one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue sliding over the pert bud as you let out a soft sounding moan. His eyes flit up to watch your reactions as he continues with his ministrations. All he wants is for you to feel good even if he's not entirely sure what he's doing. But from the look on your face, your lips parted and brows knitted together, he can tell he's doing well so far and that's all he needs to know to keep going.

Calcharo presses little kisses from your breasts, to your stomach, then pauses above your covered cunt. Without a word, you shakily raise your hips, signalling him to remove your panties and continue on. He bites his lip, nervous as hell, but he didn't know when he would get an opportunity like this again. So he slides your panties down, ever so careful to not have the material rub against your wound on it's way down your legs.

With you panties off and your pussy now exposed to him, Calcharo feels like he's in a daze. You raise your hips yet again with a raised brow, "Well? Haven't you done this before?" Calcharo looks away from you, not wanting to confirm nor deny, feeling too embarrassed to say you were his first everything.

Your sweet voice pulls him back in, "You're so unlike yourself right now. Where'd my confident leader go, huh?" You were only half teasing as you spoke, just wanting him to move on from your first quip.

Hearing you call him your leader stirs something inside of him. Calcharo feels like he has something to prove. You were right, he did everything with a cold confidence, so he could certainly do this. Calcharo lowers himself to your pussy, his lips so close to touching. With a quick look back up to you, he lightly licks at your clit. It's experimental at first, just small little licks to test out your reaction. But once he sees how turned on you are, he dives right in.

It's sloppy and wet, but Calcharo has no intention of stopping now. His tongue prods and licks at your entrance, lapping up your arousal as it coats his tongue. His cock twitches as he mindlessly grinds against the floor. Your beautiful moans and shaky breaths only spur him on and make him feel even more brave. His calloused thumb rubs at your clit in time with his tongue lashing between your folds.

Your hands fly to his hair, pressing his mouth further into your pussy as you cry out his name, "C-calcharo! 'm cumming-ngh!" The taste of you flooded his senses and he simply could not get enough. He grips your hips, keeping his mouth latched onto your soaked cunt as though it was his first and last meal he'd ever have, groaning as if he were the one on the receiving end. You try to push his face away, "S-stop! Too much-ngh!- 'm sensitive!"

Calcharo knew he should stop, but your moans and the way your arousal flowed from you was way too delicious. His tongue flicks over you clit once more, making your legs shake as you moan loudly, releasing on his tongue once more. Finally being merciful, Calcharo removes his mouth from your pussy, your juices and his own saliva glisten on his lips and chin, but he doesn't have a care in the world right in this moment.

Your breasts move in time with your heavy breathing and you narrow your eyes up at him, "You're so lucky I'm injured right now..." Calcharo's eyebrows furrow, cocking his head to the side slightly, "But you liked it." You can't keep your glare when he's looking at you like some confused puppy, although quite the scary looking puppy... You look down, spotting the wet patch on his pants, "Just take your pants off. It looks like your cock is ready to burst."

Calcharo's eyes widen at your straightforwardness, but he immediately schools his expression, "...Right." He undoes his belt harness, letting it drop to the floor with a soft clank of the metal. Next, he pops open the button of his pants and lowers the zipper, tugging his pants and briefs down just enough to free his cock. His cock springs forward, large and veiny, twitching and leaking profusely.

You're in awe of his size and if you had known he was packing that much down there, you would've intentionally tried to get yourself in this situation much sooner. With one hand, he holds his aching cock and covers his face with the other, "Why are you staring so intensely?" Seeing the state he's in makes you laugh. The sound of it makes his length twitch and he peeks at you through his fingers, sounding a bit annoyed, "What's so amusing to you?"

You give him a genuine, yet cheeky smile, "I just... Never thought I'd see such an intimidating guy like yourself get so flustered." Calcharo groans at your teasing remark and lowers his hand from his face, his other hand absentmindedly stroking his cock, "Enough of your teasing."

You spread your legs a little more, careful not to strain your injury, "By all means, please continue. I promise I won't tease you anymore." "Hmph...", Calcharo does his best to look displeased, but there's too much longing and desperation in his eyes for it to be even remotely convincing.

He lines his leaking tip up with your awaiting entrance, but pauses, "Just tell me if it's too much, alright?" With a nod from you, pressure begins to build as he pushes his length slowly inside of your tight, wet cunt.

Cacharo's face scrunches with pleasure and he sucks in a breath, the feeling of being inside of you, inside of anyone for the first time has him struggling not to cum right then and there. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to you, speaking softly, "It's okay. You can move now."

He whines at the affirmation and begins to thrust slowly, trying to keep himself calm so as to not cum immediately or hurt you from going too hard too fast. His muscular arms cage you in and his silver hair cascades over his shoulders.

His blue-grey eyes lock on yours as he keeps his steady pace. Calcharo's voice is strained when he speaks through gritted teeth, "This feels too good..." He groans as his hips make contact with yours, his cock pressing deep inside of you.

You press a kiss to the corner of his lips, whispering against them, "Then keep going." Calcharo's cock jumps inside of you and he starts thrusting a little faster, a little harder, "F-fuck..." He kisses you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours as his cock fucks into you. All you both can do is whimper and moan between relentless kisses as he comes closer and closer to orgasm.

His thoughts are only on how fucking good you tight pussy feels squeezing around his cock and how badly he wants to breed you with his cum. Gods, what he wouldn't do to see your stomach growing round with his kids.

Fuck, what the hell is even thinking right now. He can't even own a dog, let alone raise a kid, it was too dangerous. But your pussy and your hold on him was way more dangerous to him. He had to keep going.

Calcharo growls out a low groan, "I'm gonna cum -fuck- take it all. Please, please take it -ngh- all!" With a harsh, deep thrust, he releases his warm seed inside of you. His cock throbbing as his cum pours from his tip and the excess drips down to the floor.

He presses his sweaty forehead against yours, the heat from your fever seeping into his skin. Fuck, you had a fever and were injured... He pulls out of you, making you whimper at the feeling of emptiness.

His eyes flick over to your stitched wound, eyes wide as he sees some of the stitches had popped open and fresh blood was trickling down the side of your thigh, "I-I apologize. I shouldn't have-mmph!" Your lips on his shuts him up and when you pull away, you only smile tiredly at him, "I'm fine. Quit worrying about me." Calcharo's expression shows just how much he's struggling with all of this. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you or make anything worse.

You tug a strand of his long, silver hair, bringing his attention back to you, "If you really feel that bad then I guess you'll have to make it up to me another time." Calcharo's eyebrows furrow, but then his expression softens slightly, "Of course. As your leader, I-" You cut him off quickly, "No, not so much as my leader. But as my partner. How does that sound?"

He's stunned for a moment but then clears his throat, trying to keep his typical brooding expression, "We can't. I don't want you to get hurt." You roll your eyes and look up at him, speaking in a resolute tone, "This is different. I'm not just some civilian, I'm part of the Ghost Hounds just like you. I can handle whatever danger comes my way or else I wouldn't be here right now." Calcharo processes your words for a second, then sighs, "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Your expression brightens, "I'm pretty sure that's similar to what you said to me when I first joined." Calcharo rolls his eyes as he gathers your clothes and his, "Whatever. I meant it as much then as I do now." You just breathe a small laugh, "Of course. I think we'll be just fine."

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a/n: calcharo is a cutie patootie under that tough exterior, i just know it🥺