#anyway i want to go home but i am home. i should also eat breakfast. yeah. so i will do that now. yep | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

youunravelme · 1 year

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drops of jupiter pt. 2

author’s note: lol i accidentally posted the beginning of this part in part one, so if you saw that, no you didn’t. again, this is not a super light read, deals heavily with depression, though it’s never explicitly stated. think liability by lorde/this is me trying by taylor swift. also i’m sorry for the amount of shrugging and sighing in this fic and the first part. every character is in a constant state of idk.

warnings: cursing, drinking/getting drunk, depression

summary: being friends with your ex wasn’t the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, breaking up with him took that slot.

prompts: “I thought I was going to lose you.” / “i just need you.” / “what the hell were you thinking? / “i don’t know who you think i am but i’m not leaving.” / “feel my fucking heartbeat right now and tell me i don’t love you.”

then

“we need to get up,” jack mumbled into your neck, his arm strewn over your waist.

“why?” you asked. “we’re on vacation.”

“vacation with my family. i wouldn’t put it past my brothers to harass us any minute now.”

you hummed and snuggled further into your pillow.

a bang pounded on the door that had you both flinching. you clutched the comforter to your chest even though you were both fully clothed.

“jack get up! we’re going to work out.” you heard quinn’s voice on the other side of the door, and if you listened closely, you could hear luke snickering.

“we’re on vacation!” you called back. “come back at a reasonable hour.”

“7 is reasonable!” quinn replied.

"in what world?” you groaned. but jack got up anyway, tossing on a clean shirt and a pair of joggers. “wait, where are you going?”

jack walked over and kissed your forehead. “go back to sleep, i’ll see you later.”

you watched him walk out before shutting your eyes and succumbing to sleep once more. when you woke up next, you went downstairs and were met with ellen standing at the kitchen island eating toast and eggs.

“you’re awake!” ellen greeted. “want some breakfast?”

you nodded and took a seat at the island. “but i can make it--”

“absolutely not. you’re a guest here, and guests don’t make breakfast for themselves.” she turned around and started cracking eggs into a pan before tossing some toast in the toaster. she seasoned the eggs and let them cook before turning back around to you. “did you sleep well?” she asked. you were fully expecting a teasing tone since you did sleep in the same bed as her son, but she was being genuine.

“slept fine,” you said.

“i bet,” ellen started. “all of you were very busy yesterday.”

and she wasn’t wrong. you spent most of the day on the lake, whether that was sunbathing on the boat or wake boarding. by the time the sun set, you were exhausted.

you glanced around the downstairs. “they still aren’t back yet?”

ellen tossed her head back and laughed. “sweetheart, it’s only been an hour since they’ve left. if anything, they’re probably headed to the ice rink by now.”

“but it’s summer, the rink should be melted?”

ellen grinned at you knowingly. “there’s a public indoor ice rink just ten minutes away. they probably went there after working out at the gym.”

“did jim go with?” ellen nodded. “so it’s just us?”

“just us.” she turned back around to plate your toast and eggs before she placed the plate in front of you. “how have you been? how’s school?”

you shrugged. “it’s been alright. nothing to write home about.”

“jack said you seem to be enjoying it.”

“it’s a step to getting where i want to be.”

“that’s what life’s about, hon. taking it step after step.”

now

you stared at your phone for what felt like years. there was no way this was your life, no way that you deserved any of the kindness that’d been shown to you. there was no earthly explanation for why jack hughes was insisting on you attending one of his games against ahaheim.

“you need to be social,” was his explanation. “besides, the boys missed you.”

quinn was in town for his game happening the next night, trevor was playing against jack and nico that night, and the plan was to go to dinner afterwards.

you were nervous to see quinn again, this being the first time you saw him since the break up. you weren’t sure how his family took it since you made a point not to text or call regardless of how much you missed them. it just wouldn’t be fair to jack.

but he met you outside the arena with a small hug and smile. “it’s been awhile, how have you been?”

you really wished people would stop asking you that.

you shrugged. “nothing much has been going on. how’ve you been? i haven’t kept up with hockey much lately.” truth be told, you didn’t want the reminder and couldn’t bear to keep using jack’s logins. you wondered if your account was still on his netflix.

quinn shrugged as well and nodded his head toward the arena so you both could start walking in. “life’s been normal, busy, but normal.”

“how’re your parents?”

quinn tucked his hands in his pockets. “they’re fine. they ask about you, miss you.”

you almost stopped walking. you never once considered yourself important enough to be noticed, let alone missed. “and luke?”

“still at michigan.”

you fell into a comfortable silence after that, something you’ve always loved about quinn, your ability to just be without any expectation of conversation. as you made your way to your seats, quinn stayed quiet, waiting until you were seated to finally say something.

“what made you come to this game?” he asked.

you wanted to shrug off his comment, to say something flippant, but you’d always been honest with quinn in the past. “jack invited me and i couldn’t say no.”

“but why?”

“i--” you paused. “i don’t know. i don’t think i could deny him of anything if he asked me.”

he nodded, seemingly content with your lackluster answer, maybe because it was the most honest one you’d given in awhile.

as the game began, quinn would make little comments here and there, mainly about jack and his performance. “he’s playing really well,” he’d say.

after jack scored a goal, you saw him scanning the crowd as nico and his teammates rushed him. but he didn’t smile until you two locked eyes. and if you smiled as well, who was to blame you? surely they’ve never seen jack hughes embody the full weight of joy. in the corner of your eye, you could see quinn smirk, but you ignored it in favor of looking at the players.

the both of you walked down to the locker rooms, flashing your lanyards jack had given quinn earlier that day. you stood outside, bouncing on your toes.

“what’s got you so antsy?” quinn asked.

you stopped. just now noticing that you were wringing your hands together. “i--uh--”

“you made it!” nico came out first with his hands open and arms spread wide in greeting.

“why wouldn’t we be here?” quinn asked. “we made plans.”

it was a brief second, but you caught it nonetheless, the glance nico made toward you that said everything all at once. before you could comment, trevor and jack appeared, the latter having the biggest shit-eating grin you’d seen in awhile.

“who’s ready for dinner?” jack asked.

then

“if i was a worm, would you still love me?”

“what?” jack laughed, hands buried in your hair as you rested you head in his lap.

“if i was a worm--”

“no, i heard you. i was just giving you an opportunity to say something else.” you slapped his chest lightly with your hand and abruptly sat up before scooting towards the other side of the couch. “hey no, come back.”

“not until you say that you’d still love me as a worm.”

“would i even know it was you? how did you turn into a worm?”

“an evil wizard came down and turned me into a worm. does that answer your question?”

jack grabbed ahold of your ankles and dragged you back to him. he pressed his lips to the side of your head and smiled. “i’d love you even if you were the smallest worm.”

now

jack picked out a small italian restaurant twenty minutes away from the arena. when he finally pulled up to the building (all of you riding together), your stomach sank. it looked all too familiar.

the last time you’d been there, was the last date you had before you broke things off. part of you wondered if he selected that place on purpose, but the more rational part knew it was his favorite spot in town.

the five of you walked in and got a table. it didn’t go unnoticed that as you all sat down, the only seat left was next to your ex boyfriend.

“it’s nice to have the gang back together,” nico said. “i missed you guys.” you wanted to look down at the table, but when nico made eye contact with you and smiled, you were glad you didn’t.

“are you ready to order?” the server came up and asked. “i can give you a few minutes if you’d like.”

you panicked and looked down at the menu. you hadn’t been here in so long you couldn’t recall what you enjoyed the most. by the time it made it to you, you were no closer to figuring it out.

“you okay?” jack mumbled.

you looked up to see his earnest eyes focused on you and you alone. not the boys, not the pretty server, just you.

“i can’t remember what i usually get.”

jack reached over and pointed to the top left spot on the menu. “you used to get the carbonara.” but you weren’t looking at the menu. no. you were looking at his profile, how focused he was at reading the ingredients to make sure it was something you liked.

you knew it because it’s what he used to do all the time.

“i’ll get the carbonara, please,” you said with a small smile.

the server walked away to place the table’s orders and conversation picked up again.

“so,” trevor started, staring you down across the table with something akin to smugness on his face. “are you seeing anyone?”

“trev,” jack cut in.

“no, i think we should let her answer,” nico said. “i mean, it’s been awhile since we’ve all been together and caught up.”

“i--” you choked out, your heart beating hard in your chest.

“guys cmon,” jack started. “just leave it.”

there was something in you that sparked up at hearing his insistence you keep quiet. something that rebelled against the idea of staying silent.

so you spoke.

“i’ve been on a few dates.”

and the absolute devastation of jack’s face was enough to make you want to take it all back.

then

“do you really think that baseball cap is gonna hide your very recognizable face?” you asked him as you walked into yost ice arena.

“i’m hoping people will be too busy focusing on the game to look at me.”

“how could anyone ignore this handsome face?” you asked, taking your hand and squeezing his cheeks into a fish face.

he smacked your hand away and gripped it in his own, swinging it between both of your bodies. the both of you walked over to the row of seats his family saved.

his mother and father smiled at the sight of you. bringing you into a hug like you were a part of their family. and maybe, to them, you were. you and jack had been together for the better part of three years at that point.

despite not having seen his family in a few months, jack still sat on the outside with you tucked in between him and his mother with his hand resting on your thigh.

a shiver went up your spine spontaneously. jack shot you a look before he threw an arm around your shoulder, bringing you in as close as he could with an arm rest between you two.

“you okay?”

“just forgot how cold ice rinks are,” you replied in hopes he wouldn’t notice your flushed face. three years and that man could still do that to you.

"you get used to it after awhile,” he said as he kissed the side of your head.

no, you thought. i don’t think i will.

now

dinner wasn’t as lively as it once was after your confession. trevor and nico tried to compensate, hell even quinn was making an attempt at conversation, but it was obvious you and jack’s hearts weren’t in it.

he wouldn’t stop staring at you from the corner of his eye and you couldn’t help but stare at the food he remembered you loved right before you shattered his heart again.

it wasn’t long before the five of you were headed home after nico covered the bill. jack drove, leaving you in shotgun, and everyone else in the backseat pretending the tension wasn’t suffocating. jack dropped the boys off at the arena, with nico saying he could take quinn and trevor to their hotels before they all but scrambled out of the car.

which just left the two of you idling in the parking lot.

after jack saw them get into nico’s car, you fully expected him to drive off and take you home. but he just sat there.

“how long did you wait before trying to find someone else?” he asked while staring out the windshield.

“it wasn’t like that--”

“then what was it like? what was i supposed to think? we’ve been broken up for five months now and you’ve been on multiple dates?” his voice escalated.

part of you wanted to shrink back into the seat until you disappeared into the leather, the masochistic part of you fully believed this was what you deserved, the third part felt like a cornered predator.

and that’s what won out in the end.

“oh don’t act like you haven’t gone out with some girls--”

“i haven’t!” that shut you up really quickly. “i haven’t so much as looked at another girl since you broke up with me.” he finally looked at you, but you wished he wouldn’t have. the tears in his eyes triggered that part of you that you’d stifled the past few weeks, the part that constantly reminded you how fucked up you were.

so you did the only thing you knew how to do.

you unlocked the door--

and bolted.

then

you were signing discharge papers when jack burst into your hospital room sweating and disheveled. you smiled when he came in, using one hand to wave him closer.

“what the hell were you thinking? falling off a ladder? what was so important you couldn’t wait until i got home?” he walked over to you and straight into your arms anyway, despite his chiding tone.

the nurse took the papers away to be filed and left him with you.

“it’s just a broken ankle,” you said like one would talk about the weather. “it’ll be healed in a matter of weeks.”

jack pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “i don’t like it. i hate that you got hurt and i wasn’t there.”

“the only one at fault here is me, jack. i was trying to hang up...” you trailed off.

“hang up what?” he asked.

but the nurse came back in with a wheelchair and a smile. “you’re free to go, hon.”

jack wheeled you out to the lobby. the nurse waited with you while he pulled his car up. when his car was parked in the front, he ran back inside and helped you get settled onto your crutches, walking behind you with his hands prepared to catch you should you slip. he helped you into the passenger seat before jogging around the front of the car to drive off.

“so what were you hanging up when you fell off the ladder?”

you smirked. “you’ll see.”

jack rolled his eyes. “if it’s the pictures we got printed, i told you i’d get to it.”

“like i said, baby, you’ll see when you get home.”

he parked in the driveway and told you to stay put until he could help you get out of the car. once you were situated on your crutches, he glanced at you, your leg, and the stairs you would inevitably have to climb before he squatted down and gestured for you to climb on.

“jack, i don’t think this is necessary--”

“i think it’ll go faster if you just hop on and get it over with.”

you sighed and climbed on his back with one arm loosely wrapped around his neck, the other holding onto your crutches, his arms holding your legs in place around his hips. jack went up the stairs with little to no struggle, which just baffled you. even after living in your third floor apartment for eight months, you still found yourself winded after going up all those steps.

“each and every day you find a new way to impress me, hughes,” you commented,

“yeah? what is it this time?”

“how you don’t feel like dying every time you walk up these stairs.”

he laughed but didn’t offer a response.

“no, i’m serious,” you said. “what’s your secret.”

“being a professional athlete,’ he deadpanned.

you threw your head back and laughed as his foot hit the final stair. jack gently placed you down on the ground while you got situated on your crutches again.

“you good?” he asked.

you nodded. “i’m fine.”

jack unlocked the front door and nearly fell backwards into you when a loud “happy birthday” erupted from inside your apartment.

you nudged him forward with your non injured foot but he took a moment to glare at you. “you broke your leg to hang up birthday banners?”

you leaned in and kissed him. “happy birthday, jack.”

now

“get in the car.” jack had opened his door and gotten out almost as fast as you had.

but you shook your head and kept walking. “no.”

jack caught up to you rather easily, being in better shape than you for professional reasons. he gently grabbed your wrist and turned you around. “i don’t know who you think i am but i’m not leaving you here. it’s late, we’re in the middle of a parking lot--”

“it’s well lit--”

“and you’re not wearing a coat,” he continued on like you weren’t even talking. “you’re gonna get sick or kidnapped so please just get back in the car.”

“i can’t,” you whispered.

“why not?”

“because you keep looking at me like you hate me.”

that stopped him dead cold in his tracks. any movement he had, whether it was his hands running through his hair or his pacing back and forth. “what?” and you wanted to take it all back just so you didn’t have to hear how broken one syllable could sound.

and then the tears started, the embarrassment and humiliation and the shame from your confession earlier catching up to you finally. “and i don’t blame you because i was awful to you."

“why would you think that?”

“because everyone does!” and you’re so close to tearing your hair out in frustration. with whom? you weren’t sure if it was frustration aimed at yourself or jack or the situation.

“i’m not everyone,” he said in the quietest tone you’d ever heard him speak. “okay? i could never hate you, even if i wanted to.”

you kept sobbing. “you are way too good for me, jack hughes.”

but he shook his head and brought you into his chest, lips pressed to the top of your head. “that’s not true,” he said. “not even remotely close.” a beat passed. “i love you.”

“jack--”

he took your hand and placed it over his chest. “feel my fucking heartbeat right now and tell me i don’t love you.”

“i can’t do this,” you whispered.

“why not? do you not believe me?”

“i’m no good for you, jack! this won’t work. please, just take me home.”

then

a knock drew you out of your reverie from staring at the mirror and obsessing over your flyaways.

“it’s for you!” your roommate called. you giggled. actually giggled to yourself at the idea of jack standing in your living room with your roommates.

you rushed out, dress flaring at your thighs. jack turned around at the sound of you coming out of your room and smiled with a bouquet daffodils in his hands.

“you uh--” he stuttered. “you look amazing.”

“do a little twirl,” your roommate giggled.

you spun around before walking over to jack. “hi.”

“are you ready?” he asked once he got his bearings.

you nodded. “just let me put these in a vase--”

“i got it!” your roommate said. “you two have fun!” she said before all but shoving you out of the door.

“so what do you have planned?” you asked once you were on the road. you weren’t nervous per se, having known jack for a year before he finally asked you out.

“would you stop?” he laughed. “you’ll find out when we get there.”

you huffed and sat back in your seat, looking out the window while jack played some country music on his phone. when he finally parked, you recognized the arena almost immediately as the one he played in regularly.

“you took your day off from the ice rink to bring me...to the ice rink?”

jack rolled his eyes. “have some faith. stay here,” he said before popping out of the car and jogging around to your side to let you out.

“i could’ve gotten out myself,” you said.

“i know,” he shrugged. “but thank you for waiting anyway.”

you walked inside together, hand in hand. jack led you to the locker rooms where he picked up a bag and took your hand again before leading you to the rink.

before you was a blanket in the middle of the rink with a basket full of what you assumed was food.

“you didn’t,” you said.

jack shrugged.

“but how are we gonna get out there? i don’t have skates.”

he unzipped the bag in his hand and pulled out a pair of skates. “your roommate told me what size shoe you wore. i figured we could eat and then i could show you how to skate.” he explained.

“you bought these?” you asked.

he shrugged again. “yeah, but it was nothing.”

but it wasn’t nothing to you. it was everything.

now

you get the call at 4pm from an athletic trainer asking for your name. your heart settles in your throat when you hear the mention of jack’s name.

“there’s been an accident at the game tonight, he’s being rushed to the hospital right now. we called because he has you listed as his emergency contact.”

“o-okay,” you whispered into the phone. “which hospital is he going to?” the athletic trainer gave you the information as you hurried out the door in a pair of shorts and a tee shirt and slippers.

you didn’t remember to go the speed limit, hell by the time you got to the hospital, you weren’t even sure if you ran a red light or not. all you could focus on was jack.

jack was hurt.

you needed to call ellen. you needed to call jim. you needed to call that old lady who lived across the hall and ask her to check if you locked your front door. but all of that took a backseat because jack was hurt.

when you parked, you were taking up two spaces, but didn’t give a fuck because you were sprinting to the front doors of the hospital. “hi,” you greeted the front desk woman. “i’m here for my boyfriend?”

“you’ll have to be a little more specific, baby,” she said.

“i--”

you heard your name being called and whipped your head around to see the athletic trainer standing there. “i can show you to his room, follow me.”

you nearly cried in relief and followed the trainer. “do you know what’s going on?”

the trainer shook her head. “we had an idea, but we’re not doctors.”

you nodded, unable to say anything else, even as you entered the elevator. the both of you walked out of the elevator and headed down a long hallway to the very end. she gestured at the door and nodded for you to go in.

you couldn’t breathe. not when even when you saw him laying in bed laughing at a tiktok on his phone with his left leg propped up.

he looked up when you walked in the room. “hey--” but he didn’t have time to finish before you were sprinting across the room, grabbing his face in your hands, and kissing the life out of him.

it took him a second, but he responded fairly quickly, his own hands winding around your waist. you weren’t sure how much time passed before you were pulling away and looking him in the eyes.

“are you okay?” he nodded, rendered speechless by your display of affection. “i’m sorry, they called me and i freaked out and i didn’t even get to change--”

“did you--” he looked at you, more specifically what you were wearing. “you’re not wearing pants or a coat. are you insane? it’s freezing outside and you’re not even wearing real shoes!”

“they said you were hurt,” you said like it explained everything. “i couldn’t think, i just dropped everything and...”

“why?

“i--”

“you rejected me the other night, which is fine, it sucked, but it’s fine. but it doesn’t explain why you showed up. i think i at least deserve an answer.”

you do, you thought to yourself. that and so much more.

“i’m your emergency contact,” you replied.

“shit,” he said. “sorry i forgot to change that, i’ll--”

“and you’re still mine.” he stopped his rambling as you stroked his cheeks with your thumbs. “when i got the call, i thought i was gonna lose you.”

“you’re never gonna lose me, baby.” he moved your hands off his face so he could hold yours. “i’m yours, always have been, always will be.”

“i love you,” you smiled.

and it was like the sun came out in the middle of that hospital room when he smiled back at you. jack pulled your lips to his, or at least tried to. you both kept smiling too much for it to fully be considered a kiss.

“do you remember,” you said against his mouth. “do you remember when you moved out and took all our stuff?”

“mhm,” he hummed, but he was too busy chasing after your lips.

“i kept the skates.”

#jack hughes imagine #jack hughes x reader #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #my writing

647 notes · View notes

stellamancer · 10 months

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pairing: fem!reader x merman!satoru gojo

contents: more varying levels of anxiety from the reader, mentions of food and eating, satoru gojo is an absolute menace

notes: part ii! um, got a little delayed because i wanted to write a kiss scene... and also because i was fretting over characterization, over reader’s characteriztion, over gojo’s... he’s really hard to write i think. nuances, you know? hoping i did a good job. also somehow this chapter is?? longer?? than the last?? i’m surprised tbh. anyway, please enjoy.

word count: 5.5k (who the hell am i???)

previous chapter || masterlist

You think you might have made a really, really big mistake.

Last night, it didn't seem like a mistake, rather, it seemed like the right thing to do. Who knows who could have found him? What they would have with him? To him? It was better to have brought the merman home than to leave him to an uncertain and possibly cruel fate. You did the right thing; you were certain of it.

At least, you were until you woke up, greeted by the merman's smooth voice and his blue, blue eyes. Ever since then, it’s just been one thing after another with him.

Don't you know that merfolk need the water to be at a specific temperature?

Don't you know that the water needs to be at a certain salinity level?

Don't you know that thing you're keeping him in is far too small?

It's only been for a couple of hours, but you're already completely exhausted trying to keep up and accommodate his needs. To be honest, it's actually kind of overwhelming and you can't help but wonder if this is what it's like for people who adopt animals just because they think they're cute or something.

Not that you would call the merman cute.

Especially not after he’s spent all morning basically mocking you for not knowing anything about merfolk. You didn’t even know they were real until last night, so how could you possibly know the optimal ambient water temperature for a merperson? But you're trying, and hopefully that counts for something. Which is why you're standing in the doorway of your bathroom, holding a platter with a single, whole, raw mackerel on it, its dead eyes boring into your very soul.

Originally, you were going to grill the mackerel in question and have it for breakfast, but you’ve been so caught up in doing this and that for the merman that you haven’t had the time to eat, much less cook. It’s fine. You and Minori planned to meet up at that cafe off the beach that she likes, so you can just eat there even if you think their food sacrifices flavor for the sake of looking disgustingly photogenic.

Speaking of that, you should probably start getting ready soon. You’re supposed to meet up in a little over an hour, and you feel a little gross, still in the clothes you wore last night, plus you have no doubt that you absolutely need a shower, but before you can do any of that, you need to feed the merman.

His gaze zeroes in on the platter in your hands, realizing you heard him earlier (as if you couldn't— he's so very loud). He seems to perk up at the prospect of eating, but it doesn't last long as a frown settles across his features. You gulp. It feels like you're in for yet another merfolk lesson.

Finally, he asks, "Is that supposed to be… food?"

You nod slowly.

"For me?"

You nod again.

"I can't eat that."

"Wh-why not? What's wrong with it?" You almost demand. In hindsight, you should have asked, especially since Mr. Merman's seemed eager to point out every misstep you've made so far. You were so sure that the mackerel would have been acceptable that you didn't even bother. It makes sense for a merman to eat fish right? What else would he eat? Seaweed? Is he maybe vegan?

"It's dead," he tells you and though his tone is plain, you can see the amusement dancing in those beautiful blue eyes of his. "Fish are best live— squirming as you bite into them, their blood squirting—"

"Okay!" You squeak, interrupting his rather grotesque description. It’s way too early for any kind of gory stuff. "Okay! Got it!"

Well, that settles that; he’s definitely not vegan.

He grins, clearly finding enjoyment in your discomfort, and you try to tell yourself, again, that you did the right thing. You're trying your best, but the fact that it doesn't seem to be amounting to anything is frustrating. The merman's constant jabs and jeers at you and your efforts certainly aren't helping.

Neither is the distinct feeling of intense hanger that's starting to claw at you.

Maybe you should have a snack before you meet up with Minori.

The merman tilts his head, and you think maybe he's trying to look innocent, his eyes big and wet, his lips barely puckered. But the mischievous look in his eyes betrays him, making it clear that his aim is just to continue messing with you. "Oh, but—"

"Unfortunately," you interject again, exasperation seeping into your tone. You can feel your hanger about to violently consume you as you hiss. "I'm rather uneducated when it comes to merfolk food culture."

He just stares at you and it feels strange that he has no quip to counter you with.

Shit. Was that a bit much? You regret your words as soon as they're out of your mouth. Despite the merman's behavior, he doesn't entirely deserve to be on the receiving end of your ire. You really should have asked about his diet. And maybe gotten yourself a bite to eat while you were getting him that fish. It's not as if you didn't know you were hungry.

You take a deep, deep breath, hoping that fresh oxygen in your lungs can keep you sane for just a little bit longer. "Sorry. Just… is there— is it really completely inedible like this? If you really want it warm or something, I can cook it for you really quick."

He seems to consider your words, and you hope his response will be favorable. "...No, it's fine like this, I guess."

Relief saturates you as you exhale. You hadn't even realized you'd been holding your breath. "I promise I'll get you something better later, it's just I… kind of don't have the time right now."

The merman hums and holds his hand out expectantly. You're not sure if you should just give him the whole platter or just the fish itself; you opt for the former as you cross the length of the bathroom to give him his meal. Then you look away. He's either going to swallow the fish whole or bite into it, and frankly, you don't know if you can stomach the sight of either.

It sounds like the latter though. You start to step away, seeing this as the perfect opportunity to get ready, but that would have to start with a shower and while the shower is completely separate from the tub it is also right there. The thought of giving the merman a show while he eats is absolutely mortifying, especially when you consider how unnaturally handsome he is. Maybe you should leave a little early and swing by the bathhouse to shower there…

“Got plans?” The merman’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“Uh, yeah.”

"A hot date?" he probes, sounding like he's snickering.

Your face feels warm and you whirl around to face him, catching a peek of a bit of the mackerel's tail hanging out of his mouth. "No, I'm meeting up with my best friend."

Last night doesn't count. You barely even spoke with one another. Not that you could since she—

"You don't seem all that excited about it," the merman remarks, his eyes watching you curiously, looking impossibly bluer than before.

You open your mouth to refute the claim. To tell him that the reason you don't seem excited isn't because of Minori but because you've spent your entire morning running yourself ragged because of him. But it’s not quite true, so you don’t. Try as you might to ignore it, Minori's recent behavior still weighs on you, awkward and uncomfortable. You hold your tongue and instead say, "That's… not true."

The merman's expression is indecipherable, his icy blue gaze fixed on you. It feels like he’s seeing right through you, silently calling you out on your weak excuse of a lie.

Feeling the conversation is over, you turn back around and take another step to leave, but then the merman speaks again.

“So, you know,” he starts, his tone adopting a flirtatious edge. “I’d be happy to teach you about merfolk culture. I’m pretty good at it, if I do say so myself.”

Your entire body goes rigid and you glance back at him, in mild disbelief. “At… teaching?”

He grins at you, as if he’s happy to have your eyes on him again. Is he starved for attention or something? The merman winks as he responds cheerfully, “Yup!”

You gawk at him. “Like how you’ve been ‘teaching’ me all day?”

“That’s right! You’ll be an expert in no time.”

You doubt that. His teaching methods leave a lot to be desired; you’d even go so far as to say he’s actually a garbage teacher. You consider telling him this, but decide not to because he really seems legitimately proud of his skills (or lack thereof). “I don’t know…”

“Come on! It’ll be lots of fun!”

You doubt that even more. “Based on everything you’ve ‘taught’ me so far, I’m honestly not even sure if I can adequately take care of you here…” You pause, then add, slowly more to yourself than the merman. “Maybe when I get back I should call the aquarium…”

It would be better, you think, to return him to the sea where he belongs. If anything, he seems well enough, and he hasn’t made any mention of any injuries that would keep him from going back. You don’t know for sure, but being in the aquarium would probably be better than your parent’s luxurious bathtub.

“An aquarium?” he exclaims and his voice is louder than usual, causing you to jump just a little bit. “You’re not serious, right?”

“Uh, well—”

“They keep a lot of different aquatic creatures there, don’t they?” the merman says before you can say anything.

“Yeah, but that means the facilities are bigger and so you’d—”

“They probably wouldn’t be able to give me the same kind of personalized care that I could get from you.”

“Maybe, but I’m sure they’d—”

“Besides,” he interrupts again, his voice even louder as if he’s trying (and succeeding) to gain dominance over the conversation at hand. “They’d probably keep me there for the rest of my life! They might even experiment on me!”

Wide eyed, you stare at the merman. Your initial thought is that the family that owns the aquarium wouldn’t do that, but you don’t know, someone else who works there might. Merfolk are supposed to be myths, legends, so it’s not completely outside the realm of possibility that if you were to dump him off at the aquarium that he’d become someone’s research project.

"You wouldn't do that to me, would you?" he pleads, staring at you, his baby blue eyes blown wide, wet with what you think, in the back of your mind, are crocodile tears, his lower lip quivering as if he’s a frightened child.

“I…” you start, trying to think of something, anything to say. There’s no doubt in your mind that the merman is guilting you. But you also know that he has a point, there’s no way to ensure that he’ll be treated humanely if you hand him off to someone else. Your stomach churns at the thought of scientists cruelly poking and prodding at him with needles and scalpels as if he were a lab rat. No matter how annoying he’s been, he wouldn’t deserve that.

After all, isn’t that why you brought him home in the first place? To protect him from such a cruel fate? If you were just going to hand him off to someone else, you should have just left him on the beach.

Slowly, you shake your head, “No… I wouldn’t.”

Pleased, the merman beams at you, his expression now the complete opposite of the pitiful look he was sporting just a moment ago. Despite his cheer, you still feel uneasy and you don’t think it’s because you’re hungry.

The reason becomes obvious when the merman speaks, as if your body was giving you a premonition, trying to warn you. “That settles it then! Guess we’re roommates now!”

You stare at him blankly, your thoughts stuttering at his words, struggling to comprehend them as if they were spoken with a foreign tongue. What did he say? What did he say? When your brain finally processes them, translates them into something you can understand, you nearly screech, the words flying out of your mouth before you can even think about filtering them. “Roommates? Who said anything about roommates?”

The merman’s eyes narrow into a smoldering gaze and you distantly wonder if he's just trying to show off the range of emotions that he's capable of. His voice drops an octave, purposefully sultry and seductive as he says, "Well, if you'd like a different kind of arrangement—"

"Shut up!" you finally snap, ignoring the electric feeling running up and down your spine at the mere sound of his voice. You don’t think you’ve snapped at anyone before, much less a stranger, but to hell with that and to him too. All morning he’s been bossing you around and while you’ve been doing you best to acquiesce to him, he keeps messing with you as if you’re his own personal toy. Maybe it really is the hanger, having consumed you, body and mind, by this point, but regardless, you’ve hit your limit with him. “We absolutely cannot be roommates! Don’t you have to return to the ocean, anyway? Won’t you turn into seafoam or something if you don’t?”

He starts to laugh and you glare at him. It probably sounds stupid, but you think you’ve heard something like that before, but then again it’s not like you actually know anything. The merman waves his hand dismissively, his lips curled up in amusement. “I know what you’re thinking and no, it’s nothing like that.”

"Okay, but that doesn't answer my question."

He gives you a noncommittal shrug. “Yeah, eventually.”

You wait, because you know there’s got to be more to it than that. Is he just doing these dramatic pauses for the fun of it? He shoots you a mischievous grin, almost confirming it, as he adds, “Should be fine as long as I go back in the next hundred years or so.”

You nearly choke on the air. One hundred years? He can’t be serious. You take a deep, deep breath before speaking. “Sorry, but I don’t have one hundred years to be your roommate— I don’t even know if I’ll live that long. I’m only going to be here for the summer, and then I’m heading back home to Tokyo.”

That should be enough to deter him. At least that’s what you think, but you also think that the merman might like proving you wrong. His smile shifts only just slightly, the glimmering in his eyes reminding you more of the sky than the sea that he calls home. “For the summer then. We can be roommates until you go back to Tokyo.”

You scowl, wracking your mind for some kind of counterpoint, but it feels like you’re fighting a losing battle in trying to argue with him. He takes your silence as a chance to attempt to further convince you. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re the only one here, right?”

You don’t say anything so he continues.

“Aren’t you lonely here all on your own?”

His question hangs in the air, unanswered, as you remain silent.

The truth is you’re used to it— to being lonely. You’ve been living on your own in Tokyo for long enough to be comfortable with the silence that comes with solitude. It’s no stranger, and sometimes you could even consider it a friend. But there’s no denying that maybe, just maybe you’d been hoping there would have been a little more time between your arrival and your parents’ departure. It’s fine. You’ll see them when they get back.

Besides, you still have Minori.

You can still hang out with her. Go eat at little cafes where you’re meant to take pictures of the food rather than enjoy eating it. Or have sleepovers where you chat about anything and everything. How she’s got something going on with Hayato. How weirdly nice Shinomiya is. How different life in Tokyo is compared to here. And maybe spending time with her will be enough to take the place of the silence, the loneliness that you’re grown accustomed to. It’s fine, you tell yourself, almost viciously. It’s fine because you still have Minori.

Minori, who’s supposedly your best friend.

Minori, who, you suppose, is acting strange around you.

Minori, who you’re supposed to hang out with in about an hour.

“We can’t be roommates,” you repeat, through gritted teeth as you reach up to massage your temple in exasperation. You don’t have time to deal with this right now: you need to get ready. “I don’t even know you. I don’t even know your name.”

The merman opens his mouth to respond but just as he starts to speak, you can feel a vibrating in your pocket. Soon after the sound of your ringtone fills the bathroom, echoing off the walls. You shoot him a look, silently telling him to be quiet as you reach into your pocket to grab your phone. Your stomach feels like it’s doing gymnastics, flipping and folding into itself, uncomfortably, painfully. It’s amazing your phone is still alive, having gone all night and almost all morning off the charger and you catch sight of how much the battery remains— nine percent. But that’s not the most important thing right now.

It’s Minori that’s calling.

You turn away from the merman, gulping as you swipe the green answer button on the screen. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Her voice is strained, hoarse, like she’s gotten sick or spent all night screaming.

“Are you okay?” you ask, more a formality than anything. You know the answer, but you’re still concerned.

“No, I—” She coughs. It sounds almost forced. You ignore it. “I… kinda drank a little too much last night…”

Somehow, you’re not surprised. You bite the inside of your cheek as you try not to frown. “It’s okay. We can reschedule.”

“...you sure?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “You don’t feel well and… we have all summer to hang out.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Okay,” Minori rasps out, then she adds, almost an afterthought. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you insist. “Really.”

You could almost swear you hear another voice in the background, one that sounds almost familiar but you ignore it. You ignore it. You ignore it.

“It’s fine,” you repeat. “We have all summer.”

“Right.”

“Just get some rest, okay?”

“Mmhmm… bye.”

“Bye.” The line clicks first on Minori’s end. Your hand drops to your side limply and your phone almost slips from your fingers.

You don’t know how to feel.

On the one hand, she really might have drank too much. You remember seeing a few coolers filled to the brim with booze last night. It’s not impossible that, after you’d left, people, people including Minori, might have really gone to town with the drinking. She definitely could have gotten a hangover from drinking too much.

But something else in the back of your mind insists otherwise, it whispers that there’s something else going on. Her behavior is too suspicious, and it’s getting harder and harder to fight off the notion that she’s doing this on purpose, that she’s avoiding seeing you, avoiding talking to you.

And that hurts.

But what hurts more is that you don’t really know why.

Is it just because you were really bad at talking to her when you were in Tokyo? Or is it something else? You could message her and ask, but you’d rather ask her in person when you can. If you can.

“Satoru.”

You startle at the sound of the merman’s voice, turning toward him. You almost forgot that he was here. He’s watching you curiously, expression unreadable. It makes you a little uncomfortable, like he’s dissecting you.

“What?” Your voice is almost inaudible.

“Satoru,” he repeats and you notice his tone is almost gentle now. “That’s my name.”

“...just Satoru?” you ask, unsure. You actually have little doubt that it’s his name, but it feels a little… too close, too personal to be using his first name when you barely know him.

The merman gives you a wry smile as he dodges your question. “You know, it’s impolite to not offer your name after someone else gives you theirs.”

He’s not wrong, but still you hesitate. You feel like there’s some unspoken significance in giving him your name, like once you do, you’ll be setting something into motion that you won’t be able to stop.

It’s just a name, just your name.

Satoru’s eyes glimmer as you offer it to him and he repeats your name back, as if he’s testing the feel of it in his mouth. Something in your chest stirs at the sound of it, a little voice in the back of your head smugly telling you that it was right, but you ignore it.

With a satisfied hum, he says, tone shifting into something more cheerful, “With that out of the way, there’s no reason we can’t be roommates now, right?”

You stare at him wide eyed. It’s completely beyond you why he’d rather spend his time here, in your parent’s bathroom over being in the big wide ocean, but it’s clear that he has no intent on giving up. Between Satoru keeping you busy all morning and Minori canceling your plans, you don’t really have the energy to fight him any more anyway.

“It’ll be fun, I promise,” Satoru insists with a smile. This one is different from the others you’ve seen from him so far and you wonder if he’s trying to take a different approach to convince you.

Not that he needs to any more; you’re already resigned yourself to your fate.

“...only until I go back to Tokyo, okay?” you relent, squeezing the phone in your hand so hard it might break. This might be a mistake, agreeing to let this merman, to let Satoru stay here for the summer, but it’s fine.

It’s fine.

Satoru beams, bright and triumphant as he echoes. “Only until you go back to Tokyo.”

One trip out of the house to the bathhouse and the store is enough to reduce the discontent you feel from whatever is going on with Minori to just a frustrating buzz in the back of your mind. You know it won’t fully go away until you and Minori actually talk about it, but with the way things are going, who knows when that will be?

Besides, you feel like your hands are going to be too full attending to Satoru to dwell on anything for very long.

You heave everything you got at the store onto the counter. Even though you’d gone just yesterday, the sudden appearance of another mouth to feed demanded another trip. Despite Satoru’s offer to teach you about merfolk culture, he wasn’t particularly helpful when you asked him (this time) what kind of food to get him. Seafood, he’d told you with a snicker, and when you probed for something more substantial than that all he said was to surprise him.

His teaching methods really do leave a lot to be desired.

You did what you could with what little he gave you. Naturally, you bought seafood, two more whole fish, and then some other things, some of them a little… unconventional. It’s fine, though, you made sure to get things you could eat just in case Satoru doesn't like them. And if he doesn't maybe that'll teach him to be a little more specific next time.

"Hey! Are you back?" Satoru's naturally loud voice echoes throughout the house. He must have really good hearing if he heard you shuffling in the kitchen, though you did slam the door pretty loud when you came back in earlier.

"Yeah!" You holler back.

"Perfect! I'm hungry!"

Of course he is. But then again, it's been a bit since he ate that mackerel earlier. Your stomach rumbles in agreement with Satoru. After Minori had called, your hanger and appetite had basically disappeared, but now it seems like it's recovered. Your stomach grumbles again, and you consider eating before bringing Satoru his food, but…

Since you're "roommates" now wouldn't it be better to eat together?

Sharing a meal with Satoru sounds like a mistake, but if he gets too annoying you can just get up and walk away. Nodding to yourself, you grab the things you'd bought to eat and some of the things you'd gotten for Satoru to try and head for the bathroom, stopping by the storage closet on the way.

You find what you're looking for— your mother's bed and bathtub trays— with relative ease. Hopefully, the bathtub tray will sit comfortably on the tub, even with Satoru's massive body in it, if not… you can probably both share the bed tray. You grab both trays and, while it's a little awkward, you manage to carry them both into the bathroom.

Satoru's lounging in the tub, since there's not really much else he can do, his long arms and even longer tail hanging off the edges. You feel bad, even though your parents' luxury tub is huge by human standards, it really is too small for him. Maybe it'd be fine if he could bend his tail the way people bend their legs but you don't know if he can. When you enter, Satoru tilts his head toward you and shoots you a lazy grin. You freeze, remembering again, how stunningly handsome he is.

And then he ruins it, by opening his mouth, eyes on the bag in your hand.

He starts to pout. "Did you bring me another dead fish?"

"They only sell dead fish at the store." You say while you set up the trays as little makeshift tables for you both. Luckily, the bathtub tray fits— just barely— but a win’s a win in your book. When that’s all done, you start to pull everything out of the bags. Satoru watches curiously as you separate your stuff from his. Belatedly, you realize you’ve only really brought him snacks and nothing actually substantial.

“So, what have we got here?” he asks when you’re done.

“Uh, well,” you point at each item, telling him what it is as you sit down next to the tub. “Dried shredded squid, some different kinds of seaweed snacks and dried anchovies.”

Satoru hums and picks up the bag of dried anchovies and examines it, turning it over in his hands. Is he wondering how to open it? You’re about to reach over and show him the notch in the bag that he needs to tear, but he gets to it before you do and rips the bag open. It’s a little impressive that he figured it out on his own. You watch as he reaches his hand in and gingerly pulls out one of the fish. He turns it over in his fingers, looking at it before popping the whole thing in his mouth. You hear the absolute barest crunch as he chews on it.

When he’s done he chucks another one in his mouth as if it were a potato chip. “Not bad.”

You beam, maybe it’s not a glowing review, but still you’re glad to have finally, finally gotten some kind of stamp of approval from Satoru.

He glances at you and his lips ease up into a mischievous smile as he plucks yet another anchovy from the bag and holds it up to your face in offering. “Would you like one too?”

You eye the anchovy anxiously and bite your lip, not sure what to say. Do you tell him? Or do you just bite the bullet?

“What’s with that look?” Satoru asks, pouting. “Do you humans not eat these?”

“Uh…”

The pout becomes more pronounced, his eyebrows furrowing together. “Did you really give me something you wouldn’t eat? How mean.”

“...you said surprise me,” you finally grumble. “I’ve only ever used those in making soup stock— I’ve never eaten them like that.”

In an instant Satoru’s frown is gone as he latches onto the last thing you’ve said. He leans forward excitedly, his eyes shimmering with some kind of predatory joy. “Is that so? That would make this… your first time too?”

He does that thing with his voice again, and your brain goes offline for just a millisecond before booting back up. “Don’t make it weird.”

Satoru smiles, unaffected by your deflection. He waves the anchovy in front of you. “Well? Gonna try?”

You stare at it. It’s not like you’re opposed to it, so why not? It’s Satoru’s first time trying anchovies like this, so in a way would it be fair. You’re drawing the line at letting him hand feed it to you, though. Leaning a little bit back, you take the fish from him and toss it into your mouth. Just as you expected it’s a little crunchy, but more than that the taste is intense and salty, but…

“It’s not bad,” you remark, echoing Satoru’s sentiments. He grins and starts to eat them in earnest, few at a time. You pull at the plastic of one of the rice balls you got for yourself so you can dig in. After a couple bites, you notice out of the corner of your eye that Satoru’s looking at you again. “Mmm?”

“What do you have?”

You swallow what’s in your mouth before you explain. “Just some rice balls and a fruit sando.”

“Why does your food look better than mine?”

“Uh,” you pause, trying to think of how to word it, “My stuff is more… complex, I guess?”

Most of what you got for Satoru is pretty simple, consisting of only an ingredient or two. He huffs, obviously off-put by your answer, and leers at you like he wants something. Then he says, petulant, “I want some.”

You’re almost startled at how straightforward he is about it. Almost.

“I… just wasn’t sure if your stomach would be able to handle more… processed human foods,” you explain. “If… if you really want, we can share. I-I just wouldn’t want you to get sick from something you ate, you know?”

Satoru’s eyes widen slightly at your words, but then he waves his hand almost dismissively, “Nah, it should be fine.”

You’re not so sure, but if he says so. “Okay…”

“So, what's that?” he asks, gesturing to the rice ball in your hand.

“It’s a tuna mayo rice ball. The other one I have has salted salmon.”

“I see.”

You think about the best way to go about sharing the rice ball. Would it be better to just flat out give him your salted salmon rice ball? There’s really no way for you to break off a piece of your rice ball to give him to try without basically breaking the entire thing apart.

Before you can decide on a course of action, Satoru ends up deciding for you. He leans all the way forward, getting all into your personal space so he can take a huge chomp out of the rice ball in your hands. You almost drop the entire thing in shock, and Satoru is either completely unaware or doesn’t even care as he leans back in the tub, grinning with a wicked amusement as he chews.

“That’s pretty good,” he remarks, licking his lips. Your eyes are unfortunate enough to pay a little too much attention to the action.

It takes you a moment to recover and you hand him the rest of the rice ball and say. “Okay, well, you can have the rest of this one and I’ll just have this one to myself.”

“I thought we were sharing?”

“We are,” you insist. “You’re eating that one, and I’m eating this one.”

“But I wanted to try the salted salmon one, too.”

“I… I will get one just for you next time I go to the store, okay?” you offer, hoping that will deter him from invading your personal space again and sinking his teeth into the other rice ball.

It doesn’t.

You’re so lucky that the fruit sando is sliced in two pieces.

next chapter (coming soon) →

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo x you #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #nikuniku fics #sots fic tag

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queenshelby · 9 months

Text

Yes! Mr Murphy (Rewritten)

PART 17: PERIOD PAIN

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Angst, Age Gap, Teacher x Student, Fluff, Smut

“What is it?” Cillian asked, seeing how you had panicked in a flash.

“I am so sorry. Don’t fucking look” you said hysterically as you quickly pulled away from him and set up in earnest. “In fact, don’t fucking move” you then said just as a few tears shot into the corners of your eyes. “Where are your flannels?” you wanted to know as the tone in your voice changed, which is when Cillian did exactly what you told him not to do.

“Y/N, what’ the…” he asked before looking down and in between where your legs were still engrossed before, suddenly, breathing out a sigh of relief. “You’ve got your period” he then chuckled but you did not think that it was funny at all.

“Yes, and it’s fucking embarrassing” you thus said while covering your face, which is when Cillian pulled your hands to the side so that he could look at you.

“Come here” he then said gently before pulling you in for a kiss, but you were not up for it. “It’s natural, you know” he thus pointed out sarcastically after you pulled away.

“Yes, but it is also such a turnoff” you pointed out, seeing that you had left a stain on the sheets as well as his thighs.

“I honestly couldn’t care less” Cillian said while pulling you close and on top of him which somewhat took you by surprise. “Once we are finished, I will just go and have a shower and change the sheets. It’s really not a big deal” he then said before kissing you passionately but the fact that you had just gotten your periods after a dry spell of eight weeks meant that you were rather uncomfortable.

“Oh no…we are most defiantly finished now, Cill” you murmured against his lips before pushing his hands away from your ass, being much to close to the area you needed him to avoid.

“No round two?” Cillian pouted and you shook your head.

“Absolutely not! Not while I am on my period” you told him firmly before telling him that you could not believe that he was even considering it.

“And I can’t believe that you wouldn’t. It’s not a big deal. Not in my opinion anyway” Cillian said before suggesting to run you a bath while he changes the sheets, which was an offer you gladly accepted.

****

The following morning, after an almost sleepless night of stomach cramps, you rolled out of bed at around nine and were greeted with the delicious smell of breakfast.

“Good Morning Sleepyhead” Cillian said as you walked into the kitchen and you smiled softly at him as he flipped the pancake. Much to your luck, he was making your favourite, pancakes with berries and chocolate syrup, and you wanted nothing more than to indulge in all things sweet when it was this time of the month for you.

“Good Morning Cill” you said while sitting down at one of the tall chairs near the kitchen aisle, waiting for Cillian to pass you a cup of coffee.

“Are you up for some pancakes?” he questioned and all you could do was nod your head.

“Thank you for last night Cill” you then said as he was serving up the most amazing breakfast ever and a cocky smirk played on his lips as he brought you a plate filled with three pancakes and berries. He placed a bottle of syrup in front of you as well along with a cup of coffee for you to drink. He was too kind to you, making you wonder what you did to deserve this side of him.

Just last night, at around two o‘clock he got up to get you some painkillers and a hot water bottle as you were struggling with the cramps. He even handed you some pads from his daughter’s room as you had none with you, making you blush at the time.

“My pleasure” Cillian winked before suggesting a day at home with him, watching Netflix and eating unhealthy things.

“Well, Emma actually just texted me and told me that she is heading back this afternoon. I probably should go home” you said, thinking that, with you having your period, the premise of friends with benefits became somewhat redundant.

Cillian would be bored and you felt like doing nothing but rest.

“Okay” Cillian pouted while watching you eat and, even after a single bite, you felt terribly full. When you had your period,, nausea often came with it so none of this surprised you.

“You know I could take care of you though. I could cook you some food, give your back a massage and fill up your hot water bottle when you need it” he then said, seeing that, clearly, you weren’t feeling too well.

“But that would not be any fun for you, having to deal with a moody crampy woman all day. You did so much for me already” you pointed out, which is when Cillian walked over to you and took you into his arms.

“I like spending time with you and I will enjoy looking after you” he then said and, of course, you couldn’t say no to him. He was too sweet and caring and you enjoyed his company just as much as he enjoyed yours.

As such, you did indeed spend all day watching movies and reading books. You also listened to some music while Cillian cooked both lunch and dinner, spoiling you with his amazing food.

In the evening, the worst pain was almost gone. Only the mild cramps were lingering now and, just as you sat down again with Cillian and binged watched your favourite Netflix show, he cuddled up to you and rested his head on your shoulder.

“How bad is it now?” he asked while running his hand gently over your stomach, causing you to cringe.

“It’s better than it was this morning, but still painful. I don’t get them regularly so, really, I never know what to expect to be honest” you explained while enjoying the warmth of Cillian’s body against yours.

“You may want to get this checked out Y/N. Women your age should be at least somewhat regular” Cillian then told you and his comment made you worry and laugh all at the same time.

“Oh, is that right?” you asked. “And how do you know?” you wondered, giving him a questioning look.

“Well, Nina got them last year for the first time and it was a conversation me and Danielle had with her doctor. She pointed out to us that irregularities are normal until you are in your early to mid twenties, but not so much after that…” Cillian explained, causing you to swallow harshly. You were in your early twenties, but of course, he did not know that yet. He still thought that you were turning thirty soon.

“Okay, I will stop you right there” you interrupted him nonetheless, brushing off what he had just said to you. “Let’s not discuss my menstruation, alright? It’s probably just my contraception causing some havoc” you told him, causing Cillian to nod and chuckle all at the same time.

“Alright. I will shut up now” he laughed while looking at you as you were moving around. For the past five minutes, you had been crossing and uncrossing your legs as if you were seeking some friction and, whilst these movements were familiar to Cillian, the fact that you tried to hide them amused him.

“What?” you asked, seeing how he was looking at you now.

“You are moving a lot” he then pointed out with a devilish grin on his face.

“Yes, and?” you asked, wondering what he was on about.

“Nothing” Cillian chuckled while furrowing his eyebrows at you, giving you “the look”, which is when you realised what was going on.

“Just say it” you chuckled yourself, seeing that you had been caught.

“Nope” Cillian laughed, knowing that period sex was off the table. You had said so yourself.

“Yes, I am horny, alright! I can’t help it, which is just one of the reasons I didn’t want to stay here tonight” you then huffed out in frustration, causing Cillian to chuckle again.

“Okay” was all he responded with before making a somewhat unexpected remark. “Did you know that having an orgasm is said to relieve the cramping?” he pointed out and you shook your head.

“No” you said, trying to ignore his rather obvious suggestion to have sex.

“What I am saying is that I could help you with your cramps and address your urges all at the same time. I could run us a bath and…” Cillian began to say nonetheless and you interrupted him.

“I know what you are saying Cill, but no!” you said again, this time more firmly then before which is when Cillian nodded and moved towards you, bent down, and pressed his lips against yours for a passionate kiss. He then straightened back up and left you wanting more.

You thus pulled him close for another kiss which turned out to be even more passionate than your last and, just as you kissed, you inadvertently began to grind yourself against Cillian’s hot body, causing him to groan.

“Fine” you then murmured against his lips as it was clear to you both that neither of you could resist each other anymore and, with that, Cillian sat up straight and smiled.

“That didn’t take a lot of convincing” he chuckled before standing up, which is when you noticed the large bulge in his pants as his erection pushed out the fabric of his jeans.

“I will fill up the bathtub. Meet you in five?" he then asked and, just as he did, there was a lump in your throat as you nodded and watched him leave the room.

You had never had sex during your period before and, even though your bleeding was generally light, James had always been grossed out by it. Cillian, on the other hand, did not seem to care and you hoped that, once you got into the bathtub with him, that neither would you.

Five minutes later…

The bathroom was warm, humid, it smelled of something nice, something Cillian had put in the water.

You undressed and disposed of the obvious while thinking that, if you were to get into this tub, then the water could turn red or pink at least. It would be embarrassing and you thought about backtracking, but then you heard Cillian come in behind you.

You heard the door close and felt his arms wrap around you. His naked, warm body pressed against you from behind, his cock against your lower back, his chin on your shoulder and his cheek against your face. He smelled of himself and a faint residue of aftershave which, to you, was simply intoxicating.

“You are so beautiful” he whispered from behind just before he let go of you and climbed into the tub, letting himself slowly sink beneath the hot water's surface.

He was moaning satisfied with such abandon that it made you smile, almost laugh.

“You know that there may be some blood in the tub and…” you then began to stammer nonetheless which is when Cillian opened his eyes and looked at you.

“I will survive that" he then chuckled before telling you to come in.

“Okay” you nodded nervously before you climbed into the water and let yourself sink down into his lap.

You had to close your eyes as the warmth of the water slowly engulfed and relaxed you all the while Cillian’s arms came up around you, holding you close to him as you were now facing each other.

Your lips found his and he kissed you with such wanton tenderness, it made you want to cry and then you made out with a lazy passion that touched something deep inside you. You felt safe, secure and desired.

Your teeth tugged lightly at his lower lip. Cillian moaned and moved his mouth down to your throat und pressed featherlight and heated kisses against it. Your head fell back, giving him better access and your hips started rocking back and forth.

You then scooted a little further up his legs while Cillian put his hands on your ass, guiding you closer. He was so gentle with you, so careful not to put too much pressure on your abdomen, so heedful not to hurt.

You soon started grinding your mound against his cock and felt his fingers on your ass, digging deeper into your flesh.

“Fuck I want you so much Y/N. You drive me absolutely crazy” Cillian said as you continued grinding against his hard member.

“I want you too Cill” you confirmed and, then, your mouths and tongues were playing again and your chests pressed flush together.

A low rumble was running through his body as his hands trailed over your back, holding your head to deepen the kiss before wandering back down to your butt, which is when you lifted yourself a little and took his cock into your hand.

You pumped your hand over his shaft several times while you drank in his breathy moans before, finally, aligning his cock with your opening.

“I need go slow” you told him as, slowly, you sank down on him before lifting yourself again and then sinking down a little further.

This worked. The pressure was a lot, more than usual, but not unpleasant.

“Are you alright?” Cillian asked as he held you close to him.

“Hmm, yes…it’s just…it hurts a little” you said and he immediately drew back a little.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked as one of his hands was caressing your cheek and you could see the look of concern on his face.

“No. I want to cum. It still feels good” you whispered in response which is when Cillian dragged his thumb over your cheek and then bent forward to kiss you deeply.

With that, you started to move slowly, rocking your hips back and forth while you moaned into your kiss.

It hurt, but it also felt so good. So safe. So hot. So intimate.

You moved up and down on Cillian’s shaft and held on to him tightly. You let your fingers run through his hair and down his cheeks before flattening your palm against his chest.

He groaned again and you ran your hands up to his neck, tracing a pulsing vein, holding him to you, as you kept grinding and circling.

Tentatively, he started bucking his hips up into you in a slow rhythm.

“That’s it” you moaned as something started building inside you. Growing slowly, fed by every movement, every kiss, every moan of his, every groan, every ragged breath.

His eyes had flickered closed, his face creased with the effort, his mouth open, sucking in air. You closed your eyes to focus solely on the feeling of him throbbing and moving inside you, on his fingers digging into you and on the sounds escaping him. You were a moaning mess now. Only a few more strokes and you would get there, finding your sweet release.

He picked up the rhythm a little although he was still holding back. Cillian was close. Clenched teeth, sweat running down his temples, open-mouthed breaths, some swearing.

“I am close Y/N” he said and you moaned loudly in response.

“So am I. Let go. Let us cum together” you gasped and, with that, Cillian indeed let go of his inhibitions.

“Fuck” he cursed as, suddenly, he came hard and fast with a few erratic last pumps and a rumbling groan as his fingers deeply buried themselves in to your flesh.

Seeing him crash like this pushed you over the edge as well. You lost all self-control and, within a few seconds, you too, were thrown into an all-engulfing, warm orgasm.

Your head was thrown back in a throaty moan as you rode out its waves while your body started convulsing until, just after a little while, Cillian slipped out of you and you opened your eyes.

You saw that the water had indeed turned a shade of pink and the embarrassment was written all over your face when Cillian made you look at him instead. His face carried a smile, satisfied but also incredibly exhausted.

“I love you” he then said while caressing your cheeks and these three words made you gasp. They were not at all what you had expected and you immediately felt guilty for the secret you were still carrying with you.

To be continued…

Please comment and engage. I love getting comments and predictions pretty please!

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#cillian murphy #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy x y #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x reader

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mylevisdontfitanymore · 11 months

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I don’t know what to do w this thought bc there is no plot but I’ve been thinking a lot abt stucky Wandavision au w belly kink and it’s just all sweet and innocent at first yk 1950s all pg and sweet and it just dives into an absolutely kinky hellfest of Bucky stuffing Steve making him burst out of his suit each decade with just a fatter Steve with different popular foods of the era and is KSBDKD ekem anyways -🐮

This is gonna be another case of me admitting that I am not a good Marvel fan because... I didn't watch WandaVision 🫣🫣 BUT you're a goddamn genius because that concept is so hot.

With every decade, Steve gets fatter. Fatter and fatter and fatter. Testing the limits of all these different styles of clothes. Finding new favorite types of food. Each morning, Steve leaves their home a little larger and a little slower until... maybe he won't be leaving at all 😳

Warning for stucky belly kink, (probably) historical inaccuratacies, weight gain, stuffing, clothes destruction/tight clothes, immobility, some name calling (pig, whale, etc.), and all that kinky goodness below.

1950s

I'm thinking about the excess that was the 1950s in America.

The post-WWII booming economy lends itself to this picture-perfect life that is seemingly within reach (if you were white, middle class, and heterosexual). A house, a car, a dog, children, etc. And all this overflow - this excess speeds up Steve's gain like nothing else. Bucky is a stay-at-home house husband, while Steve goes out to work; so, that also speeds Steve's gain because Bucky has to keep himself busy, he's got to do something other than clean, launder clothes, pay bills, or whatever. Cooking and grocery shopping fills most of his time in a way he enjoys.

Bucky always ends up cooking too much - making too much food for just the two of them. Then, because he's made too much, he overuses ingredients, and he has to go back to the store to get more... maybe he should get more when he's there? Right? He needs to buy more ingredients so he doesn't have to come as often. Steve ate everything Bucky cooked anyway, so it's not like it was actually too much, right?

Right?

So, at the start of the decade, Steve is nice and strapping. Under his pressed shirt, suit jacket, suspenders, and trousers, he's got a full fucking six pack, tight, high pecs, and broad as hell shoulders with legs that go on for days. But Bucky is getting good at building a soft husband. With every dish he perfects, every meal he cooks, he gets closer and closer to a chubby husband. Every day.

Hamburger, tuna fish, and chicken casseroles; meat loaf; fried chicken and deep-fried vegetables; mac and cheese; spam and canned ham; spareribs and salisbury steak; hot dogs; buttery mashed potatoes; banana cream pies, cherry angel food cake, and pineapple upside-down cake... all popular foods that Steve readily eats. And eats.

No matter how much Bucky makes, Steve will try to finish it all. He deeply appreciates being cooked for and he wants to show his appreciation. Even if, at the start, not everything is perfect.

If Steve doesn't finish it all by dessert, Bucky knows it will be gone by the time he wakes up with Steve in the morning. Steve gets up for work, Bucky gets up to make his hardworking husband breakfast, sending him off with a full belly (nevermind the fact that Steve is still gurgling through his dinner from the day prior and his midnight snack turned midnight feast).

Anyway-

Steve becomes accustomed to coming come from a long day at work to delicious smells emanating from the kitchen. It's never long before Bucky comes out, full frilly apron and all, and steers Steve into their dining room, sitting him down and serving up all the different dishes he's made for that day in a seemingly endless stream.

Steve compliments and moans his way through all of the dishes. Trying every single one. Not just trying a bite of each, but eating the lion's share of every dish. He makes sure Bucky has his fill, but everything else goes toward Steve. He can't help it. He's a stubborn, determined guy. Even if it didn't taste good (which it does, Steve could be convinced he's in heaven), Steve would be eating it all. But it does taste good. And he wants his husband to know he's doing good. So... down it all goes.

Until, by the time dessert is rolled own, Steve has his hands flat on the table over top of his knife and fork where they rest on his placemat. His glass is empty for now, he's gulped down glass after glass of milk with his meal, and he'll have a few more before he's done - the fatty drink bloating him by filling in all the cracks that fold can't fit into. Steve's got his head bowed, and his chest is heaving. Eyes squeezed shut.

Full.

"F-full," Steve puffs out, his lips slick. But, he's not done.

As he's stuffed his face, his tie has shifted to the side, exposing his shirt buttons. A while ago, Bucky helped him messily roll up his shirt sleeves as to not get them (more) dirty. He looks disheveled. Every shallow breath leaves his stretched stomach expanding more, truly testing the limits of his previously nicely starched shirt. Now his shirt is stained. He isn't a messy eater, but with all he's eating, there's no way that he wouldn't drop something on his swelling belly, beginning to split his suspenders apart and crush his belted slacks down.

The more often they do this, the more they settle into this time period, the more the buttons of Steve's shirts gape - little diamonds growing between each button, exposing more and more of his ribbed undershirt.

Someday, they're gonna bust. Coming off one by one. Pop. Pop. Pop. Bucky's toes curl just thinking about it. The release of each one, too tight, Steve's pot belly - his swelling gut, a beer gut under construction - forcing them to come flying off. Then, his belly rounding out. Expanding into the new space. Happy to be released and ready for more with the added space and freedom.

1960s

Bucky mourns the loss of visible straining buttons with the change of fashion following the decade. Or, actually, he mours the loss right up until he gets to stuff his heavier husband again. In his new clothes.

Then, when he does stuff him in this new style (with new foods, of course), Bucky is suddenly much happier. Not just from stuffing him. He's much happier because, as it turns out, the buttons being hidden isn't that bad. Not at all 🤤

With his stuffy little sweater over his dress shirt, covering his tie and gaping buttons and struggling, worn-out belt, Bucky suddenly gains a whole new level of appreciation for sweaters - the sweater makes him look even chunkier. A layer of softness over his softness. Rounding him out even more. Padding him just that little bit more.

The sweater balloons out and out, showing the indents of each straining button underneath until...

His belly gets to be too much, too big, and his sweater creeps up, showing off the bottom of his button-up shirt where it's getting tugged out of his unbearably tightly belted pants.

That little sliver of his shirt. Exposed. It makes Bucky crazy.

And, oh, there's the waist band of his pants (not for long, his belly will start hanging over before long), too. A little bit.

Just a peak.

A tease that leaves Bucky unable to do anything but feed Steve a whole course by hand, packing food into him with the goal to push the hem of his sweater up higher and higher on the dome of his gut. He wants that dress shirt to come untucked from the stretch he's putting Steve's tummy through, too.

He wants it.

He wants to see the slow, drawn-out progression. The tease. Up and up and up; rounder and rounder and rounder.

Another perk of the sweater is the heat it brings. Steve's a big, growing boy, so he already gets hot fast. But, it only gets worse with his fat and added sweater insulation. Now when he stuffs himself - or when Bucky stuffs him - he turns the prettiest pink then red. Glistening with sweat. 🥵

Overtaxed.

Overheated.

Overfed.

More and more every day, more and more every year, Steve looks more overfed. Fatter. Heavier. Rounder.

(That might be the part about time, how it blends into a montage of growth.)

Sweaters and vests aren't Bucky's favorite 60s trend, though. Far from it. Bucky's favorite thing about the 60s is how suddenly everyone is into finger foods.

Deviled eggs, skewered meatballs in sweet-and-sour sauce, celery stuffed with cream cheese, cheese balls, etc. Anything you can eat with your hands, no silverware. Also, with the finger food comes dips. Clam dip, onion dip, and many more that Bucky would've never thought to make on his own. Dips for dipping little bits of food gripped between fingers.

And finger foods are fucking awesome because Steve eats then messily. At first, he shoves them inhumanly fast into his face, moaning and gasping and sighing. He comes home feeling starved (re: after not being stuffed to the brim, hardly able to move, during the workday), and seeing all the little pieces of food turn him into a monster. A hungry beast. He plows through the little morsels. Never getting enough. Steve uses one hand to settle his swelling gut, and his other hand blurs as he rapidly goes between trays of food and his mouth. Again, eating like an animal. An animal of Bucky's making - he trained him to eat like a pig after all.

When Steve finally slows down, rubbing his tummy and patting it, trying to get his belly to digest faster so he can have more, Bucky gets to swoop in. Another reason finger foods are fucking great. He picks up the little foods delicately and tucks them into Steve's still watering mouth.

With every mouthful, Steve's lips and tongue brush his fingers. It's electric, the wet, hot, slick feeling of his mouth. Pure sin.

Bucky's hands are close enough to Steve to feel it when he moans or when he burps, the hot rush of desperate air. Steve only burps around Bucky's fingers when it comes up so suddenly that Steve can't turn his head to the side to burp more politely. Privately, that gives Bucky quite the thrill, his dirty, hungry pig. Burping uncontrollably. Sure, moaning is hot as hell, but there's something extra about his burps.

Also, about the gurgling of his gut.

His gut under that fucking sweater, dress shirt, and tie. Now he's not just bloated anymore, though... not after a decade of stuffing, now he's got fat. His gut is bloated all the time, glutted fully, but he's also fat. He's soft.

He's never been more handsome, but he's only going to get more handsome as he gets fatter.

1970s

With the turn of the decades, Bucky buys himself more clothes and gets himself familiar with rising food trends, and he also does as he always does, buying Steve new clothes, too. Usually, though, he buys what he knows Steve will wear. Just underwear for sleeping. Blue jeans and t-shirts for non work clothes. And formal work clothes. Boring and simple because Steve's never really cared about his body or looks, uncaring so long as he keeps functioning, but he's so handsome it doesn't matter that he doesn't care so much about fashion. This time, though, Bucky also buys what he hopes Steve will wear. Because something catches his eye.

He can't help himself.

He hopes with everything in him, that Steve will wear some of the tiny, little shorts that have come into fashion for men.

He desperately wants to see Steve in tiny shorts.

So, he buys a few pairs. Some jean shorts that look unforgiving and might cut his doughy waist in delicious halves, some softer more sweatpants-like shorts that will be easier on his sensitive, overstuffed body, and a pair that are modeled like women's athletic shorts, just for the shits and giggles of seeing Steve in something designed for athleticism.

Despite buying them with the intention to get Steve in them, Bucky's still not prepared for it when it happens. He doesn't even have to use his puppy dog eyes or have to wait to ask Steve until he's stuffed and pliable! Steve just shrugs and agrees to it. He's gotten more and more pliable (more domesticated) the larger he's gotten. Maybe it's the fat slowing his body and mind down. Maybe it's making him dumber to be full and indulged all the time. Maybe be stuffed satiates him, leaving him without any room to be stubborn or argue.

Either way, Bucky gets Steve into them. And he is unprepared.

Steve is poured into the little shorts. Not only is there no space between his pale, bare thighs, his thighs squish together, trying to find more space - they're so soft, wide, and excessive - and not getting any. His massive ass hangs out the back of the shorts. Dimpled and round. Like cake. Soft, soft cake that Bucky wants to bite.

His poor husband works up a sweat, waddling from one side of the room to the other and back again and again when Bucky tells him to. He wants to see that ass move.

He's. chunked. up.

Also, also, there's his hips. Those trim, little hips are nowhere to be seen. Instead, his tiny waist has expanded. His love handles hang out of his undershirt - a ribbed, white tank top - and lap over the waist of the shorts. His tummy has really, really started hanging recently; it's just as exposed as his fat sides. It's so heavy and large. Swollen like a fat tear drop.

He looks edible.

As compensation for being forced to strut his overweight, plush, pale body around their living room, Bucky feeds him his entire dinner by hand. And he does it from the couch. TV trays have been popular since their inception in the 50s, but Bucky has always gotten more of a kick out of feeding Steve at the table. Progressively watching his belly approach the table, then push over the edge of the table and spill onto his placemat as he's gotten bigger; progressively watching his hips fill his dining chair; progressively watching Steve struggle harder and harder to walk out of the dining room when he's finally finished, stuffed full.

Now, Bucky breaks out the (slightly out of fashion) trays.

He sets up the feast, course by course. Some of it is actual food: pineapple chicken, quiche, stuffed veggies, and cheese logs. Some of it is snacks, more and more processed crap becoming more common: cereal, crackers, chips, etc. And some of it is dessert: carrot cake and pudding.

Before he eats any of it, though, those little shorts are swallowed by Steve's heft. The scrap of fabric is hidden under his massive muffin top. Bucky digs his fingers into those pudgy love handles and groans.

"Gonna feed you outta these," he promises, voice gone all breathy.

Steve bats his eyelashes and lets his mouth drop open, expectant, and so outrageously hot. After the first bite, he speaks, though, chewing, then licking his lips, "you always do."

"Mmm-hmm, you wouldn't know how hard I had to look to find these in your size."

Steve makes a sound, but his mouth is stuffed fill.

"It was so hard. I wonder if they're gonna stop making anything big enough for you soon."

Stee swallows thickly, "they wouldn't."

Bucky stuffs a heaped fork into his mouth. Making a noise of consideration.

"You hear the news, people are just gettin' fatter. Year after year."

"You're getting fatter."

"Uh-huh."

"Gonna get so fat for me."

"I already am. 'M huge."

"Gonna make you fatter. Huger."

"Yeah," Steve moans, his eyes shut, entirely trusting Bucky, "Gonna get too fat for fat America to even keep up with me."

(I know obesity was actually declared an epidemic in the 80s, but shhhh)

1980s

The 80s brings pasta salad, beef stroganoff, sloppy joes, pudding pops, 7-layer dip, blackened meat, bread bowls, cool ranch Doritos, and Hot Pockets. And Steve tackles it all looking like the hottest, fattest bad boy. Maybe like a mobster boss with his light wash jeans that look like they're painted on and his black leather jacket that he can't zip up. He could zip it up around his gut for, like, a week. Then, he outgrew it. Like everything. That gut.

God.

His gut has grown obscenely round. Like a ball. A beach ball. Maybe a small yoga ball. It forces his legs to spread when he walks, even if he isn't full, and it makes his back arch, too.

It's heavy. He complains about it. It's hard to lug around. He gets embarrassed when he's forced to sit down and then get up because he has to put so much effort into getting up. Heaving himself to his feet. Grunting. Bracing his back as if he's expecting. Getting up from the bed in the morning, getting up from the table after breakfast, getting into and out of his car to get to work, getting out of his office chair for lunch, getting out of his lunch chair, and on and on.

He has a hard time moving.

Bucky can tell.

Steve puts on his leather jacket and jeans on the weekend and then parks his ass in his recliner. He only moves when he has to go to the bathroom. Otherwise, he sits all day. Eating. Watching TV. Letting Bucky lower his recliner into a 180° line so Bucky actually has room to ride him. (One of the only ways to have sex now, with how large Steve has grown). There ain't no way Bucky would be able to get to his dick with that fat, thick belly in the way. There isn't even any room on his lap anymore. The monster of always-hungry gut has it monopolized. And his thighs are nearly too wide, too fat for Bucky to comfortably straddle.

But...

Bucky is a little obsessed with his leather jacket.

Sometimes, when he's half riding him, taking his cock, half feeding him a sloppy joe that makes him look like a pig, smeared over his mouth and chin, he will slap Steve's gut until he sucks in with a pained groan. Then, Bucky'll use all his strength to pull the sides of his leather jacket together, and he will wiggle the zipper up as far as it can go.

Steve grunts and moans and burps.

If he has the air, his lungs compressed by his gut, Steve will moan, "it hurts! Buck! I- I can't! M' too full!" But usually he can't even complain. He just has to take it.

When he stops sucking in, the zipper flies down.

Or, it usually does.

One afternoon, the pressure of his fat is too much for his jacket. Steve is bubbly and drunk and burping and Bucky is so close, writhing on top of him. And Steve's gut surprises them both by breaking the zipper.

It bursts open.

Instantly, Bucky's hands are all over that gut, and he's coming. All Steve can do is moan. Blinded with the release. His belly is stretched. Tight. Hanging off of his body. He's gonna fucking pop. Too much.

When did he get this fat?

Why does it make him so horny?

God.

He whines, almost choking out a sob, grabbing for Bucky's still slim hips with fat fingers, as he cries, "more, more, moremoremoremore."

1990s

Steve may spend all of the 90s on a sugar high because he eats like a fucking kid throughout the years. All the sugar. All the processed crap. It's addictive. He swears. They have to put something in it. He smashes through boxes and boxes of snacks. All at once. The amount he goes through in just a week is unbelievable. He's a fucking black hole, well, not exactly... because Bucky knows exactly where all the food goes. His ever-swelling husband.

Steve eats it all, lunchables, hot pockets, bagel bites, pizza rolls, gushers, string cheese, fish sticks, fruit by the foot, toaster strudel, etc.

All literal junk. Junk food.

Bucky feeds him real food, too, of course. But Steve swears it feels like he can't get enough. Not enough food. Not enough of the fake, processed shit. Even when he's fighting his body's physical ability to fit more inside of himself, he can't have enough. He needs more. More sugar that his brain needs. More rich, homemade food that he will always eat, and will especially eat if Bucky gives him those puppy dog eyes, too.

So, what is he supposed to do but eat?

Admittedly, throughout the decades, Steve's never felt this out of control. He is, though. He's so out of control. And it feels so good.

He doesn't want control back. He only wants more.

Despite his vivacious hunger, Steve still can't believe how fast he's piling on the pounds. It's like he can feel himself blowing up. Like, if he leaves a hand on his gut, it'll expand visibly under his palm. Hot, gurgly, and only tight when he's at his absolute maximum. Most of the time, he's officially too fat to know when he's packed to the brim.

Nothing feels better.

Nothing fucks his mind more than thinking when he puts his hands on his body, he'll find a rock hard, bloated tummy only to sink his fingers into jiggly waves of fat; an ocean of fat. And it's all him.

His belly.

His fat.

Steve can, for a little, hide the bloat the shitty food leaves him with with the oversized, still bad-boy, grunge-like clothing of the decade, but he outgrows it so fast that he never can hide it for too long.

Even those JNCO jeans and baggy flannels can't contain his massive body. His belly. His love handles. His ass. His thighs. His rolls. He's too big. Too big for anything to be oversized on him.

Bucky buys him clothes more often throughout this decade than any other. It's not just in Steve's head. He is speeding through the pounds. Day in, day out, he's growing.

He's always eating. Always sweating. Always moaning.

If his mouth isn't full of food, he's sleeping, showering, using his mouth on Bucky, or he's chugging teeth-rotting soda. The carbination makes him burp so easily, and the burps shift all that food inside him around, allowing his belly to create just a little more room. Room that Steve instantly has to fill.

It's kinda like his body is finally taking after his hunger. When there's any tiny amount of space in his belly, his mind tells him he's starving and he has to fill it; if there's a tiny amount of slack in his clothes, his body expands to fill it. With so much fat and so much food, Steve's eyes are heavily lidded constantly. He feels drunk all the time when he's pigged out. Slow and lazy and uncoordinated. All he can do is let Bucky feed him and let Bucky take pleasure in his blubbery, irresistible body.

2000s

Diets, raw diets, explode in the 2000s, but Bucky won't let Steve hear a word of it. He skips the fruit smoothies and salads and replaces them for Steve with more junk food. Pepsi. Energy drinks. Cupcakes. Cake pops. Pizza. There's also, again, meatloaf and mac 'n cheese. Chicken pot pie, too.

Steve keeps going. He keeps stuffing down junk on top of all the actual food. He keeps gaining and gaining and gaining. It's a barrage, constantly, of food.

"Buck," Steve's loose lips slur, "'m-I'm fat."

"You're not just fat, Stevie. You're huge. A hog. Massive. Enormous. A whale. Immense. A fucking yoga ball of blubber, baby."

"Yeah," Steve whines, rubbing the bloated sides of his gut that he can reach. "Fat."

"No, baby, you're more than fat. You're massive. Say it-" Bucky commands, jiggling his heavy belly.

"I'm m-massive."

"So fucking fat that I can't believe it. Need more words to tell you how huge you are."

Steve just shivers, looking as if he's suspended in orgasm. Getting off on being told how unbelievably big he has grown to be, and how much more bigger he is going to get.

Regardless of his size, Bucky isn't so sure that Steve is aware of the change in style. He's pretty sure he's just aware of his inflating body and the food. The new foods. The returning foods.

Into the Future

When he's not working, Bucky swears Steve is constantly in a food coma. Even when his eyes are open, he's all dopey. Zoned out and happier than Bucky has ever seen him so long as he's eaten within the last 30 minutes.

What a big, fat dumbass.

The perfect husband.

I don't even know what alternative universe this is; I didn't think this far because this is just a mess of horny, but I would like to imagine that by this point (the 2010s, 2020s, etc.), they have more than enough money to retire, OR maybe Steve is still working for a while, but he starts being able to work from home with computers becoming better and more common, so he doesn't have to leave. No more calories wasted by needing to walk or spend lunch away from his feeder husband.

But, just because he can, he still forces himself into clothes. At first. He doesn't need to because he's not seeing anyone else, he may as well be naked all day every day, exposing his white, soft fat that's striped with stretch marks from decades of indulgence, ballooning like biscuit dough from a little cardboard tube.

Still, he keeps forcing himself into clothes for some time.

He does it until he can't.

It happens seemingly overnight.

Suddenly, he's too fat. Too big. Even his shirts large enough to look like a tent on a normal sized human are too small. He can hardly walk by himself, so, of course, dressing himself is out of the question. His body is just too big. Round. Heavy. All he's good for is eating.

He's overqualified for stuffing himself. It's all he's been focusing on for decades, after all. Steve always ate like it was his job, packing down delicious, fatty calories by inhaling food until he was on the cusp of bursting, forming new stretch marks before Bucky's very eyes, but now it is his job.

"Grow for me," Bucky whispers worshipfully, "that's all you gotta do, baby. Grow." Crawling all over his overflowing body.

And grow Steve does.

Until he's bigger than he could've ever imagined being.

Steve's stomach is massive - a huge, round, plush ocean of fat attached to his front. Thick and blubbery. His ass is dimpled and just as massive with thighs to match. His heavy body leaves him lumbering and waddling whenever he does manage to get up. Awkward but also so fucking hot with the way he jiggles all over as he manages one foot in front of the other.

Meanwhile, Bucky spends his time still cooking but also loving on his massive husband. He's always worshipping all that fat, massaging and groping and fucking it. He's irresistible. Unbelievably attractive in his truest form - a show winning hog.

As Bucky feeds and fucks his rolls, Steve just lies there, his head tipped back, food in his plush mouth, panting. Chest heaving; moobs wobbling. Splattering come somewhere deep in his rolls as his fat rubs and moves against him just right - that's all the stimulation he gets these days, his dick has been swallowed by his lard.

There isn't a time when Steve isn't stuffed to feeling as if he's gonna pop. Even though it takes so much more to fill his stretched-out tummy these days. Even in the middle of the night (because Bucky wakes him up to funnel shakes or melted ice cream straight into his ever-expanding gut).

By this point in their long lives, Steve's the size of their mattress.

A full, huge glutton.

And Steve doesn't want to stop. Neither does Bucky. With every mouthful of food, Steve moans just as loud as he always has, praising Bucky's cooking like he's a God (and he practically is at this point, he's spent so many years perfecting his craft). Plus, Steve's just as eager to try new foods. Still, Steve's just as pleased to add pounds, stretch marks, and rolls to his oversized body. The only difference is that now, popping buttons or bursting seams are not bench marks for his gain. Now, the signs of his growth come from the creaking, then the cracking of the slats underneath his massive body.

One day, the bed is going to give out. And he's only going to groan for more food - not for it to be fixed where he lies in the middle of the shattered bed frame, unable to do anything about his predicament. He can't even think about it. All he can think about is how hungry he is. His stomach is packed, and he doesn't know where any food is going to go, but he needs it. He needs to keep chewing, to keep growing, to keep feeding. Please. Please. Please. It's all he needs. He's addicted.

In conclusion:

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #🐮 anon #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #chubby steve #immobility #animal play #tight clothes #clothes destruction

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maddipoof · 1 year

Note

CONGRATS DELLA<333333

There is nothing like staying at home, for real comfort 🌷- pick a character or a few and come up with a prompt and I’ll write a fluff blurb <3

steve harrington (what did you expect honestly) + the prompt/hc/idk of eating at some tiny diner at 2am because why not?? (i hope that's ok)

once again, congrats<3

Thank you my love 🥰🥰🥰

(trying 2nd person 😬, we'll see how it goes) (not proofread)

☆☆☆

"No, stop thinking! No thoughts, just answer!"

"Steve, this is a big question, it's the middle of the night, we're running out of gas, we could get kidnapped for all we know, it's a big question."

"Honey," the endeared irritation apparent in his tone, even though he was keeping his eyes on the road and you couldn't see his face. "Diner or truckstop? Exit's comin' up."

"Uhh..."

"Pick now, pick now, pick now," he urged you on as he started to veer off towards the exit.

"Diner!"

"Perfect! And it's right here." The neon sign lit up the spaces between the trees and the snowglow through the winter air made it seem like the forest lining the road was glowing.

He pulled in and found the closest spot to the entrance, just to make you more comfortable. "You got your jacket?" he asked you.

"I threw it in the trunk."

"Just keep mine then." It was laying over your lap for half the ride anyway, a perfect blanket.

"You can't not wear a jacket, you'll freeze."

"You can't wear a frozen jacket."

"Then we'll share."

"Wha-" But you were already waving him out of the car.

"Put it on."

"Baby, no"

"Put it on and come here. Come on, come on. We don't have all day, I'm freezing already."

He finally, reluctantly, put it on and you pulled his arms tight around you with your back to his chest. "Right foot first. Whaa! No, your other right."

"It's icy, babe, be careful. And my right is your right."

"My right is your right when you haven't been driving for 4 hours. This foot, Vermont shuffle, come on."

It was the longest minute ever, the kind of freezing that makes your joints hurt just thinking about it seeping into your bones and making the three yards into the diner more like an exodus.

Both of you sighed the moment the warmth of indoor heating touched your skin. He spun you around and pushed your arms under his jacket, holding you close with the hot skin of his back against your cold palms.

The obvious display of affection didn't stop the clearly overtired hostess from offering a sweet smile.

"Hi, uh, two please?" Steve asked through chattering teeth.

"Right this way." She sat you both at a wraparound booth right under a vent and Steve wrapped his coat back around your shoulders as soon as you were settled.

"Thank you, and could we have 2 coffees please?"

She nodded and went off to grab the pot. "You should sleep the rest of the way, don't have another coffee." You said as you smushed closer to him, part for the warmth, mostly just because he's him.

"I know, they're both for you. But you know you can wake me up right? Even if it's just to tell me whatever random thought popped into your head? Or you can't figure out the radio, whatever you want."

"Yes, I know, but I also know that I want you to sleep. I don't want you all grumpy tomorrow."

"I won't be grumpy."

"You'd be so grumpy. You'd be hiding behind your sunglasses all day, and asking me when we can go home. Na-ah, don't even argue."

The waitress came back and Steve ordered for you since you couldn't speak through your mouth full of coffee.

***

"You're kidding." You slapped your palm against the table at Steve's gossip about the kids.

"I am not, I got this straight from Dustin. And he got it right from Max."

"Max didn't tell you?"

"No, why would she?"

"Because you're the biggest gossips I know! You two plus Eddie in one room and that's half of Hawkins' rumor mill,” you said.

"We are not."

"Absolutely you are, eat your breakfast-dinner, I need you sleeping."

"Why, you don't want my charming, irresistible company?"

"No, I do, you know I do, but we literally just had this conversation, and your snores make much better company than grumpy old man Steve."

He gasped and clutched his chest, he's been spending too much time with Eddie. "I am not an old man."

"Mhm, worse than Hopper sometime," you picked up his fork, "but if you sleep, there's no old man." He let you bring the fork to his mouth and spoke once he swallowed.

"That sounds way too ominous, like you're trying to poison me."

"What? How!?"

"'No old man' like I'm never gonna make it to old man."

"Hmm...Do you want to be old?"

"Like now? Or just eventually old?"

"Eventually."

"I mean, yeah? I get to be old with you right?"

"Yeah, why, is that a must?"

"Absolutely it is."

"You wanna be with me when you're old and bald?"

"No no, honey, Harrington's don't bald. Have you seen those pictures of my grandpa in the hallway? How many full heads of grey hair have you ever seen?"

"I can't say very many."

"Exactly, a Harrington specialty. And we'd have a cat, when we're old. "

“Nursing home roomies?”

He looked practically offended at the notion. “Nursing home?! Absolutely not, no way, we spent however long raising those kids, the least they could do is take care of us.”

“Hmm, so no nursing home, only kids—“ “and the cat.” “—and the cat. What if they’re mean to us? Elder abuse.”

“No no, our kids are too good for that. They wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Have you been planning this? Is this what you’re thinking about when Robin calls me because you’re staring off into space?”

“No way baby, this is straight off the cuff.”

“Flying off the handle.”

The hand back over the chest and a shoulder nudging yours. “Rude.”

“Drink your juice.”

Tags: @new-romqntics @sw34terw34ther @beezywriting @haydipoof @avipoof

#dell’s fics #della celebrates 100 #steve harrington requests #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington imagine

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moronic-validity · 4 months

Text

The Shower

GUYS I'M SO FUCKING SORRY, MY BROTHER IS STAYING THE NIGHT AND WE STARTED PLAYING VIDEO GAMES AND THEN I STARTED PREPPING FOR TOMORROW'S BREAKFAST BC HE HAS LIKE 20 MINUTES TO EAT AND HAS TO HE UP AND AT EM AT LIKE 5 AM

Anyway, I'm gonna ptetend it's not after midnight here

Chapter 12 on my docs, so it's probably like 14? Idk. We're rolling with it

The DWU is 18+ bc a few chapters are. No warning for this chapter (i think)

I'll fix formatting later, I swear

Simon had grown more distant.

It was one of the first things Winter had noticed since they had returned home.

He had begun to sleep in his own room, only coming into their once shared space to shower or change clothes.

The only time he questioned Simon about it, he was met with a shrug and told he just wanted to have some time alone.

He knew that wasn’t the full story, but he also knew that he’d tell him what was wrong when he was ready.

Winter sat on his bed and listened to the shower run.

He was used to this by now.

He usually sat on the toilet seat and they would talk about their plans for the day, but Simon had asked for privacy, and that was something Winter could respect.

He still liked to sit nearby.

Everyone had been vague when he asked about Simon’s injuries from his journey into the Fire Kingdom, only telling him to keep an eye on the other man.

He felt like he was owed the information, given that he was the king, but no one would tell him anything.

He was completely in the dark.

Simon hated feeling like this, so helpless, so weak.

His injuries wouldn’t be healed in an afternoon with some beauty sleep, not like Winter’s. His would take time and proper care.

He did his best to not let him know.

He had started sleeping and showering alone, he wanted to make sure Winter never saw his wounds.

Which led him to this point.

His hair was greasy and he didn’t want to think of how tangled it was.

He had tried, early on, to shower like normal; bending over to wash his legs was painful enough to make his vision go white at the edges.

Washing his hair was the true nightmare though.

He couldn’t reach up to wash it and he had already ruled out bending over to do it. The best he could do was let the water run over it and hope for the best.

But this had gone on for long enough.

He pushed through the pain and began scrubbing his hair.

Simon felt like he was on the verge of blacking out, silently crying as he tried to work through the knots that had formed.

He leaned back to wash the soap out of his hair and he felt the stitches along his chest begin to tear.

He let out an almost involuntary sob and corrected his posture, now openly sobbing in the shower, all the frustration and pain pouring down the drain.

Winter went into the bathroom without hesitating and found himself frozen to the spot.

It was the first time he had seen Simon’s body since before the Fire Kingdom.

He didn’t know.

Simon looked in his general direction, his vision blurred from the tears and his lack of glasses.

He deflated.

He opened his mouth to protest, but Winter simply took off his jacket and got in the shower with him.

He was quiet and careful, washing the soap from Simon’s hair and beginning to condition it, meticulously working through each knot that had formed on his lover’s head.

Simon continued to cry, relaxing into Winter’s touch.

As he let the conditioner set, he began to wash Simon’s back and legs.

He couldn’t stop the tears from forming in his eyes. He didn’t know and he should have. His partner was trying so hard to be Atlas, but no man was made to cary the weight of the world. Not alone.

He couldn’t figure out why Simon hadn’t told him what had happened, but at this point, he didn’t care. He just wanted to take all the pain away from him.

“Would you like me to wash your front?” The question came out as more of a strained whisper, trying to hide the pain in his voice.

Simon turned to face him and was confronted with the tear streaked face of the man he traveled across the multiverse to get back to.

Winter looked down and began to wash his body, taking special care around his stitches.

They looked worse up close. The one that extended from the middle of his chest to just above his belly button was bleeding.

His eyebrows knit in concern, but he said nothing.

They could talk about it later.

He finished washing Simon’s body and had Simon turn back around so he could rinse the conditioner out of his hair.

When he was satisfied, Winter turned off the water and reached for a towel, drying Simon off with a level of care people generally only reserved for fine china.

They were both unable to find the right words to express what was going through their heads, but Simon spoke first.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he gingerly motioned to the growing bloodstain on the once pristine towel, “I didn’t want you to see me this weak.”

Winter’s heart caught in his throat and the tears began to stream down his face again.

“Si…” He trailed off before hugging his Simon, his partner, his other piece.

He did his best to not press on either of his wounds, and rested his head on his good shoulder.

Simon relaxed in touch and let himself cry.

“I was so scared Simon, I thought they killed you…” Winter whispered into his shoulder, “I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to you…”

He blinked a few times and let his words sink in.

He began to feel sick to his stomach that he even considered turning Winter over.

“She…She made it sound like you only keep me around for sex and I…” Simon trailed off, unable to continue speaking.

Winter bristled at the words, murmuring the word ‘no’ on repeat, disbelief, pain, and reassurance coating each word in equal measure.

He carefully redressed Simon, a loose button-up and an old pair of sweatpants that were hidden in the bottom of their dresser, then walked him back to the medical wing to have his stitches looked at.

It was only then he realized he and his clothes were soaking wet.

#teddy talks #theo's thoughts #winterkov #simon petrikov #the winter king #simonpetrikov #simoncest #simon x winter king #winter king x simon #winterking #dwu

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madarasgirl · 1 year

Text

Twin Flames

Read on AO3

Warnings: modern AU, “sugar daddy,” romance, alcohol consumption, eventual smut but smut is not the point, Madara x Nurse!Reader

What was life if not mundane? Until one day he barreled into your life and flipped it over. Nothing will ever be the same. You didn't belong to the same world, but the heart will yearn for what it wants.

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

The idea for this story (which will be part of a larger work) came from after an annoying shift at work when my friends and I were joking about what we were doing with our lives. This should be the most light-hearted part of the series I have in mind. Thinking of Madara as a sugar daddy was hot to me, so I needed to somehow get you to him. By no means am I encouraging anyone to become a sugar baby or glorifying these relationships with inherently unbalanced power dynamics in real life. And definitely don’t do anything potentially unsafe. DNI IF THIS THEME OFFENDS.

Inspiration was also drawn from the beautiful epic song "Star Sky," by the amazing group Two Steps from Hell. It is about two mirror souls reincarnating and finding each other through lifetimes, even if separated from age to age by time and death. The style of music renders the lyrics hard to elucidate, so you may need the lyrics separately on the side to make them out.

Word count: 4596

Chapter 1

You were so pissed after this night shift, everything that could have gone wrong going wrong. It was like the stars tried to align and screw you over. At least it was over, until next time. Fire in your veins, you stomped through the locker room to change. Part of you wanted to scream, while the other wanted to cry. Perhaps doing both wouldn’t be inappropriate either, given the circumstances. You stopped your turbulent rampage, trying to calm yourself so you didn’t slam something.

“Y/N. Let’s go out. We deserve it after all that,” your beloved friend Jasna said.

“Are we day drinking now? Here I was thinking there are still some things we are above doing.”

“Buddy, I meant breakfast. You’re already skipping ahead to tonight.”

You were about to make some sort of excuse to escape any social obligations at this time, but the alternative of going back to your empty home to collapse and bawl your eyes out the moment the door closed, which you knew you were going to do, held equally little appeal. Your stomach growled at you in disapproval, reminding you of your neglect since early yesterday evening.

You sighed, “Fine. Let’s do it. We have to eat sometimes anyways.”

“Hehe! I knew you still had some reason in you after your earlier outbursts!”

----------

Your party of two sat down at your favourite breakfast diner and ordered. Suddenly you were bone tired now that you had a chance to sit. What were you even doing with your life? Day in and day out, the same thing, 'saving people.' Were you even doing that? It was so often just one hopeless case after the other, like keeping bodies ‘alive’ while they slowly flushed themselves down the drain until they finally croaked. Such was nursing. It was soul-crushing work at times. And so meaningless at others.

“—And they even doubled my assignment. ‘It’d be a good double,’ they said. The moment they say that, you know it’s over! I was sent to OR at the beginning of the shift with my first patient while my other guy kept trying to pull his lines out. Luckily he didn’t get to his dialysis line or his central line or it’d be an even bigger disaster!”

Jasna was right. It wasn’t a good double. There are still way worse assignments. Your train wreck of a patient died, and you and whatever help the unit could muster last night spent hours using every resource trying to resuscitate a body you knew was long gone. Your back was STIFF from the CPR.

The workload only ever got heavier with no relief in sight. Only the sense of comradery with your fellow coworkers, especially the best nurses in the world, kept you going. You trusted them to have your back when things spiraled downhill with your patients’ lives and even with your own, if you were ever to end up a patient. They were always the only ones who truly understood when you needed to rant to each other.

Jasna suddenly snorted at you when you made a disparaging comment about her last patient. “Y/N! Shush, don’t let the higher powers hear you!”

“Well fire me then! I DARE THEM!” It was true. The ‘higher powers’ were more desperate for nurses to work than they had nurses wanting to work. “What are we even doing with our lives? We only keep going back because we hate ourselves but we want to see our work friends. And to put some food on the table.”

“If they’d just pay us more instead of themselves, they wouldn’t have half the problems they have. But of course, we just work there and nothing ever makes sense with the administration.”

"What else could we do?” You exhaled in exasperation. “I’m already in school again for my Master’s, but it’s only making things worse. I can’t take as many shifts as I used to.”

“I guess the only option left is to marry rich, ha!"

You rolled your eyes. “Any more sensible suggestions?”

“It’s plenty sensible,” Jasna huffed. “Try a sugar dating site…sometimes a girl needs to eat.”

You got quiet, remembering the trying times of being a nursing student, when between the needs of studying, preparing for exams and assignments, the long hours of clinical placement, and a part-time job, making ends meet was an almost impossible challenge for those without a safety net. Jasna had none, and needed to live, obviously.

“I am too old to be a sugar baby."

"Stop saying that! 29 isn't even old. I'll be your age in a few years." She played at being indignant.

To be honest, Jasna’s situation then was not quite different from your current predicament. Your Master’s of Nursing program was even more expensive than her Bachelor’s. The scholarship covered most of the tuition, but you still had to live. Rent to pay, food, any number of other miscellaneous items. Hospitals wanted more Nurse Practitioners and other specialized nurses, but there was no financial assistance, not when they also needed more nurses to toil at the bedside. With your course workload, even going from full-time to part-time at your current job left you in a rut. Not enough time for school. Not enough time to work and garner wages. You were at an impasse. And so, so tired.

You had no more fire in you for tonight. You sighed, thinking back on when you used dating apps in your early adult days, swimming through countless messages spamming "Hi" or "Baby you're hot, let's fuck" to find one decent message. Clearly nothing came out of it. How disappointing and tedious it all was.

“You’re thinking about it. I can tell.” Jasna gave you a knowing look.

“Nah. As if I want to make more time for something like dating. Clearly, time is what I’m always short on.”

“You do whatever you need to, I’ll be here. You could always just start a profile to check it out.”

The two of you wrapped up your meal and said your goodbyes. Until the next time you worked together again.

You stepped into the shower when you got home, steaming water erasing the grime of the night. The hot water temporarily soothed your worries and eased the tension from your muscles. It felt so good to be out of those dirty scrubs. Finally relaxing, your mind wandered back to your conversation with Jasna. You could just make an account, she was right, and flip through a few profiles. It was the kind of low commitment you could adhere to for awhile. It felt like a lifetime ago since you’ve last been with a man in any capacity.

It will be the same, just expect nothing. If the bar of expectation was already on the ground, there was only ‘up’ to go, so you couldn’t be disappointed, right? And you could just ignore whatever unsavory messages that came your way.

----------

“Brother, you need to go out more. You look more and more like an old man day after day, always so serious and disapproving. Your wrinkles are going to start showing.” A handsome young man stepped into the opulent study, raven hair down, freed from the ties of its usual low ponytail.

“And you need to dedicate yourself less to my extracurriculars, and more to business now that you’re feeling well. There are contracts to be negotiated.” Sharp eyes turned to acknowledge the newcomer to the room. The man at the huge mahogany desk put down his fountainpen, elegant script dancing across the plush papers he worked on.

“I would if you had extracurriculars to speak of. As it is, I feel obligated to arrange activities for you, lest you rupture an aneurysm in your old age and stress.”

“Old age?” He was in his thirties.

Izuna grinned, knowing he was getting under Madara’s skin. And knowing equally well he could get away with things when it came to his stern brother, things that he wouldn’t let slip with others.

Madara was mildly irritated, but he’d play along, for now. Staring down his nose at his brother, he asked, “Hn. Then I’ll amuse you. What do you have planned for this old man which might alleviate his woes?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve always got your best interests at heart. We could set you up for a moonlit dinner date–“

“Out of the question. Why would I suffer the presence of some blathering fool? You should know I haven’t the time for frivolous activities such as—”

“—I even made you a dating profile on this website.”

“You did what?”

His brother, ever the cunning fox, grinned again as if he was feeling sheepish. “You’re now publicly an eligible bachelor looking for a lucky lady friend to spoil on a sugar daddy dating site. Would you like to know your username?”

“…” For once, Madara was at a loss for words. Out of all the ridiculous antics Izuna pulled over the years, never had he done anything on a public platform. They hailed from the Uchiha family for goodness sake. They had an image to maintain, even if not on principle, then at least for the unsullied reputation demanded in their business relationships.

Izuna was starting to sweat. Did he go too far? But this time, it wasn’t just a childish prank. “Look, I even found several excellent potential matches.” He pulled out his phone and booted the app to show Madara.

…It was you.

“Do you see something you like Madara-oniichan?” the brat was trying hard not to let the corners of his lips lift in mirth and failing miserably.

“…I think I should like to put you back in the hospital myself if you’d like to see your nurse so badly.” He glared furiously at his little brother, who was at times more trouble than he was worth. If he could kill with just a glance, Izuna would have combusted on multiple occasions already.

His mind jumped back to those months in the hospital long ago. In retrospect, he wished he got to know you more when he was visiting. But he was so overwhelmed by Izuna's state of injury, he was completely unavailable and nothing would have reached him at the time. Everything began with Izuna. Everything revolved around Izuna, his only remaining living member of family.

There had been a huge healthcare team involved in Izuna's recovery, and multiple units too, though they spent the longest in the ICU. After many months in the ICU, they made it to step-down, then transferred to the wards, and finally months of rehab. It’s been several years since then, and Izuna is finally looking as he did before the incident.

Throughout that time between healthcare facilities and units, Madara recalled countless smart, attractive nurses both young and older, professional despite the mistreatment by patients, families, the administration, and the system itself. You still stood out to him though. You were also pretty, but the way you carried yourself demonstrated you weren't even aware. You were all the more alluring for that.

Professional, competent, and kind. That was how he remembered you. He recalled when you eased him into a corner of the room as his brother died onscreen to explain what everyone was doing, gently reminding him that others in the room couldn’t hear important communication to each other when he screamed. You calmly explained why no one was shocking Izuna when there was no heartbeat, what medications were being given. There was a way of being firm in your demeanor without being disrespectful. You were so attractive to him. Too bad you were his brother's nurse and he wasn't in the headspace to pursue then.

“Just go for her! The worst that could happen is her rejecting your grouchy ass. What if some other lucky man snatches her up first?” Izuna started. "You see yourself? You've been alone for too long. I can't leave you all by yourself if something were to happen to me again."

Izuna had been drugged out of his mind to help control his pain, ventilation, and agitation. When eventually his sedation medications were weaned off and he woke up, he remembered how tender you were with him. Even the small details, where you saturated his wounds with saline before carefully peeling them back so the old dressings wouldn't rip against his healing wound beds. How you so sincerely apologized for each harder tug and each of his winces, as if you were the one hurting.

He was high as a kite, but some things he still remembered. Like how his brother would sometimes watch you as you worked when Izuna himself was a bit more lucid so Madara would be worrying less about him. No one else would have noticed these minute changes in his brother's behaviour, but they didn't escape him.

“You��re lucky brother. It’s this Saturday at 1900.” He pulled Madara out of his reverie.

“Now what? What’s this Saturday?”

“Your date of course. I already contacted her and she agreed to see you.”

A fountainpen flew with speed and embedded itself in a thick wooden door as it slammed shut and a cackling laughter disappeared into the distance.

----------

HOLY SHIT. It's HIM. You knew his name. You knew his face. It was Uchiha Madara, older brother to Izuna.

Every member of staff remembered these two. Izuna was a trauma patient transferred from another hospital for more advanced support after the trauma surgeons were finished with him. The extent of injuries was startling. Izuna was on ECMO to bypass and support his non-functional heart. He was also on every other mode of life support: maxed out on multiple pressors, continuous dialysis, massive transfusions... His survival was a miracle.

You remembered how Madara would come day after day to sit quietly by Izuna's side, sometimes bringing his work. He was polite to the staff despite how gravely ill his brother was, and that by itself already earned him a place in your memory. The only time you recalled an outburst from Madara was the first time Izuna coded and his primary nurse and others successfully brought Izuna back to life while you talked to Madara. Over the course of months, everyone on the staff agreed in the most objective way that these brothers were very fine male specimens.

You were anxious and unsure, but of course you agreed to see him at his invitation.

----------

Madara ambled through his large closet, stocked from floor-to-ceiling with enough finery to dress a king. He pondered several outfits, weighing each option against another. A suit and tie? Much too formal. A nice pair of jeans? He couldn’t run the risk of appearing sloppy. A dress shirt? Possibly. He picked up a few other options to match when he heard a click behind him. The pest was back.

“I know how to dress for a woman. I don’t need your help.”

“Relax. I’m only here to see how you’re doing.” Izuna was enjoying himself. It wasn’t every day one got to see Madara mull over his appearance as he did now.

“Did you need to use such a lame pickup line?”

“It worked! It was perfectly fitting. I thought it was cute.” Izuna picked up a brush and ran it through his brother’s locks, as he used to do when they were younger. With just the two of them left in their family, they had no one else but each other. They would take care of each other.

Madara relaxed back into the strokes, even if his mane was already perfectly brushed through and detangled. “It was bordering the boundaries of good taste.”

“But it applied for both of us. She can’t even accuse of me pretending to be you. Can you at least commend me for my genius? And why are you still here? Don’t you need to pick her up?”

“You were masquerading as me. Milady insisted on meeting directly at the restaurant.”

“You didn’t manage to convince her of otherwise? She’s already playing hard to get? Fantastic. Good luck with your courtship!” Izuna performed an exaggerated, swooshing bow with a toothy smile. He wondered if you might eat his softie of a brother alive if he didn’t accidentally scare you away first. It’d be funny, but he hoped you’d be brave enough to endure cracking through his stubborn outer shell and too kind to make his beloved brother suffer too much.

----------

Just on time! You stepped out of your Uber, treading carefully down the steps in kitten heels to ensure the first thing you did wasn’t to face plant in front of your date. You let the hostess know of the reservation Madara made and followed her to a more private section of the lavish restaurant.

Upon making another turn, you didn’t need to be led anymore. It was quieter, not due to the total lack of other people, but because of him. His presence took up the whole room, like it dragged out all the air and it left you breathless.

He was handsome and well-dressed as always. Faintly patterned navy blue dress shirt fitting snugly, outlining the definition in his arms and chest, dark trousers well-tailored, brown dress shoes tying his look together. He was the picture of elegance. Long fingers lifted a glass of wine to his lips and he sipped as he suddenly turned his gaze towards you. Your mouth ran dry as his eyes roved over your body, carefully taking you in.

He wasn’t even trying to hide it! You were at once extremely self-conscious from the intense scrutiny. Does he like what he sees? You continued your stride towards your destiny, even as a million insecurities bloomed within.

Madara couldn’t look away. His eyes traced your form-fitting black dress, following the lines of your bare legs up to your hips and arms, stopping at a graceful neckline to briefly dip back down to stare at the swell of your breasts. His mouth watered into his glass and he was aware he was being vulgar. He put his wine down before he could drop it and ripped his stare towards your face.

You were dazzling.

He took in your pink face and delicate features enhanced by the lightest touch of makeup. He gave a small genuine smile and pushed out of the cushioned chair.

“Y/N. It’s good to see you again. Thank you for coming.”

“Yes thank you for the invitation. I hope you weren’t waiting long.” What were you supposed to do now? How do you date again? He’s a businessman and talks to important people, important people shake hands, right?

You extend your hand towards him in greeting and add, “It’s good to see you again too.”

Madara chuckled and took your hand in his paw, brushing the backs of your fingers with his thumb before bringing your hand up and pressing his lips to the back.

“No, not long at all. I arrived shortly before you did,” he lied.

Lips parting in shock, you froze. This was not the reception you expected! The useless software in your brain ground to a halt, leaving you at a loss for what to do. Seeing your pause, he chuckled deeply again, the sound going straight to warming your face further, and he pulled out the chair for you, already the perfect gentleman. “I apologize if I was too forward.”

You were already flustered and the date had just begun. You gulped and almost uttered a short prayer to yourself to wish for strength. “Umm, no, we’re okay.” You quickly sat down, as if afraid you might fall over after all and looked away to admire the decor. There were thick silver curtains draped intermittently along the walls, chandeliers setting the mood from high ceilings, everything highlighting the centerpiece of the room, the baby grand piano. It was a gorgeous establishment.

He went around the other chair to present you with a masterfully crafted bouquet of fresh, exotic florals. “This is for you.”

When was the last time you received flowers? You were aware of this date originating from a sugar daddy/baby dynamic and Madara was just playing the part, but you still couldn’t help being slightly flattered. “Thank you. They are beautiful.” You accepted the gift and took a sniff of a particularly large bloom and smiled at Madara.

“Good evening ma’am. How are you? My name is Carlos and I’ll be your server tonight. Could I start you off with something to drink?”

“Yes,” you answered a bit too fast and eagerly. Heavens knew you needed something to give you liquid courage. The words barely registered as you looked over the drink menu before ordering the first thing that sounded good. Carlos paused at your request, but ultimately repeated your order before disappearing. Madara was looking at you thoughtfully.

“How have you been?” You asked him.

“It’s more of the usual business. Deals to negotiate, meetings, paperwork. It’s rather unexciting to talk about me. How have you been these past years?” Madara’s reply was brief, curt. He had his chin on his hand, resting his elbow on the table as he scowled with eyebrows furrowed.

Thinking of the Senju and how Tobirama tried to press him in negotiations only this morning left a foul taste in his mouth. Izuna was the one who was the wordsmith and would never lose to a Senju when it came to creating contracts. But Izuna was only recently back in the game and his priorities were backwards. The first thing he did was set Madara up on a date instead of dealing with Tobirama. No matter. With Izuna by his side again, things will take a turn for the better. The date.

He looked up to see you quiet and staring back at him with wide eyes. Shit. He forced his face into a more neutral expression.

“Here is the white wine you ordered ma’am. It is a French wine from the region of Alsace. It starts with notes of orange blossom and honeyed orchard fruits before building into a richer flavour on the palate. It is a delight.”

You eyed Madara’s glass, then looked over the table and groaned. Madara was already drinking wine. And there was already a bottle of opened wine at your table. Great. Now he thinks I’m a bumbling idiot and a drunkard.

“We could use a second bottle at our table, right? I could drink that,” you deadpanned and grabbed your glass, swirling it quickly before tipping it back. “Delicious.” You take hold of the dinner menu to start studying it, still too flustered to be ready to try talking to Madara again. Madara kept a straight face even if he was crestfallen at your anxiety.

This wasn’t going well anymore. Madara cursed himself. He thought they started off alright, but now? He was used to people being nervous in his presence, but he didn’t want you to be so stressed around him. You looked to him like you wanted to run or melt into the scenery. It didn't feel right. He tried to open himself up and appear softer. He uncrossed his arms.

“Don’t worry about the wine, Y/N.”

Should you not? He looked so disapproving and judgmental. You knew some wine was nothing to a man of Madara’s status, but still, you didn’t want to keep embarrassing yourself. You licked your lips when his eyes stayed focused on you.

“I won’t. I could drink that, as I said.” You resisted the urge to face palm yourself, disbelieving of how you just told a man you’re seeing for the first time in years you drink bottles of wine by yourself. Guess who isn’t getting a follow-up date?

He chuckled again deeply in his chest and you wanted to die at how he kept laughing at you. “Let’s get something to eat first,” he said. The two of you resumed your study of the dinner menus and placed your orders.

Madara watched you again, unhappy at your squirming under his gaze.

“It’s been a long time. How have you been, Y/N?” Hopefully talking about yourself, a more familiar topic, would help ease your nerves. He read that in a psychology book long ago.

“You know, still working at the same hospital. Same annoying problems. I went part-time recently since starting my Master’s.” You hoped he didn’t notice your use of the word “annoying.” It wasn’t like you were calling his brother, a former patient, an “annoying problem.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, to make more time for school. I think I want to leave the bedside and get more specialized so I can either teach or become an NP instead.”

He was happy for you. He’d always respected those who had goals and tried to make more of themselves in life. He was genuinely interested in what you had planned for yourself. He sat back in his seat and asked, “That is fantastic news. How do you like your program so far?”

You and Madara continued to make pleasant conversation. Madara was incredibly interested in what you’ve been up to the past years, but he tried not to let his curiosity sound like an interrogation. He was relieved as you appeared increasingly relaxed as dinner went on.

As the meal came to an end, you declined dessert, stating you were already full. Madara went to get the bill, even if you resisted, stating you will pay for yourself. He dissuaded you of such a notion before completing the transaction, leaving you mildly distraught.

“Come. I will bring you home.” Madara smiled warmly at you and offered his arm, observing as you stepped gingerly down the stairs outside the venue while using him as support, ensuring you wouldn’t trip. He opened the door on your side to his fancy car and closed it after you.

You were both quiet in his car, you fidgeting with the hem of your dress and not looking at him, returning to your previously skittish state. Madara was hyperaware of your presence. You really weren't aware of the effect you had on men around you. Even during dinner, multiple men looked your way to bask in your beauty and grace. While he was also taken in by you, all of you and not just your appearance, he wasn’t anxious himself. He wished you wouldn’t be nervous around him –you had nothing to worry about when you were with him.

He pulled up to the drop-off at your condo.

“Thank you for tonight. I haven’t had such a pleasant time in a long while.” His time was filled with either work, managing Izuna, or merely by himself in peaceful tranquility. Madara was sincere.

“Thank you again for inviting me. You were wonderful.” He really was. Despite your blunders, Madara had been kind the entire night.

You glanced up at him, unsure again, but he looked so dashing you couldn’t help it. Would he let you?

You shyly leaned over towards him and Madara immediately took the invitation. His face was mere inches from yours, when suddenly you chickened out and pecked him on the cheek instead. You wished him goodnight and a safe drive home and scampered away, screaming at yourself and how lame you were as you closed the door to your condo.

Madara stared after you, fingers on his cheek where you were moments ago, at first stunned, then beaming in delight.

My brother’s heart wasn’t the only one that stopped when we saw you.

~To be continued~

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

Notes:

I tried to capture the discomfort a normal person would feel when first getting to know Madara. He's seriously intimidating! I’d be nervous too if Madara suddenly dropped into my life, even if he wasn’t trying to kill me and was just being a normal guy. Such is Madara’s presence. Way too intense. I also tried to convey how Madara appears differently in front of loved ones like Izuna and a relative stranger, even if he’s already romantically interested. He really doesn’t know how to express himself well, but he tried. He ended up kind of cute in this one.

By the way, the Reader in this story isn’t me. I’m an ICU nurse in real life, so there are aspects to the character’s thoughts that may resemble mine, particularly with regard to the healthcare system. The frustration and anger there is real, given the current healthcare climate. I sincerely hope I didn’t turn anyone away with my ranting. The Reader is more an amalgamation of different real-life nurses in terms of personality, quirks, and life circumstances which hopefully still comes across as somewhat relatable.

It’s much more realistic for a Registered Nurse who needs extra $ to take a gig with a private nursing company than to go looking for a sugar daddy haha, but I wanted us to meet Madara.

Izuna should have died from his injuries due to cardiac arrest/sepsis/multi-organ failure and be missing parts of his limbs from the epinephrine (one of the pressors that would have been used), but this is fiction and I want good things for him and Madara. So Izuna lives. Come on, as if Madara would find himself on a sugar dating site of his own accord. Of course Izuna was involved.

P.S. This is my first time writing a real fanfiction with a plot in over a decade. I guess Madara inspires me. I found this lighter tone a bit hard to write. Please let me know what you think!

#madara uchiha #uchiha madara #madara #madara fanfiction #protect me forever #madara x you #madara x reader #madara x y/n

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detroit-grand-prix · 11 months

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Wildest Dreams Chapter 27 - Wildest Dreams (Phoebe's Version)

Chapter summary: Everything has been leading up to this. It's not the last race of the season, but for Phoebe Stallard, it feels like the last, and best chance to make her goal. After all, what could be sweeter than taking her first podium at home? But in racing, just like in life, it's never quite that straightforward.

Content warning: N/A

Chapter word count: 7,100

Author's Notes: This is the end of the main story. When I finished this, though, this story couldn't let me go, and still really hasn't. I've been working on a bunch of side stories that I will get around to posting, and I'm planning on writing an epilogue that has snatches of the 2022-2024 seasons.

I'm really proud of this story, and I'm glad it's gotten a few dedicated fans along the way. I know OC-centered stories aren't popular in RPF fandoms, and that's fine, but I never feel like I am able to do the actual athletes justice, but the psyche of someone who competes in F1my original plan! Thonestly didn't even get through everything I'd wanted to. It was a challenge, too - writing race play-by-plays is really difficult, honestly! But, as far as the stuff I didn't want to get to, we'll see what I can come up with. Plejuest sprang to mind for me but allowed me to take the story in directions that I hadn't expected. Anyway, thank you again for sticking around until this point. I know this chapter was an absolute monster is still fascinating to explore. And I've really enjoyed being able to examine what it would mean to be the first woman in so long to make it that far. I hope someday that it's not just a work of fanfiction, and that it can be reality. The narrative took me by surprise, too. It's really amazing when the story couldn't let me go, and still really hasn't. I've been working on a bunch of side stories that I will get around to posting, and I'm planning on writing an epilogue that has snatches of the 2022-2024 seasons.

*also, I know the spelling is technically "kerbs" but I just cannot bring myself to spell that word that way. SORRY.

Circuit of the Americas, Austin, Travis County, Texas, United States of America

October 24th, 2021

Bee woke up well before her alarm on race day. Her entire body was thrumming with nervous energy, but at least for the time being, it wasn’t a bad kind of nervousness, at least not yet.

She took her time getting ready before she had to meet Emilia and her parents for breakfast, but time had a way of speeding up for her before something she was dreading. She did manage to eat a good breakfast, though, and Toto and Susie ended up meeting them all there - they were just in one of the hotel’s restaurants, but It was the first time she’d seen Toto since qualifying.

“You had an amazing qualifying yesterday, bienchen. I was very impressed. Your performance has definitely improved this year, and I think as long as you just go out there and have fun, you’ll be satisfied with your performance, no matter what.”

It was different advice than everyone else had given her, but it probably did the most to help relieve the pressure.

Eventually, it was time to head to the track for the pre-race festivities, and festivities they were. There was a drivers’ parade first - Bee and all of her gridmades were herded onto the back of a flatbed truck and were driven slowly around the track, while being interviewed for F1TV. She was amused by the sight of a lot of the other drivers wearing cowboy hats - it just didn’t suit most of them, being rich boys from Europe.

The exception, however, was Daniel Ricciardo - not only was he wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, but he had shaved his beard into a handlebar mustache and mutton chops, and was wearing a University of Texas basketball jersey. He joked that he was an honorary American, and he certainly wasn’t wrong.

“You look more American than I have ever felt,” Bee told him as they climbed onto the trailer. “They should probably just give you a US passport right now.” He laughed at her. “I would love that, honestly.”

Bee was dreading the interviewer, Rosanna, coming around to her, but it seemed that she was first. At least she’d get it over with. The interviews were also projected over the loudspeakers in the grandstands.

“We’ll start with you, Phoebe. It’s your first race in the United States, you’re the first American on the grid in many years, there’s a lot of people in Williams blue with American flags - how are you feeling ahead of the race today?”

“I, uh… well, maybe a bit nervous, but it’s so nice to see so much home support -” Bee had to stop talking because of the cheer that rose up from the grandstand they were passing. “And I’m really hoping that I can run a good race today for everyone. I’m sure it will be fine once the helmet is on, though. This is an amazing track and I had a really great qualifying yesterday, and there’s so many people here today, it’s really incredible to see. When I started, all of the races were under lockdown and there was no audience, and it definitely makes a big difference.”

She spent the rest of the parade waving to the crowd and talking to George for a bit. The truck they were on was going slow enough that she could finally get a good look at a lot of the crowd - not only were there a ton of American flags, but it looked like someone had produced a “Super Bee” banner that had been widely adopted - she saw tons of them dotting the grandstands.

It was the first time she’d seen it, and it gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. She’d spent so much of her racing career being somewhat of an outcast, an outsider, an oddity. She remembered showing up to testing for GP3 and getting stared at the entire time, like nobody there had ever seen a girl in their lives. They probably hadn’t ever seen one in a racing suit. She didn’t ever think motorsport fans would embrace her like this, especially when she’d reached Formula 1, the pinnacle of motorsport.

But then, she thought about Adelle and Olivia, and how Olivia had said that there wasn’t anyone she wanted to root for before she signed with Williams. Maybe she wasn’t the only one. Maybe it wasn’t the racing fandom embracing her, but her presence changing who the motorsport fandom was. No doubt that Netflix had helped with this, bringing Formula 1 to a broader audience, but how had she changed who racing appealed to by just being a woman on the grid? It was everything she’d been working for, it was everything Susie had been working for, before her.

All the more reason to try her best today, and hopefully climb the podium at last.

Once she was freed from the drivers’ parade, she headed to the Williams hospitality tent to get changed and get warmed up. Emilia was already waiting for her in her drivers’ room. She left briefly so Bee could slip out of the jeans and team shirt she was wearing and into her Nomex baselayers and racing suit.They did their warm up sequence as usual, and Bee hopped up on the massage table, ready for the rest of it. She froze for a moment, wondering if she should take her shirt off for the massage, remembering how warm, soft, and soothing Emilia’s hands were on her back yesterday.

Emilia didn’t even have to ask before Bee made her decision, tossing the undershirt onto the small futon in the room.

“Oh, okay! I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do that again. Did it feel better yesterday with -”

“Yes. It did. Thank you.” Bee said, quickly laying face-down on the table so Emilia wouldn’t notice the blush spreading down Bee’s face. Bee could feel the heat spreading down from her cheeks to her chest, and knew it didn’t have anything to do with the Texas sunshine.

“We’ll just do it this way from now on.” Emilia said quietly. “If you want.” Bee heard the click of the cap for the lotion bottle and felt her heart start to beat a little faster.

“...Yes. I… I’d like that.” It really was much more effective. Bee was almost so relaxed by the time she sat up for her breathing exercises that she felt like she could have fallen asleep. Emilia grasped her hands again and led her through a deep breathing progression, because Bee had told her that it helped ground her yesterday.

“Okay. Are you ready?” Emilia said, handing Bee her shirt and her drink bottle after they had finished. “Drink some more. It’s hot out there and I know you’ll need it.”

Before long, it was time to head out to the car to take her place on the grid. Before Bee went to head over to the garage, Emilia stopped her. She bent down to Bee’s height, wrapped her arms around her, and said, “Good luck today. Just go out and have fun. Don’t get your head so wrapped up in the result that you stand in your own way. I know this is an important race for you, but it’s not the last one this season. I’ll be here for you no matter what happens.”

Bee returned her embrace, closing her eyes, breathing in Emilia’s presence around her. “I know. But it feels like it’s a big one. And… Thank you. For everything you do. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” She meant it, too. She never dreamed she’d develop such a close relationship with her performance coach, but she was glad she had.

They walked over to the garage together.

Bee said hello to her parents. Josephine, once again, insisted on taking pictures. One of Emilia and Bee together, one of Susie with Bee, one with Bee and her dad, and one with Bee and Claire. She asked Susie to get a picture of the two of them together, after which Bee said “Mom, I have to go! I have to get on the grid!”. She sounded perhaps a little more whiny than was necessary.

“I know, honeybee, but how many times do you get to watch your daughter race in Formula 1 for the first time in your home country? I don’t think it’s a usual occurrence! I think I’m actually the first!”

Bee laughed. She wasn’t the first, technically, but she was the first in the US.

She hugged both of her parents, Susie, and Claire, and they all wished her luck.

She walked over to her car in its place on the grid, holding her helmet and gloves. Emilia had an umbrella to protect them from the hot, direct sunshine, but she was so much taller than Bee it almost wasn’t working. “Drink some more.” Emilia said. “I know you don’t like to use the drink system in your car, so you need to make sure to finish whatever’s in that bottle before we start.”

Bee rolled her eyes a little and took more sips on the long straw, but secretly, she was touched by Emilia’s concern. She was right, though - it was going to get incredibly hot in the cockpit, and she would be more dehydrated today than usual by the end of the race.

She clambered into the cockpit while the engineers and mechanics made their final adjustments. Emilia had set her umbrella down over her so Bee wouldn’t start baking while she was sitting there. Once all of the final checks were complete, Bee had to climb back out for the opening ceremonies.

The opening presentation was very American in every way - there was a marching band (the University of Texas marching band), a flyover by military helicopters, a giant American flag on the track held by various American military personnel, a giant flag carried across the sky by people with parachutes, the cheerleaders for the Dallas Cowboys NFL team, and a country singer Bee hadn’t ever heard of singing the national anthem.

Normally, she wasn’t particularly moved by “The Star Spangled Banner”. It was okay, but she’d heard so many national anthems by now that she’d grown to have opinions on them. She liked Germany’s “Deutschlandlied”, of course, and she had liked Austria’s “Land der Berge, Land am Strome” before she’d heard it so much this season because of Max’s victories. She disliked the Dutch anthem, but liked the bouncy, cheerful “Il Canto degli Italiani” because of her love for Monza. The UK’s anthem, “God Save the Queen”, always threw her off, because she’d learned the melody as a child as “My Country ‘Tis Of Thee”, an American patriotic tune.

But as the singer on the track hit the last note, a chill shot down Bee’s spine. It was moving this time, and she didn’t know why.

Finally, it was time to start. She was glad Emilia had left the umbrella over the opening of the cockpit, otherwise, her HANS device may have been too hot to pick up with her bare hands from sitting on her seat.

She climbed into her car, put on her radio headset, balaclava, helmet, and her gloves, and her focus narrowed to her steering wheel and the view out of her cockpit. She took a minute to focus on her breath, and focus on the racing line, as she always did. She snapped her visor closed, the mechanics all backed away from the cars for the start, and she was ready for the formation lap. She took off with the pack, weaving the car to get temperature into the tires and warm up the brakes, not that it would be difficult today.

“Radio check.” She heard Gaetan say.

“Loud and clear.”

“Okay, Phoebe. Let’s have a good race today. Keep an eye on your tires, the track is hot. Let me know right away if anything seems off. Remember it’s not very long into the first turn and it’s an uphill climb, so don’t be a hero. Good luck.”

“Copy. Thank you.”

It was strange to see the cars she was behind and next to at the start - she certainly wasn’t used to seeing a Mercedes in front of her or a Ferrari next to her, but she relished it. It felt like a challenge.

Her eyes locked on the starting lights, and she held her breath as all five disappeared.

Right away, she got an amazing start - she saw a gap between Leclerc and Bottas, and swept straight through it, immediately going up into 5th place. Miraculously, there wasn’t any silliness heading into turn 1, a climb steeper than Raidillon at Spa. She pressed in her throttle, and was right on Bottas’ back as they straddled the entry curb on the right.

The nice thing about the hill was that you could brake later and harder than normal without issue, but the apex was hard to spot over the blind crest. You also had to avoid the temptation to turn into the first apex early - the wider line was superior for the best exit.

She slammed into first gear to rotate the car quickly before a quick shift into second gear, making sure to avoid the sausage curb that would wreck her exit.

Turn 2 was flat, and really just a means of getting to turn 3 as soon as possible - that was where the real fun started. A mistake here could affect your drive all the way through turn 6, even as far as turn 11, so keeping a good rhythm and flow here was of the utmost importance. It was the same as Maggots and Becketts at Silverstone.

It didn’t take long to settle into her rhythm, thankfully - by the time they were on lap 4, she was still right on Bottas’s back end as they went into turns 9 and 10. She managed to tell herself to take 9 flat, but it looked like Valtteri had lifted a bit, and she was able to gain on him. If she could stay on him until turn 11, she’d be able to use her car’s Drag Reduction System on him. Formula 1 cars had a rear wing that had a panel that opened to reduce drag - it was like getting another 20 horsepower on your engine, but it could only be used in certain sections of the track, and only while you were a second or less behind the car in front of you.

“You have DRS on Bottas.” Gaetan confirmed as they flew around the hairpin.

“Copy, I’m after him.”

She pressed the DRS button on her steering wheel, and her rear wing snapped open, granting her an additional burst of speed. She slid out of his slipstream and flew around him. She thought he’d be putting up more of a fight, but it was a long race.

She also wondered what Toto was thinking, as he watched from his spot in the Mercedes garage. Would he have been proud of her for battling with, and overtaking, one of his works team drivers, or would he be disappointed that Valtteri didn’t fight more for his place? She hoped it would be the former more than the latter.

“Good job, Phoebe. Perez is next, but he’s about six seconds ahead, and he’s gaining on Hamilton. Just hang out here for now and watch your tires.”

“Copy, thank you.”

Her and Valtteri played leapfrog for a while, trading positions, almost like it was some sort of game. This went on for about ten laps, until she was on the long back straight again, with Valtteri in her crosshairs ahead of her.

She heard Gaetan say, “Box, box, Phoebe.”

“What?! Why? It’s so early!”

“Slow puncture, losing pressure on your front left.” She hadn’t even noticed yet, but the car had so much sensitive instrumentation that the pressures likely hadn’t gotten low enough to affect her driving. She must have developed it from the curbs she ran over while chasing Valtteri.

Images of Sakhir last year flashed through her mind, when George led most of the race while he was driving for Mercedes temporarily, until a tire mixup made him have to pit twice. He fought his way back through the pack, but a slow puncture made it so that he went from almost winning the race to almost not even finishing in the points. She remembered seeing the graphic of his nameplate sinking from the top of the rankings to almost the bottom, and was now envisioning it happening now, live, on television, with her blue “STA” nameplate instead.

She wanted to throw up - who knows how many positions she’d lose pitting this early? But, she had no choice. At least she’d have a tire advantage, but she’d have to pit again later on, surely.

As a mercy, she hadn’t gone all the way past the pitlane yet, so she didn’t have to do a full lap on a tire that was losing air. Since it was a slow puncture, she could still manage around the 12-19 complex if she was careful to avoid the curbs. Those would cause a blowout that would probably force a retirement. She made it - she pulled into the pitlane and felt the anxiety rising. The pit crew changed her tires, but just as she was pulling away -

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Stay here! Red flag!” Gaetan practically shouted through her headset. His voice was abrupt, urgent.

“What?! What happened?”

“Red flag! Latifi spun into the wall at turn 11 and took Alonso and Gasly with him. There’s debris to clear and they’ll need to repair a barrier.”

“Oh, shit! Is everyone alright?” She was trying not to sound too excited, just in case anyone was hurt.

“Yes, they’re all fine, they’re out, but the track is a mess. Red flag procedure, Phoebe.”

Her relief was almost palpable. It must have happened just before she pulled into the pitlane, and she was on the opposite end of the track from the Turn 11 hairpin, which explains why she had no idea.

“Okay, how many places did we lose? What’s our position?”

“Checking.” It was hard to say, as she was the only one pulling into the pit. Unfortunately, it meant that everyone would get a free tire change, and she wouldn’t have the advantage when she exited, but now everyone else would have to either use a harder tire or stop later on.

A moment later, he said, “We are P6, you will line up behind Leclerc.”

Okay, it wasn’t as bad as she thought, she’d only lost three places. That might not be so hard to make up. The other cars came into the pit lane, and she was able to stop the car and get out. There would be another standing start, and they had an hour.

She stripped off her headwear and walked back into the garage. Emilia was standing at the entrance again, as she had been at the Bahrain red flag. But this time, instead of immediately sweeping her back into the privacy of her drivers’ room, she said, “Are you okay? Do you need to take a minute to yourself? I know that was probably pretty stressful.”

Bee shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

She found it oddly touching that Emilia was just always right there, waiting for her in case she needed her. Sure, as her performance coach, she was more or less Bee’s assistant, but they’d never discussed things like that - their relationship, their routine just naturally developed that way.

Different drivers had different ways of staying alert and “in the zone” during red flag periods. She knew Daniel Ricciardo would put on his headphones and listen to music. Some just sat in their garages, or stood in the pitlane and watched. This past year, during the rain-induced red flag in Spa, she remembered actually deciding to take a quick nap, and she hadn’t been the only one to do so. She remembered watching Kimi Raikkonen on TV infamously eating ice cream during a race in Malaysia in 2009.

This time, though, she and Emilia sat in the garage, though still sitting apart from everyone, Emilia talking to Bee about everything and nothing, as a way of trying to keep her from overthinking and getting anxious again. They would go back to do warmups again before the restart, but for now, they just chatted in German together - at least it gave them some privacy. At first, Emilia strayed away from talking about anything to do with the race, but Bee eventually started talking about the race again.

“I felt like I was going to throw up when Gaetan told me I had a puncture. I didn’t even feel it yet.” Bee said. “All I could think about was George in Sakhir last year, but the red flag came in just in time.”

“You were doing so well, though. I think you’ll have no problem making up those places again. There’s still a lot of race left. And no offense, but I’d never thought I’d see you battling for position with Valtteri. At least you did it without crashing.”

Bee laughed. “Could you imagine? I’d probably just flee the country before I had to talk with Toto about it.”

Eventually, it was time to get warmed back up, but Emilia could tell Bee was starting to get nervous again. While Bee didn’t normally get very emotionally demonstrative around other people, Emilia had noticed that Bee’s body language would change considerably depending on how she felt. When she got nervous, her movements would get stiffer, she’d start to fidget and pace, and she’d start biting her lip, or her balaclava if she was wearing it.

“Well, let’s… go finish this, I guess.”

As Bee turned around to leave her drivers’ room, Emilia seized her by the shoulders, and pulled her in close, bending down until their foreheads were almost touching, looking right into her eyes.

“Phoebe, listen. Earlier was just a warm-up. You showed them what you can do. I know it feels like today is your last chance, but it’s not. We still have so many races together. And regardless of how today ends, regardless of your place, you’re going to be successful. You’ve put in the time, you’ve put in the effort, you’ve worked so hard - it’s all paying off. Those other guys might be in faster cars, but they haven’t had to climb half of the obstacles you’ve had to to get here, and you were fighting right up there at the front with them. You can do it again. I’ll be out there on the pit wall watching when you come across the line and cheering you on, no matter what.”

Emilia pulled her into a hug. Bee was a little surprised at first, but eventually, she returned Emilia’s embrace. She had to bury her face in Emilia’s shirt though, to hide the tears that had started to come into her eyes. Even in German, she felt what Emilia had said right down to her very core.

“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

She put her balaclava and helmet back on before she left the room, wanting to stay focused and engaged, but she made sure to wave across the garage to where her parents and Susie were sitting. She saw They all called out to wish her luck as she went back out to her car and climbed back in. She and Georged walked out of the garage together, and he wished her luck as well. At least, that’s what she thought - he already had his helmet on as well, but he gave his head a clear nod and grasped Bee’s shoulder. They gave each other a quick hug.

Once again, the mechanics made their final adjustments, and Bee’s focus once again started to narrow. Gaetan did their regular radio check, and Bee’s car was moved back out onto the grid for the restart.

Once again, her focus narrowed into the view out of her cockpit, the sounds of her own breath, the racing line, and the five red lights in front of her.

As the lights went out, she got another decent getaway. Her eyes were wide open and focused, looking for gaps. She didn’t see any, but she was breathing down Charles’ neck from the start, at least. There were 42 laps left, so, as Crofty, the F1 commentator for Sky Sports in the UK, would always say, there was “all to play for”.

She stayed calm, and patient, and eventually, Charles faltered when she was able to use DRS on him, and was back up into 5th. A few laps later, she was hunting down Daniel. He locked up on turn 14 - it was crucial to be gentle on the pedal there, but he may have gotten unnerved by Bee’s presence in his mirrors. It opened the door for her to get around him, and she did.

“Good job, Phoebe. Perez is ahead by three seconds, but we have to start thinking about tires.” she heard.

“Copy. Just let me know. Going to try to build a gap with Daniel.”

As it turns out, she didn’t have to worry about tires - Ocon had a retirement that caused a safety car, which means that everyone got a free tire change. Sure, she was once again robbed of a tire advantage, but so was everyone else.

Verstappen was in first, so he controlled the pace of the pack behind him once the Safety Car period ended. Bee hated these rolling starts, because of how much control the pacesetter had - you had to have constant awareness of when the front of the pack would start to break away once overtakes were allowed again, lest you be overtaken from behind.

If you went too early, it would mean a penalty. Sometimes, the cars in the back could be caught out. In Mugello in 2020, there was an accident at the rear of the pack when they didn’t realize the cars ahead were not at full speed.

Verstapped broke away, and Bee managed to be quick enough on the throttle to end up wheel-to-wheel with Perez for a moment. She had to back off going into a corner to leave enough space, otherwise she would have ended up getting punted into the gravel trap.

She stayed on Perez for the next few laps, but she was focusing so hard she was losing the lap count.

Luckily, Gaetan was nothing if not reliable.

“Five laps, Phoebe. Push, push. Checo is 2.5 ahead, and has been talking about tire wear. Keep the pressure up and you’ll be in DRS range soon.”

It was getting down to the wire. Phoebe pushed through all of the turns, making sure to stay right on Perez’s shoulder, just to be able to take any opportunity he might have presented. She was so close.

“Three laps left, you’re 1.2 away. Almost in DRS.”

Her pace must have been mind-blowingly quick if she’d cut that much off of their gap in two laps. Maybe he was slowing down. Either way, she couldn’t let up now. One lap later, she heard Toto’s voice in her mind as they rounded the turn 9 chicane together.

“You have to squeeze your arse cheeks and commit.”

They were almost wheel-to-wheel again, and Bee wasn’t going to back off this time.

She was through.

But then… Perez had DRS on her. Bee cursed - she should have waited to overtake him until after the DRS zone. It was a stupid mistake, but she remembered what Natalie told her when she was so angry about her late pit exit during her last outing at Monza.

“Some drivers have even made mistakes that have destroyed their entire car. A few seconds on a pit exit seems like nothing in comparison, right?”

Right. It was a small error on an otherwise stellar performance so far. Nothing to lose her head over. She did her best to keep Perez in the dirty air of her car, to defend. The DRS zone would end soon anyway. She wasn’t going to let him take his position back that easily.

“Last lap, Phoebe. Good job keeping Perez behind you.”

It was now or never. She had to be absolutely dead-on for this last lap, Perez was still on her, and the endless defense she had to put up was starting to get exhausting. She could feel herself start to falter going into Turn 12, and she and Perez were wheel-to-wheel again in the 90-degree corner, but she didn’t let up. She couldn’t. Not now.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the faces of everyone who had supported her over the years - her parents, the Wolffs, Claire, Natalie, Emilia, George, Adelle and her daughter, the dozens of fans that she’d met just this weekend. She didn’t want this podium for herself, but she wanted it for them - a tangible marker to show how far she’d come because of them, a means of thanking them, and showing her how strong she’d become with their support. It urged her forward.

And then - she saw a flash of Helmut Marko’s face. She could see him so clearly - the round, balding head, the thin gray hair, and his small, beady blue eyes. His left eye was a prosthetic and his gaze was always a bit off-center. She saw the disdainful, sour look that he had whenever he talked to her towards the end of her time at Red Bull. She thought about how he’d look from his spot in Red Bull’s garage if she snatched this podium away from his own driver. She wanted, more than anything, to deny him a double podium today.

She also imagined the inevitably pissed-off look on Christian Horner’s pointy, freckled, ferret-like face - she didn’t know Christian that well, she’d avoided ever talking to him. But, it would be a bonus.

She kept her foot down through the turn 16/17/18 series, making sure to cling to the curbs to maintain the most speed. She could practically feel Perez right on her, but she stayed firm, steadfast - it was literally the meaning of her surname, after all.

Perez was practically next to her going through the home straight, but she held her breath and stomped the throttle coming out of turn 20.

Time froze, and then dilated as she crossed the line. It was a split-second that felt entirely too long. She felt like she could feel her pulse between the thin margins of seconds it had doubtlessly been.

She saw a spray of fireworks that shot off as soon as the race leader - Max, probably, crossed the line, and she followed a few seconds later. Did she make it? She couldn’t tell. She’d seen Perez inching up to her on her right side at the last minute, but she didn’t think he’d made it through.

“PHOEBE STALLARD! P3!” Gaetan shouted through the radio. She could hear the cheering from the Williams garage in the background. “THAT’S A PODIUM!”

A scream came from somewhere deep inside of her. She didn’t even feel it coming. She’d just run the race of her life. Even through her helmet and headphones, she could hear the roar of the crowd - it sounded like a prolonged, rolling thunderclap. She practically felt it in her chest, even over the hum of the engine behind her.

She looked up and ahead of her, onto the pit wall, and saw something incredible. The crew of practically every team was clinging to the pit wall fence over the home straight, cheering for her. So it seemed, at least. She saw the British racing green of Aston Martin, Ferrari red, Mercedes white and teal (she spotted Toto easily, as tall as he was), McLaren papaya, Alpine and Williams blues - at the last second, she caught a glimpse of a tall woman, in a blue shirt, with blonde hair, grasping the upper corners of an enormous American flag - Emilia.

She was on her cooldown lap, and was speechless. Normally, a driver would thank the team, depending on their mood, but Bee had felt herself start crying. She was grasping onto the bottom of her visor, trying to wipe her eyes through the gap.

She heard Claire through her radio.

“Phoebe, that was an absolutely incredible race. I’m so proud of you, and I’m so proud of how far you’ve come with this team. I know Dad is at home watching now, and I know he’s so excited and happy right now. It’s been a pleasure to be your team principal, and I’m going to miss you so much next year.”

Bee took a breath, and swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“Thank you, Claire, for believing in me. It’s been awesome working with you, and it’s not going to be the same without you. I wanted to get a podium before the end of this season to send you out on a high note and to thank you for bringing me onto this fantastic team - you’ve all been the best part of racing in Formula 1. The spirit and heart of everyone here and in Grove keeps me motivated, and this podium is for all of you - I couldn’t have done it without you.”

It sounded corny, but she’d meant every word of it. Williams had come so far in the last two years, even with the sale and the transition of leadership, but she loved it. She was proud to have been part of the small resurgence they were experiencing.

She waved out to the grandstands as she passed by them on the cooldown lap, and it was clear that people were absolutely losing it. She could have never imagined this. She almost didn’t want to pull into parc ferme - she was enjoying this particular moment - just her, her car, and the distant shouts of her fans - too much.

But, even so, she arrived and pulled up to the 3rd place bollard (another thing she’d never imagined doing) and saw that her team had gathered around the fence to wait for her.

She was 5’2”, not even 160cm, but she felt twice that height when she climbed out of the FW43B and stood on its nose. She tossed her head back and let out the same scream she’d felt tear itself from her chest earlier - of triumph. All of the tension and pressure of the weekend was gone. She jumped down and sprinted over to the crowd of Williams team members at the gate. She wasn’t quite tall enough to jump up and on top of the barriers like some drivers did, but they did their best to reach her, and she was caught in a hailstorm of hugs, cheering, and hearty slaps on her back and helmet.

It was so loud in that crowd of people. The atmosphere was electric.

Someone - probably Emilia - placed the corner of the American flag in her hands, and she gripped it fiercely.

She turned around to see Lewis waiting for her. He grabbed her into a tight hug that lifted her off her feet, which was not difficult. He set her down, and she stripped off her helmet and balaclava. He did the same, and took a moment to re-tie his braided hair back into a ponytail

“I can’t believe it, Phoebe - you’re the first woman ever on a Formula 1 podium!” Lewis shouted over the commotion around them.

Oh. She’d forgotten about that part. It wasn’t what she’d set out to do, necessarily.

He hugged her again, patting her back. “You must have run an incredible race. I can’t wait to watch it later. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Lewis, for everything. You’ve always been so kind to me, and it means a lot.”

At the other end of the parc ferme area, there were small stands for them to place their equipment, and a scale to be weighed right near the pit lane. There used to be cool-down rooms where they did this, but they got rid of them during the abridged COVID season to maintain team bubbles. She stepped on the scale after Lewis. Claire was in the garage outside of parc ferme, standing with Emilia. She went over to them, and they both pulled her into large hugs, telling her how proud they were of her, again.

She wasn’t sure where to go next, though. The podium was on the balcony above the FIA garage area they were in, which was where the medical car was parked. Emilia shoved Bee’s drink bottle into her hands while Bee was looking around, trying to take everything in.

“Here. Drink. It wouldn’t be a good look to pass out on the podium in front of your entire country, would it?” Bee shook her head, and drank greedily. She was only just now aware of how thirsty she was. The race she ran was intensely physical, and the fatigue was only now starting to set in.

She wasn’t sure what she should be doing next, though. She wasn’t sure where Lewis had disappeared to, but she heard some cheers outside that indicated he must have been outside.

She peeked around the door of the garage to see that he was doing an interview with Jenson Button, and just as she did, the F1 employee next to her said, “You’re next, Phoebe.”

She typically didn’t hang around after races to watch the podium ceremony these days, so she was happy for the direction - this was all new to her.

She walked over to take her place in front of the microphone, and Jenson asked her a few questions. The cheer she got when she stepped out of the garage was deafening, and a flurry of American flags unfurled in the crowd. She barely paid attention to whatever Jenson was asking her, but she got through it.

She walked back into the garage area, and stood next to Lewis for a few minutes, chatting companionably with him.

“Uh…” she said. “Where do we go now? Upstairs, or -”

Lewis laughed, and grabbed her by the elbow. “I forgot, this is new for you - come on, this way.”

He led her upstairs into a small waiting area that had an FIA official. It was the “backstage” behind the outdoor podium platform, which was set up on the balcony of one of the permanent buildings at the track. She was still gripping onto the flag she’d been handed. She draped it over her shoulders.

They were also joined by someone from Red Bull to accept the constructor’s trophy for the team. She was just glad it wasn’t Christian or Helmut, but that was apparently rare. The trophy presentation party came in - they were all various local officials that she didn’t know, and…

Shaquielle O’Neal? Bee never watched basketball, but knew the enormous man when she saw him.

“We’re just about ready to start, gentleme - I mean… sorry, ladies and gentlemen.” The FIA official said, looking directly at Bee. Bee waved it off. “It’s fine. I know, this is new for all of us.”

The presentation party all filed out. Bee laughed because Shaq had to duck out underneath the door frame. Certainly not a problem she’d ever have.

“Hey, good job.” Max Verstappen told her. “I heard you gave Checo a bit of a headache. That’s not easy to do.”

It was the first thing Max had ever said to her, that she could remember.

“Ah… thank you. I tried. Congratulations to you, as well.”

He nodded a quick nod at her. “Thank you.”

“And in third place…” she heard from around the temporary wall. “The first woman to ever stand on a Formula 1 podium as a driver… Phoebe Stallard, of the United States of America!”

She walked out from behind the barrier. If she thought the cheers were deafeningearlier, this was nothing. It was incredible. She could barely hear anything else, and it was coming from everywhere - from the audience below, from the people crowded onto the paddock club balconies on the left side of the stage area. She glanced at the LED screen behind her, which was playing a pre-filmed video loop of herself making various celebratory poses - she remembered when they filmed it during pre-season testing, and it felt silly then, because she didn’t think it would even be necessary. Well, she was wrong.

They introduced Lewis and Max next, and the Dutch and Austrian national anthems played. Shaquille O’Neal handed Max the first place trophy. She congratulated the Red Bull employee standing next to her on the constructor’s trophy. Lewis received his trophy, and finally, a man came over with the small statuette for her.

She raised it aloft, and it felt like she was lifting the weight of this season, the weight of her entire career - it was everything it represented. Her own expectations of herself, her desire to perform, her desire to show the people that supported her how much she appreciated it. It was all there now, in the form of a solid metallic statuette.

“And now… the champagne!”

She barely had time to react and put the trophy down and pick her victory bottle up. It didn’t matter anyway, Lewis and Max had done this dozens of times before and were far too quick on the draw. They had both set out to drench her, too. She thought she felt Lewis actually pouring the bottle down the back of her race suit. It was sticky and smelly, but it felt kind of good in the heat.

She did her best to return the spray, but it was too late. She showered the crowd below instead. From this vantage point, she could see the faces of everyone that was there for her. She could see her parents, she could see Emilia, she could see the Wolffs, she could see Claire. She smiled and waved to all of them as they smiled back up at her.

It was just like what she’d envisioned the night before, but it was even better, because it was real. It was her goal for the season, the line she’d been striving for, and she’d made it through it all - all of the terror, all of the beauty, both in equal measure.

Schönheit und Schrecken.

It was true that Rilke had said that no feeling was final, and this feeling wouldn’t be, either. She had a few races left for this season, and had already signed for another season. There would be terror. There would be triumph, so she hoped. There would be defeat. There would be anxiety and sadness.

But none of that was here, right now. All that was here, now, was a memory that she wanted to hold onto forever.

#series: wildest dreams #f1 fanfic #f1 oc fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #original character #female oc #female f1 driver #toto wolff #george russell #my fanfic #susie wolff

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