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avatar-anna · 1 year

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Family Vacation

buckle up, it's a long one!

Young dad!Harry x Young mom!Reader

For reference, here are all the kids' ages:

Simone: 12 Collette: 9 Maeve and Julian: 8 Geneva: 4 Natalia: 3

2025

“All right, here we go. Simone?”

“Here.”

“Colette?”

“She’s helping GiGi put her shoes on upstairs,” Simone replied, standing next to Harry by the front door of the house. She was dressed comfortably in a pair of sweatpants and one of Harry's old crew necks, a pair of leather sneakers on her feet. He'd tried to talk her into a different pair of shoes for the flight, but she was going through a sneaker phase at the moment and wouldn't hear it.

Harry nodded at his oldest child and continued. “Great. Twins?”

There was no answer. Looking up and down the front hall of the house, Harry wondered where two out of his five children were. “Maeve? Jules? Come on, we’re going to be late!”

There was more silence, and Harry silently worried about what his most troublemaking children were up to. But after a minute, he heard the sound of feet running around upstairs, and a few seconds later, the twins bounding down the staircase headed for Harry and Simone. Harry looked them over to make sure they were dressed and ready to go. They were, but had switched shoes again—Julian in his sister’s sparkly pink ones and Marve in his plain black sneakers. Neither Harry nor Y/n knew why they switched their shoes, and sometimes their clothes. It was always a toss up when they came down the stairs dressed for school. Sometimes Jules and Maeve were in their own clothes, sometimes they weren’t, and sometimes they were in some sort of combination. After the first couple times it happened, Harry and Y/n stopped questioning it; as long as they were fully dressed and out the door for school on time, it didn’t really matter to them.

Not even batting an eye at the twins’ shoe switch, he asked them, “Ready?”

“Ready!” they said together, following their older sister out of the house and into the car.

Harry waited for his three remaining children, smiling when Colette and Geneva skipped down the stairs together. GiGi ran over to him and leapt into his arms, and Harry caught her, kissing her cheek and fixing the little hat she was wearing. Five down, one to go.

"Mama! You ready to go?"

"Almost!"

"We're gonna be late!"

"Saying that doesn't make me go any faster!" Y/n called back.

Harry shook his head at his wife, but waited for her patiently by the door all the same, double checking in his head that they had everything in the car—suitcases, iPads, sunblock, passports, chargers, etc. GiGi played with his hair and babbled in his ear while Collette ran off to the car with the rest of the family, curly hair bouncing with each step.

After a couple minutes, Y/n came down the stairs with Natalia in her arms, a tiny backpack resembling a giraffe on his youngest daughter's back. Y/n looked a little frazzled as she went out the door, but Harry didn't comment on it, just took the diaper bag from her and locked up the house once everyone was outside.

"I just spent the last twenty minutes trying to get her into the pull-up," Y/n explained.

"Does she really need it? She wears underwear now."

Y/n looked at him. "Do you want to deal with an accident thousands of feet up in the air?"

"Good point."

They got in the car in silence, and Harry did one last headcount before starting the car. "Does everyone have everything?" Y/n asked one more time, which meant Collette was unbuckling and running back into the house for something, Julian not far behind.

"Are we really doing this?" he muttered to her.

"We're really doing this," she murmured back.

"God help us."

The drive to the airport was full of chatter, the way it always was when Harry drove all six of his children somewhere. Maeve and Julian were off in their own little world, GiGi was singing along to what she thought were the words to the song on the radio, Colette was talking about the science project Y/n helped her finish from the window seat behind him, and Simone was sitting in the backseat with… Daniel, the boy she had asked to invite a couple weeks ago.

Harry remembered the night his daughter came into his and Y/n’s room as the two of them were getting ready for bed with utmost clarity, remembered how Simone switched from foot to foot and didn’t meet either of them in the eye as she asked if she could bring a friend on their family vacation. Of course, Harry told her, not sure why she was acting so nervous. Her friend Melanie was always welcome to join them on their family outings.

But Y/n knew better, as she always did when it came to things like this. She hardly even reacted when Simone clarified that it wasn’t Melanie, but a different friend. Daniel.

Harry immediately wanted to say no once he realized why his daughter was acting so shy about asking if Daniel could come, but his wife subtly pinched his side to keep him quiet while she told Simone yes and that she would call Daniel’s mother in the morning to make sure it was okay. Harry kept his cool while Simone thanked him and Y/n, kissing each of them on the cheek before leaving their bedroom with a wish goodnight over her shoulder. The second Y/n heard the door to her oldest daughter’s room shut with a soft click, she picked up a throw pillow off their bed and whacked him with it.

“Ouch! What the hell was that for?” he asked, giving his wife an incredulous look at her actions.

“You better be on your best behavior,” was all she said, not apologizing for her pillow attack.

Harry rolled his eyes, trying to pretend like he wasn’t freaking out on the inside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said innocently, getting under the covers of their bed after turning the lamp by their bed off.

Y/n turned it back on, not believing him for a second. “I mean it, Harry,” she said, using the same stern voice she often reserved for their kids. Crawling over to him so that she was perched on top of him with her legs on either side of his waist, she poked him in the chest. “Be-have.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” he tried to reason, but he already felt resentment bubbling in the pit of his stomach towards this Daniel person. When his wife gave him a look that told him she still wasn’t convinced, he sighed. “I’m not ready for the boys, or the girls,” he added as an afterthought. Simone never talked about it, but Harry and Y/n always kept an open mind about such things. “She’s too young for dating.”

Y/n raised her eyes heavenward, clearly exasperated by her husband. “Harry, how old were you when you had your first kiss?”

Harry grumbled under his breath, which made Y/n grin just a little. "You're not helping."

“We're so far off from that anyway, love. He's just a friend from school. And a nice boy. I've driven him home from school a few times. He's an only child. He could use a dose of...us.”

Harry kept quiet, crossing his arms and pouting because while he knew his baby was growing up, that didn't mean he had to like it. Knowing he didn’t have any sort of argument for that, Y/n continued. “She needs friends, H. Don’t you notice how she rarely invites anyone over to the house?”

He had noticed, but she was also constantly across the street at her friend Melanie’s house. “I know that, but…She’s my baby.”

Y/n’s eyes softened. She shuffled around on the bed until she had her arms wrapped around him, her fingers as soothing as they always were as they ran through his hair. “She is, and she always will be, so be happy that your baby asked if her friend could come with us on vacation instead of sneaking out of the house to see him.”

That image did nothing to relax Harry’s troubled thoughts in the slightest. He wanted to be comforted by the memories of Simone sleeping between him and Y/n, of when she was so small and only wanted to be in Harry’s arms when they went somewhere, of first steps, first Christmas, first everything. He didn't think they were at the stage of first boy.

“Hey,” Y/n said quietly when Harry remained quiet for a few minutes. She knew her husband had a hard time seeing Simone grow up. He loved all their children equally, but his bond with their oldest daughter was a special one. In a time of uncertainty and chaos, Harry saw their daughter for the first time and she’d become a beacon of light and love. The day he became a father was the best day of his life, and he had been protecting and loving Simone ever since.

"He really is just a friend. You think I would be okay with him joining our vacation if he wasn't? She's twelve, H."

Harry sighed, pouting his lips just a little. "I know. But can you freak out a little with me so I don't feel like the only crazy parent?"

Y/n chuckled and kissed his cheek. "But who would reason with you? Remind you about the beautiful resort we're staying at," she said, planting another kiss, this one closer to his ear. "And the master bedroom that's on a whole separate floor from the other rooms in the suite." Another kiss. "All the alone time we'll have once everyone is asleep."

She continued to whisper in Harry's ear about all the things she wanted to do with him once they were on vacation, one of which made his eyes widen.

"Really?"

"Mmhm."

"You mean it? We can—"

He didn't even want to say it in case he jinxed it, but it didn't seem like his wife was joking. Y/n nodded, tracing his lips with the tip of her finger. "You know I don't joke about that."

He grinned, the reaction almost involuntary. Kissing her once, twice, three times, Harry responded with, “I love you.”

There was silence as Harry and Y/n continued to kiss, long and lazy ones that made Harry nearly forget about Daniel, especially as Y/n’s leg draped over his middle and his hands moved under her sleep shirt. Nearly. “He better not try anything, or I’ll—”

“Your best behavior,” she intoned, hovering just above him as she used her stern voice again. “Think of the alone time.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you enjoy telling me what to do?”

“It gives me a rush,” Y/n said simply, pecking him on the nose. Harry flipped her over so that her back was against the mattress, his lips were just barely touching hers as he told her it was his turn to make demands.

For the next couple weeks, Harry had removed Daniel from his mind. But the time had come to drive to the address Y/n had given him when they got in the car. He hadn’t paid much attention to where each of his children were sitting until he waved at Daniel, then raised his brows slightly as he climbed into the back row to join Simone. He wasn’t a huge fan of that, but then Geneva accused him of not singing along to the song that was playing, and because he could never turn down singing with his daughter, his mind was temporarily occupied.

That didn’t stop his eyes from flicking to the rearview mirror every few minutes to check up on Simone and her friend. He eyed the blonde hair that came down to the boy’s shoulders, the leather cord necklace that peeked out from under his shirt, the warm tan he had from spending time in the sun. Was this her type? Harry thought. She’s too young to have a type. She’s too young for all of this—

“Daddy, where are we going?”

Harry focused back on the road in front of him, making the proper turns that would take him to a more secluded parking lot of the international airport. Harry waited until he parked the car to answer Maeve’s question, helping Valen out of her car seat and resting her on his hip. “The airport, peanut. We're going on our vacation, remember?”

Harry and Y/n didn't take the kids on proper vacations very often. It was hard for the whole family to be in one public place together without being noticed, and it was even harder now ever since the documentary came out and their family was brought into the limelight. People relentlessly tried to get pictures of Harry with any one of the kids, which only pushed them to go out even less or take even more extreme measures to ensure no one knew where they were.

But they all still deserved a vacation. Y/n and Harry researched and researched until they found the right place—somewhere remote enough that they could be left alone, but big enough to fit their family and had the facilities to ensure privacy. And somewhere fun. Everyone needed to have fun.

So they decided on a fancy island resort. There was plenty of activities for the kids, a big villa that accommodated their big family, and a spa for Y/n to relax. In a lot of ways, Harry wanted this to be the honeymoon he and Y/n never got to have. They would be strapped down with six, now seven, kids for most of the time, but they'd be watching them in a very nice resort.

Harry did another headcount when they got to the airport to make sure he had all of his kids and Daniel, then led them all to where a security guard was waiting to take escort them to the airport lounge where they would wait to take off, with Y/n rounding out the back so no one got left behind. As they came into the airport, in public where everyone could see them, Harry looked behind him for Julian, knowing he didn’t love having so many sets of eyes on him. As was the side effect of being their father, all of the Styles children were used to or at least familiar with being photographed in public places or seeing large crowds of people in the most mundane of places. However, Jules was very shy and sometimes had a hard time with the shouting and the phones pointed in his direction.

Harry turned back with Geneva still in his arms to take Julian’s hand. At only four years old, Harry and Y/n tried to keep her and Natalia from having their picture taken the most. They’d done it with all of their children when they were babies, gradually letting them get used to all of the craziness. The documentary sped things up a bit, but outside of the kids' small appearances, Harry and Y/n made sure they were hardly seen in public. It was why Geneva was wearing her little knit hat with daisies on it, the brim wide enough to shield her face should anyone try to nab a picture of the four year old. Y/n pushed Natalia in a stroller with the hood extended low over her face so all one could really see was her little legs.

To Harry’s surprise, Jules was holding the hand of his oldest sister. It wasn’t shocking that Simone was holding her little brother’s hand in a situation like this, she often did so with one or two of her siblings when they went out together. But today she was with a friend, with Daniel. Harry figured she would want to just hang out with him, but there Jules was, laughing at something Simone’s friend had said, not at all bothered by the people pointing their phones in their direction. Smiling, Harry reached out a hand for Maeve to take, and she happily obliged, Colette falling in line next to her.

When they finally got settled in the lounge, there was still a good amount of time before takeoff. The twins were on one side of him and Colette next to them, Simone and Daniel on his other side, and GiGi bouncing up and down in his lap. Julian and Maeve were off in their own little world again, only this time they took Colette with them as they played with a couple of the toys Harry packed for them in a backpack. Y/n was gone, having taken Natalia for one last bathroom trip before they boarded the plane

Trying to heed his wife’s instructions, Harry did his best not to eavesdrop on Simone and Daniel’s conversation, focusing on Geneva, who was more than happy to have all of her father’s attention. She squished his cheeks with her hands, pushing them up and down into various frowns and smiles.

Y/n came back just as Collette began to bicker with the twins. "Harry can you," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the three kids.

"Yep. On it."

By the time he settled the argument, it was time to board. The whole family was up and shuffling toward the gate, Harry leading everyone so he could hand over boarding passes to the woman waiting for them. "Have a wonderful flight, Mr. Styles," she said warmly, smiling at each child as they walked past.

Thankfully, they boarded before everyone else, which gave Y/n and Harry time to get all their kids settled in their seats. "Alright, change of plans. Maeve, sit with Collette, Jules you're with—"

"Daddy!"

"O...Kay. JuJu's sitting with Daddy. Simone and Daniel, you'll sit across from me and Natalia. Daddy, you got Geneva?"

"Yep. Come here, peanut."

Snacks and iPads were passed out, and everyone was quietly waiting for takeoff. At first, Harry and Y/n used to feel bad about using technology to get their kids to quiet down, but now that they were six against two they did whatever they could.

"You have a wonderful family."

Harry was immediately on high alert. He was always hyper aware of strangers around his kids, but especially with Geneva and Natalia. They were so young, they didn't deserve strangers getting in their faces and all that.

But he supposed that having six kids, plus an extra, quietly entertaining themselves on a nonstop flight was something to be proud of. Looking up from where he'd been opening a pouch for Julian, Harry gave a close-lipped smile at the flight attendant who'd spoken. She looked about a few years older than Harry and Y/n, and if she recognized Harry, she didn't let on.

"Thank you. It's our first big vacation."

"That's so fun! It must be hard to travel with all these little ones on your own."

"Um..." Harry wasn't sure what the woman was insinuating. He looked across the aisle, but Y/n was completely occupied with Natalia. Her smile seemed sincere, though, so Harry just politely corrected her. "I'm married, actually."

"Oh! Sorry, I don't know why I—Gosh," she stuttered, a blush on her cheeks. "Sorry. Well, um, can I get you anything?"

"Juice!" Geneva piped in from Harry's left.

Harry gave his daughter a look and said, "How do we ask for things nicely?"

"Can I have some juice please?"

The flight attendant smiled and promised to be back in a moment, then left their section.

"It must be so hard to travel with all these little ones on your own," Y/n said, raising the pitch of her voice. She was still looking at Natalia, but clearly, she'd heard the whole exchange.

"Oh hush. She was just being nice," Harry chided.

Harry never realized how exhausting vacations could be. Between swimming under the sun all day and keeping an eye on seven kids, he crashed on the bed each night completely wiped out. And even though Harry and Y/n were an entire floor above the kids, they could still hear the giggles as Simone, Collette, the twins, and Daniel stayed up past their bedtime playing games. It was fun, it really was, but it was no honeymoon.

He'd have about a thousand pictures by the end of it all, though.

"Daddy, I want a lemonade!"

"Gi, I just asked you if you wanted anything from the restaurant," Harry said, doing his best to give her a stern look.

They were having a relaxing day at the resort's pool. Yesterday they went on a boat and went all around the island, and before that was water sports, and the day before that was—well, today they were just relaxing. The hotel had reserved a cabana that was pretty well removed from the other ones, giving them a bit of privacy, though other guests had kept their distance for the most part.

“Dad, we can take GiGi to get a lemonade. We wanted snacks anyway,” Simone said. At the word “snacks,” both Geneva up, looking to their father for approval.

Harry wanted to say yes, but he didn’t like any of his kids walking around on their own. At twelve, Simone and her friend were more than capable of going to the restaurant on the other side of the pool and coming right back, but there was always a chance of people following or coming up to her, and she thought the idea of walking around with a security guard was embarrassing, but it was usually the only way Harry and Y/n allowed her to go off on her own when they did things like this.

“Erm…You’d have to take Chris with you,” he finally said, nodding to the security guard who was currently sitting next to Natalia and seemed very interested in the water wings the youngest Styles was showing him. Chris was their family bodyguard and had become part of the family by this point. He was patient with the kids and played with them on occasion, but took his job seriously.

Simone didn’t answer right away. She looked at Daniel first, a question in her eyes. Harry knew it couldn’t be easy having to be tailed by a security guard all the time, especially when she seemed to already have a hard time making friends. So when Daniel just shrugged and said he didn’t mind, Harry actually felt a little relieved and hoped that this friendship would stick. Perhaps Daniel was all right after all.

Fishing out cash from his wallet, Harry passed it off to Simone and told her to come straight back and hold GiGi’s hand the whole time. Simone looked like she wanted to roll her eyes at her father’s grave tone, but she refrained and took the money and her sister’s hand. When they were gone, Harry sat back and sighed. His eyes flitted over the pool for a moment as he searched for his wife.

She was in the pool with Maeve and Julian, tossing them up and letting them splash in the shallower end. Harry cleared his throat and slipped on his sunglasses, trying not to stare too obviously.

Y/n wasn't even doing anything. But she just...she never failed to make his heart pound. And the swimsuit she wore wasn't helping. Her body had changed over the years, the same way his had, but he still thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and right now was no different.

Harry was debating joining his wife and kids in the pool or staying until Simone and the rest of his kids came back with Chris. But that decision was made for him when he saw her help the twins out of the pool.

"They put umbrellas in our drinks!"

Harry looked the other way and saw Geneva with a kids cup in her hand, a small cocktail umbrella sticking out of it. Simone and Daniel had their own drinks, and funnily enough, Chris had two.

"I want one!"

"Me too!"

Before Harry could say anything, Chris handed the two drinks over to the twins, who had walked up to the cabana with Y/n. Harry stood up and offered his spot up so all the kids could sit with their drinks without the risk of spilling them. He went over to Y/n, careful not to put his hands on her in front of the kids.

"You were staring," she murmured.

"Was not."

"You were."

Harry leaned forward and kissed the back of her head. "You would've had to be staring at me to notice."

"Mom, can Daniel and I go to the kids club? They have a ping pong table, and we wanted to play."

At the mention of the kids club, Simone's siblings voiced their desire to go too, but Harry could see the look on his oldest daughter's face. She'd been really great about hanging out with her younger siblings, but she deserved to play on her own with her friend.

"Sure, bug. Do you have your phone?"

Simone nodded, then squeezed Harry tight before running off with Daniel. His heart clenched as they left, but there were five other kids all vying for his attention. "Let's go to the water slide, shall we?"

Cheers went around the cabana. As they were all putting their cups down, Y/n came up behind Harry and squeezed his hand. "That was nice of you."

"Chris will check on them in a few minutes," was all he said.

"You're a good dad," she said, pinching his hip affectionately.

"You think so?"

"The best. "I wish we could sneak away so you could be the best husband for a little bit," she mumbled, kissing his bare shoulder.

"We'll have our moment," Harry assured.

"It would be even harder with another baby, you know that right?"

"Mm. We've always managed."

Y/n didn't say anything in reply, but Harry couldn't tell if it was because she didn't have an answer or because Geneva was poking her leg to get her attention.

"Can we go now?"

Conversation cut short, Harry and Y/n took the hands of their little ones and walked toward the waterslide.

"I'm so tired."

"I know."

"And sunburned."

"I know."

"It literally hurts to have my eyes open. I—What are you doing?"

"Shh," Y/n said, her legs on either side of Harry's lower back. "I don't have massage oil or candles, but I have aloe vera. Let me help you."

Harry couldn't have protested even if he wanted to. They'd spent the entire day at the beach, rounding the evening out with a quiet dinner courtesy of room service. All the kids were fast asleep, practically dead to the world, as soon as their pajamas were on, a first since they arrived a few days ago.

Mumbling some kind of assent, he let Y/n give him a massage. The aloe vera was cold on his back, her hands gentle but thorough as she rubbed in the gel and worked on the muscles in his shoulders and worked her way down. Harry groaned, sinking deeper into the bed as she began to apply more pressure.

"You've been such a good Daddy to the kids all week, hm?" she murmured in his ear, thumbs pressing into the muscles in his shoulders. "Planned this whole trip for us, work so hard so we can go to beautiful places like this, been so patient. Thought you deserved something nice."

It wasn't uncommon for Y/n to call Harry "daddy." When they were around the kids, they referred to each other almost exclusively as "mom" or "dad" or something to that effect. They were parents, it was part of their identity, and it certainly wasn't out of the ordinary. Daddy wasn't something that was inherently sexual to them, not when it was a word their children used regularly.

Though the gentle lilt of Y/n's voice and her hands on his back definitely had him turning his head to the side to peek an eye at her.

"Yeah?"

She nodded, still working out all the knots in his back. "Mmhm. So close your eyes. I'm gonna paint a nice picture for us."

Harry did as she said, focusing on her hands and voice.

"Imagine we're...twenty-two years old," Y/n said. "And...we just came back from the courthouse. The boys have finally left us alone for the evening."

The night they got married. They had to sneak out of their hotel rooms to do it, but Harry would do it all again in a heartbeat. "Mm. That was a good night."

"Yep. But this time, instead of putting Simone down and going to bed, we're packing for a trip. Our honeymoon. You planned the whole thing. Your mom agreed to watch Simone for a few days, there happened to be a break in the tour, and everything just fell into place so we could celebrate. Just you and me."

Y/n knew what Harry wanted this trip to be for them. She knew he always felt guilty about the finer details of their marriage. There was just never enough time for a proper honeymoon, and by the time there was, Y/n was pregnant with Collette. There were moments on the trip where they tried to slip away, but it just wasn't possible. Harry and Y/n were more than happy to spend time with their children, but a moment alone wouldn't have hurt, either.

"So we come to this beautiful resort," she continued, working her way along the broad expanse of Harry's back. "We drink too much champagne and sleep in too late because no one is jumping on the bed before sunrise. We kiss by the infinity pool and on the balcony and on top of a mountain after we've hiked to the top."

"Just kiss?"

"Easy. I'm getting to that. Where was I?"

"The top of a mountain."

"Right. And we make love everywhere. In the infinity pool, on the balcony, in that huge hot tub in our bathroom. For those few days, we don't care about getting caught or what people will see or think or say. We're so happy to finally be married, that the only thing that matters is us," Y/n said, leaving a kiss on the back of his neck, her teeth grazing the shell of his ear. "Flip over, baby."

Harry did as she asked, grinning when his eyes landed on her. Y/n normally wore a t-shirt and shorts to bed, but tonight she was in sheer pink, her breasts practically spilling out of the flimsy material, her hair framing her shoulders. She'd changed a lot over the years, and yet she was exactly the same. She still made him feel the same way she always had.

"We're not twenty-two anymore," he said.

"No, we're not," Y/n agreed. "But I still love you."

"I love you too, Mama."

Y/n leaned down and kissed him then, her body flush against Harry's as his leg slotted between hers. Their lips were chapped from spending the last few days in the sun, but that didn't stop either of them from getting more and more intense. Harry's tongue slipped into Y/n's mouth with ease, his hands rucking up her little pink blouse insistently. She lifted her hips to get her underwear off when his hands ventured there next but was quick to slide back against him, a smile forming on her lips when he groaned.

"I'm not feeling so tired anymore," Harry breathed, one hand dipping between her legs.

They could've been quick. After being together for so long, they knew what made the other get to the finish line faster, and had perfected it when free time came in brief, spontaneous moments. But Harry didn't want quick. All the kids were fast asleep, and he didn't think any of them would be waking up for a long time after the day they had. He wanted to take his time, and it seemed Y/n did too.

"Good. For a second there I thought you were an old man at the ripe age of thirty-one."

"You're gonna regret saying that in a minute."

Harry flipped his wife over so that he was hovering over her. Y/n's grin was full of mischief as she looked him over, her gaze fixated below his waist. She loved the moments where she could just admire her husband, and this trip had been full of them. So often she was stuck in full-mom-mode that she didn't appreciate how Harry still looked like he was cut from marble. His tattoos were faded with time, but they stuck out against his newly-tanned skin, there was a little more meat on his hips than when they were kids, but Y/n honestly loved him that way more. She loved his muscly thighs and broad back and his pointed nose and high cheekbones. She loved the smile lines by his eyes and the way his stomach jutted out just a little despite the muscle. She loved the soft parts and the hard planes. She knew every detail, every secret his body held. There was not one thing she didn't know about her husband or his body, and she was in love with every inch.

Y/n had been patient, she'd been a good mom this whole trip by not dragging Harry by the drawstring of his swim trunks and leaving Chris to watch the kids for an hour, she'd waited and waited for the right moment, for this moment. A few minutes ago, she could tell Harry was in the "make love" kind of mood, but she did away with that with a few choice words. She was usually all for it, but right now she really wanted a reason for them to be exhausted. Now, all she had to do was seal the deal.

Hooking a finger around his necklace and gripping him a little tightly between her fingers, she said, "Do your worst."

"Okay. It's our last night on vacation. What was everyone's favorite part?" Harry asked from his seat at the dinner table. "Maevie, you go first."

They were having one last dinner at the resort's outdoor restaurant. Their table was on a raised deck that stood in a shallow pool. The bottom of the pool was lit, making the water a blue-green color. There were lanterns in the palm trees, a warm breeze fluttering the leaves. Everyone was in varying states of tanned and sunburned—peeled noses, harsh tan lines, red shoulders and cheeks. The whole family plus Daniel were tired from days spent running around and swimming under relentless sunlight, but they were happy too. Content to go home tomorrow knowing that everything that could be done had been.

"I liked seeing the dolphins," Maeve said.

Each person at the table said their favorite moment or activity. From the hotel water slide to going tubing behind a speedboat to a whole day dedicated to shopping, all the kids enjoyed something different from the vacation.

"I liked when we took the Jeeps all over the mountains and Mrs. Styles drove really fast!" Daniel said.

Y/n smirked at Harry from across the dinner table as she cut up Geneva's food. He always had something to say about her driving—that she was too fast, that she drove like she was in a hurry when there was no reason to, and so on. Whether that was true or not, Y/n got to put her driving skills to the test with one of their activities. She took Simone, Daniel, and Collette in her car while Harry took the younger kids, and raced over the dirt path with them. It was bumpy, dusty, and full of sharp turns, but she and the older kids had a blast.

"You know, Daniel, I can't help but agree," Y/n said.

"What was your favorite part, Dad?" Simone asked.

"I think..." he said, taking his time to answer the question. "I think just getting to spend time with all of you was my favorite part."

"That doesn't count!"

"We all had to say something!"

"Boo!"

"Yeah, boo!"

"Y/n, really?"

Y/n shrugged when Harry looked over at her exasperatedly. He knew he gave a lame, sappy answer, but it was the truth. He knew his kids would give him grief about it, but he didn't expect his own wife to boo at him.

The night ended with one final walk on the beach. The kids all skipped ahead of Harry and Y/n, who were content to trail behind them and hold hands.

"We did it," Y/n said, twining her arm around her husband's.

"We did. With no trips to the local hospital, either."

"And," she added. "Daniel was a sweetheart. I think the twins are more trouble than he is."

Harry didn't want to be okay with Daniel when the idea of him joining the family on vacation was first proposed, but he couldn't help but agree with Y/n. He was nice, and hung out with all the kids, not just Simone.

"They're gonna give us hell when they're older aren't they?" he asked, referring to Maeve and Julian, who were currently wrestling in the sand.

"Definitely." They walked a few paces in silence while Y/n rested her cheek on Harry's shoulder. He was a linen shirt that was incredibly soft, and she would definitely be wearing it to sleep tonight. Then, as they got further down the beach, she said, "You were right, you know."

"About what?"

"Spending time with all our little monkeys," she said. "I'm glad we could give this to them. A trip with the whole family that's not just traveling with you on tour, you know?"

"I do," Harry agreed, kissing the top of her head. "I think I might have to give Chris a huge Christmas bonus, though."

Y/n chuckled. "He had fun too."

More silence, more walking and listening to the kids laugh and play by the shore. Then, "Our little monkeys aren't so little anymore."

"No, they're not," Y/n said. "But when they can play together far away, I can do this."

She stopped Harry in his tracks and tipped his head down to kiss him. His lips were light against hers, careful not to get too carried away. But it was nice to kiss out in the open, something neither of them would've ever thought was possible a few years ago. Their lives were so different now.

Harry kissed her a couple more times, his thumb tracing delicate patterns on the small strip of skin where Y/n's knitted sweater didn't quite meet her shorts. She looked and felt so cozy. All he wanted to do was get their kids up to bed and—

"Eeeew!" someone shrieked, it was too dark to tell which one of their kids said it. "No kissing!"

Y/n pulled back, but Harry held her close still. "What? You mean like this?" he asked before nuzzling his wife's cheek.

That got everyone going. Simone claimed Harry and Y/n were embarrassing her, Collette told them to stop because kissing was gross, and Maeve and Julian went straight for the tackle, going for Harry's legs until he playfully fell over. Once he was down, Natalia and Geneva joined their brother and sister.

If someone had told a twenty-two-year-old Harry that not only did he have six happy and healthy kids with the love of his life, but that he could hold his wife's hand and kiss her on the beach and play-wrestle with his kids without worrying who might see, he wouldn't have believed them. Hell, he wouldn't have believed them just a few years ago. But things were different now, things were good. Perfect, some might say.

And Harry definitely had to remind himself of that when one of his kids accidentally had him inhaling a mouthful of sand.

#harry styles #young dadrry #young dad! harry #young mom! reader #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic

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fungalittleweirdo · 3 months

Note

chubby!reader × Donnie? he gets a tad bit flustered? maybe a bit of a spicy peice? praise kink🙏🙏🙏🙏

-👾🐈‍⬛️

already writing limes in the sfw blog, are we ?

jules fears NOTHING !!

i love writing this kind of content anyway >:)

if you wanted something higher on the citrus scale i shall direct you to my other blog, @fungalittlefreak where you could get even more specific with whatever you desire !!

i initially wanted to make this longer but i'm swamped with so many things to do, might have a part two if there's demand for it.

one chubby reader x flustered donnie coming right up B)

thank you for the request anon <3

important side note: while i don't deem this as "mature content" i feel more comfortable if anyone 15+ could interact with this post, otherwise please don't read or interact. while i can't force you not to, i hope anyone below 15 years old could respect my wishes.

May I?

It's movie night in the Hamato household and you're invited! April said you didn't have a choice, so here you are contemplating on wearing something comfortable or something cute.

Delivered (18:42 PM): is this too much? i'm bringing a change of clothes because i'm sleeping over

apes (18:42 PM): oooo who are you trying to impress

apes (18:42 PM): god i hope it's not leo

apes (18:42 PM): you deserve better

You shake your head, grinning at your phone as you send your last message to April.

Delivered (18:43 PM): i'll never tell :)

You finish getting ready and grab your overnight bag, heading over to the lair. The clattering and chattering in the kitchen tells you that the brothers would be in there, but you spot Donnie alone on his phone in the projection room. He seems comfortable enough not to wear his battle shell, which you find surprising. You take a step toward him and he looks up, turning to you as you put your stuff down beside the couch. He stops, staring while you move to sit beside him, even though you already greeted him, waiting for his response.

"Uh, yes. H-hello. Greetings. Good evening."

He looks away, then looks at you out of the corner of his eye. You grin and lean in with a smirk. He blushes, then a nervous smile plasters itself on his face. "D-do you need anything from me?" Donnie asks politely, but his eyes darted everywhere, scanning you as if he is committing the way you look right now to memory.

"A kiss might be nice."

The softshell freezes and it looks like his brain is malfunctioning, his face warming at the thoughts racing through his mind.

"May I?"

He reaches up to cup your soft face in his hand. His fingers twitch as if he's holding himself back from holding you firmly. You nod with a whispered yes, leaning in for a delicate, soft kiss. The softshell perks up and a dopey smile spreads across his face after you part, then he leans in for a deeper kiss, the heat on both your faces burning a little hotter.

"Your lips taste so good," Donnie breathes, threading his fingers through your hair at the base of your skull, holding you close as the two of you made out on the couch. "So sweet for me..." He whines, his blush darkening his face even more while he reaches for you with his other hand, holding you against him. His fingers knead the plushness above your hip for a moment, the hitching in his breath apparent. After another minute or so the two of you officially part, noticing the lair has gotten quiet.

You turn around to find nearly everyone with their jaws dropped to the floor, eyes boggled. Donnie sneers, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you against him possessively. The way his hand grips your tummy made you yelp, feeling embarrassed now that the two of you were caught. April snaps a picture, Leo snickers, Mikey cheers, and Raph narrows his eyes in suspicion, then smiles, proceeding to whack Leo upside the head before he moves over to tease Donnie. The Caseys walk in with two bowls of popcorn, Junior has a knowing look on his face while CJ looked on in confusion to the commotion. You sigh with a grin, shaking your head and relaxing in Donnie's arms as movie night started to kick off.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt writing #rottmnt donnie #rise donnie #rise donnie x reader #rise donatello #tmnt 2018 #oneshot #fluff #lime #no beta we die like gram gram #yippee

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chiefdirector · 4 months

Text

Wounded | Angela Lopez | The Rookie

Despite it going against at least fifty rules, Angela couldn’t help herself. Sure it wasn’t illegal or anything but it just felt wrong. Grey had gone one hundred and one times about fraternising with people within the department, let alone with people within the precinct but she couldn't help herself. God, she really wished she had listened.

Of course, deep down she knew that it wasn’t her fault but that knowledge didn't stop the guilt from rising up every chance it got, haunting her like a ghost. Although she knew that wasn’t the only thing haunting her, the image of her wife, laid right in front of her so still that Angela almost thought that she was asleep, or she would have if she wasn’t drenched in her own blood.

The bullet wound embedded in Detective (Y/N) (L/N)’s side plagued Angela’s thoughts, both waking and asleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw it. Every moment of silence all she could hear was her wife’s cries of agony, begging for someone to make it stop. Every peaceful moment Lopez had was burdened by the memory that she was powerless to help (Y/N) in the moment she needed her most.

She had fundamentally failed her.

The universe had chosen them to come together.

(Y/N) had moved to the Mid-Wilshire precinct from Hollywood when her patrol partner had passed away in the line of duty. She was up for promotion, the detectives in her department had given her the tap pretty early into her career. The move made sense, she would get a fresh start, rebuild the confidence she had lost whilst not being tied down as the officer who shouldn’t have survived.

If only she had known that title would come back and follow her with a vengeance.

Their relationship blossomed quickly after they had met. Initially they had sworn themselves to secrecy, knowing how much grief they could have been subjected to but it didn’t take long for their colleagues to learn about their relationship. Grey, after a lot of convincing (and some begging on (Y/N)’ end) had signed them both off to work in the same station, as long as Lopez never came directly under (Y/N)’ command. Romantic relationships had a lot more protections than most others, especially in police work.

Lopez and (L/N) tended to move in sync, knowing what the other needs without even asking. When one moves, so does the other, like magnets. The benefits of having a pair like them was exceptional, until one would fall. So Lopez and (L/N) were split up, rarely working together unless it was the last option available. The liability of having one of them injured whilst the other was near was far too high. It wasn't worth the risk.

Angela thought the rules were a load of shit.

It was only when Angela saw (Y/N) lying there, bleeding out, did she truly realise why the rules were the way they were, why they were so strict, and why she shouldn't have been on that operation that day.

It was her ignorance that had caused Jule to turn around and move towards her, trying to protect Angela from harm, subsequently fating herself to the suffering intended for Lopez.

—----

The hospital was cold.

The sterile white walls pressed into Angela as she sat in the waiting room, Bradford and Grey by her side as they waited for any news on (Y/N)’ condition. The hustle and bustle of doctors, nurses, and patients alike barely registered in Lopez’s mind as she sat in the far to firm chair, staring at the floor. She had counted the floor tiles in the room six times before she registered that Tim had stepped out to get the three of them coffee.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, watching the world go by. It simultaneously felt like seconds and decades. She watched as families joined in her waiting and then left again. She listened to their cries of joy and the wails of anguish. All of the chatter and noise eventually fell into a quiet hum in the back of her mind as she counted the tiles on the floor once more.

It was the gentle tap of Sargent Grey that brought her crashing back to reality again. She snapped her head up at him, before searching around the room to see another surgeon standing at the doorway, a char in hand and a solemn look adorning his face.

“Family of (Y/N) (L/N)?” The surgeon called out again. Angela shot up from her seat at an almost inhuman speed. She swallowed down her nervousness as she approached him, now was not the time to be afraid, not when she could lose anything. She could be afraid in private.

“Yes,” she croaked out, wincing at how hoarse her voice sounded. Quickly, she coughed to clear her throat, “that’s me.”

“There were some complications during surgery. Ms. (L/N) had some severe internal bleeding that was not caught until later in the process and by that time it-”

The surgeon's voice droned out of Angela’s mind, becoming another noise in the background as she tried to process the words. She was no doctor but she knew that internal bleeding was never good. And with all the blood she had lost even before she had gotten to the hospital.

Every single possibility rushed through her mind as she fruitlessly tried to stabilise her breathing. This couldn’t be happening, not now. Not to her. The guilt sprung forth in her mind tenfold, Angela knew it should be her in that position, not her (Y/N). Anyone but her (Y/N).

“Ms. Lopez. Do you understand what I am saying?”

For the second time in five minutes, Angela snapped back into reality, this time she was hyper focussed on the surgeon in front of her.

“What?” she said, her voice still meek.

“Ms. (L/N) is currently in recovery in the ICU.” The surgeon looked down at the officer, seemingly annoyed by her lack of presence when he spoke the first time, “she is ot conscious and due to the numerous complications, we do not have an estimate as to when she will wake up; if she will even wake up.”

“But she’s alive?”

“Yes, you can go up and see her shortly. The nurses are just cleaning her up from the surgery.”

Angela let out a breath she didn't know that she was holding at the doctor's words. She was alive. (Y/N) had made it through the surgery and she was alive. Angela could keep hoping and praying for her recovery because there was a chance that she could recover. There was a chance that she would wake up, that she would heal, that she would go home. There was a chance that she would live.

(Y/N) survived and now she had a chance, and Anegla knew that was enough.

Masterlist

@augustvandyne

#angela lopez #angela lopez x reader #the rookie x reader #the rookie #angela lopez imagine

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goofyahhchicken · 5 months

Text

Blankets ~ Gideon Graves/Gordon Goose x Sick!Julie Powers fanfic

cw: sickness (flu), Gideon Graves, Julie Powers, hugs!

very fluffy fic be prepared

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Gordon dragged his feet off the couch, he felt an immense craving for some sort of fast food. His girlfriend, Julie would still usually be doing her hair at the bathroom sink at this time in the morning, so he seized the opportunity to politely ask for food.

“Julesss!!!” he whined, “can you order me a Burger King pleaseeeee???”

No response.

“Weird..” he loudly exclaimed, he didn’t expect Julie to say yes, she usually would tell him to leave her alone, (but still get it for him.) so he decided to check on her and shuffled to her bedroom.

There lied a shivering Julie wrapped up in a plentiful of blankets. Her headphones were in, but Gideon could hear whatever she was playing as she had her music on ear-damaging volume.

“Jules, what’s wrong?”

He gently tapped Julie’s shoulder, she quivered and slowly cranked her head around and took her headphones off. Her lips and nose were red, puffy and smothered with vaseline.

“What… the f*ck do you want Gordon?”

His eyes were fixed on hers, he gently stroked Julie’s cheek.

“I’m so sorry Jules, I had no idea you were sick..” he mumbled. Julie’s gaze softened, her cheeks which were already red due to the cold turned crimson.

“Can you c-call Stacey and say i’m sick..? If she yells at me tell her to give me a f*cking break! o-ok” She whispered through chattering teeth.

“Right-o!” Gordon excitedly responded, a day off with his semi(?) girlfriend felt like a miracle considering Lucas Lee had already ditched him. Things got lonely around the house, and Julie had stopped paying for Gordon’s crunchy roll subscription which only made things worse.

After Gordon said Julie would be absent from work he hung up the phone, he did not want to tell Julie that Stacey (unsurprisingly) was unhappy with her sick leave so he decided to stop the conversation before it got to that level.

“Ba-ack!” He sang.

“W-what did she say?” Julie croaked,

“That she hopes you get better soon~” Gordon was obviously lying out of his teeth, and Julie knew that; however, she thought it was kinda cute so she played along.

“I’m gonna go make some special soup for you, my mom’s remedy to any flu!” He geeked. Julie hummed in agreement back, wrapping yet another layer of blankets around her.

After many fire alarms and weird scents, Gordon came up with a tray which entailed grilled cheese, orange juice and a very obviously tinned tomato soup. Julie chuckled to herself and ate up, Gordon watched her the entire time with content.

When Julie was finished, she and her cocoon of blankets rolled over on the bed to face Gordon, who was grabbing a blanket from a drawer. He slowly snuggled up beside Julie who was thankful for the heat. They sat in silence, staring at eachother longingly.

Julie eventually looked down in disgust, “I wish you didn’t see me like this, i look like a zombie..” she groaned, Gordon was shocked by this sudden statement that it took him a while to compute it.

“I DONT THINK YOU’RE A ZOMBIE!” he exploded. Julie laughed out of shock, gobsmacked by the volume and severity of Gordon’s statement. “And even if you were a zombie, WHICH YOU ARENT! you would be the most beautiful zombie in the world.” he ranted.

“Can i have another blanket, Gordon?” Julie asked softly, as her eyes met his again.

“Of course!”

He slowly got up and reached for another blanket, then wrapped it around Julie. He pulled both ends of the blanket towards him on the bed, moving Her closer, then latched his arms onto her; after a while of Julie being warmed by the blankets and Gordon, she drifted off to sleep.

Gordon watched her eyes flutter and listened to her breathing becoming slower, he then took off her glasses and placed them beside his on the cabinet.

“Goodnight my love.”

A/N: my requests are open now, so are my rules so check them out before requesting!

#scott pilgrim the anime #scott pilgram takes off #scott pilgrim #gordon goose #gordon x julie #gideon graves fanfic #gideon x julie #julie powers #fluff #scott pilgram vs the world #oneshot #new writers on tumblr

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watermelon-mafia · 1 year

Text

got tagged by @ghostboyjules in this so here we go! btw anything in brackets like this -> [] is not part of the song title it's just commentary i wanted to add

choose an artist you like and use the name of their songs to answer this as close to the truth as possible!

name of the artist: paramore! i love that band a lot and they popped into my head first :)

what is your gender? where the lines overlap

describe yourself: for a pessimist, im pretty optimistic

how do you feel? here we go again

if you could go anywhere, where would it be? miracle [there isn't a great choice for this one, oops 😔]

describe your best friend: my heart [ily jules 💖]

your favorite time of day: brighter

if your life was a tv show, what would it be called? caught in the middle

what is life to you? ain't it fun

what do you fear? be alone

jules!!! thank u for tagging me i had fun doing this! 💖

i will tag... @croakings @caprisun-wizard @fenrisforyourself annnnnnd @casualavocados

#cryptid chattering #jules i know u tagged me yesterday but i saw this real late im sorry 🥺

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wisteriagoesvroom · 6 months

Note

Prompt: Max being obsessed with Charles' lips, or hands, or hair. And cannot stop touching

traces lestappen rated M for slightly eMotionally fraught 2.5k words also readable on ao3

Charles’s palms are pressed against the wall. This close, Max is practically breathing into him, chest like a deflating balloon. If Charles turned his cheek, there would be nowhere else to go but for their mouths to meet.

In the silence, just the whir of the dying machinery, all worn out. They are in a garage, but it is the quiet hush of a gallery, with only yawning metal and flickering data feeds to bear them witness.

“Do you need something from me, then?” Charles asks, again. Tilting his head up, face open, neck bared to the bite.

Side notes: I ended up learning into the "obsession" and "physical touch" aspects of the prompt, so it is what it is, and I hope you enjoy nonetheless. Full story below the cut, or on ao3 <3

Away from the cameras, down the line of handshakes and congratulations, far from the confetti, Charles finally has a chance to breathe. He wills himself to, breath in, breath out. Paces and paces, not sure what to do with his hands, settling for flexing them in and out as if it would do anything to calm the buzz inside his ears

The celebrations are already starting, and he’d asked for a minute alone in the garage, just to gather his thoughts. This deep inside, there’s just the occasional pneumatic hiss of machinery elsewhere, and footsteps travelling past outside in search of better chatter. The air of a win feels good. He even fought all the way up from tenth to be here. First. The adrenalin is something else. It’s been so long since Scuderia had stood up there on the podium after a disastrous few seasons, the least they could do was grant him some quiet.

And what of the quiet? He doesn’t know what to do with the elation that crawls into his gut, so instead he fingers the bracelets that are wound around his wrists, a grounding sequence he’s been through over and over again to keep his mind on earth. Teeth sharp as he bites the heel of his hand. If he isn’t careful, he suspects he could leap into the air and fly like Hermes if he so wanted. Close enough to touch stratosphere, pierce the sky red. A messenger for victory, for once.

If only his father and Jules could see him now. He spends a lot of time trying not to think too hard about that.

“You looked good. Out there.”

The hollowed out baritone travels from the door of the garage. Oh, there it is, the telltale hammering of his heart in his chest. It’s only been a month since he and Max had last cornered each other, a few weeks since their fleeting physical touches became something more, took a shape that neither of them especially cared to define. The contours of their lives are so otherwise rigidly managed. Why put a label on a good thing?

Max corners him, quickly, backing Charles up against the wall with a pace that Charles should be frightened by, but really, he is no longer afraid.

The steel of the garage is cold against Charles’s back. They’re so close Charles can smell the sweat and engine oil emanating, siren-like, beneath the other man’s fireproofs. But Charles tells himself he’s already won today, so what is a little bit of making yourself willing bait? After all, he knows more than anyone the thrill of the chase. Of fighting for scraps. Crawling and pushing until you can spot weakness, draw blood.

Max’s gaze sweeps across Charles’s own face. Charles wonders what truths Max might find there - eyes dilated in fear. A readiness to accept the strange thread of fate that has tied them together for so long, and brought them both here. He is avidly aware of the effect Max has on him, desire already rolling like butter down his spine.

The other man’s chest rises and falls, a jagged rhythm against his own. Blue eyes blown wide, face brooding as a storm on the horizon. This is a type of altitude sickness, Charles realises, mind placid as a lake. Both of them pushing too high despite the warning signs. Though it had always been contained to the track, and now it’s spilled over, and hadn’t maman always told him ça ne sert à rien de pleurer à cause du lait renversé.

Max cages him in, and he doesn’t fight. He simply watches the other man’s apple bob as he swallows, breath serrated on the inhale. He is just as out of control in this as Charles himself is.

Je sais. Charles tells himself. This is how it is, allowing it to be hunted. It is fine. This is not the first time, and Charles knows how someone like Max, so concerned with always being in control, needs this to go. Charles knows, because if you stripped away the layers of superficial difference between them, the engine-heart within them beats much the same.

“Did you really want to talk about the race?”

“I could.”

Charles says, half close to a mad laugh, high and winded it could bubble out of him but he presses it down with great determination.

“I don’t think so, Max.” Instead he stares back and Max, his bright and hungry eyes, and asks:

“Have you come here to prove a point?”

“No.”

“Is there something important you wanted to say to me? So important that we would keep hundreds of people waiting?”

Max shakes his head, still no.

“Do you need something from me, then?” Charles asks, again. Tilting his head up, face open, neck bared to the bite.

In turn, Max’s eyes flutter shut, his hand curls into a fist. Charles knew that sometimes the boys would act this way, after races. Emotions all over the place, central nervous system unable to regulate the excess adrenalin. But it was all fun horseplay, never quite like this. Never as if he stood on a cliff, arms open for someone else to push him off.

What Max says to Charles, he says with his eyes still closed.

“You… you took something from me.”

“It’s just a race.”

They’re both lying. It’s never just a race. But it is deliberate, the denying of one idea, reducing it into something insubstantial so they don’t have to give it a name. Call it what you want - rivals, athletes, maybe even friends. But neither of them has to knock over this precarious thing they’ve so carefully cultivated over the years. They have taken a wildfire and kept it in a cage, for the time being. And now they stand at the gate, hands over the bars, perhaps ready to set it free.

Charles makes a decision. His fingers reach out of their own accord, brush the other man’s bristly chin.

“We have to stop this.” Max tries, pulling back.

“Why?”

“It’s not right.”

“Does this feel somehow not right to you?”

“No. It does not feel… bad, necessarily.”

Charles tilts his head, trying to understand these lines of reasoning, of the deceptions Max needs to make to himself to make this feel okay. You feel this need to trick yourself, so that you may trick others into disbelieving what we are, too.

“You’re worried what your father might say.”

Max scoffs. “I haven’t cared what he has thought in many years.”

“Nonetheless. People will probably find out.”

“Yes.”

“They like to talk. Does your side have a comms plan?”

“Of course. Does yours?”

“They’re Italian. They will deal with it as it comes.”

Max looks deadly serious now. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Time. Charles thinks, turning a new stone over in his head. Yes, isn’t time the essence of what they do on the track, how they live their lives? Schedules fixed to the minute, meals and tours and toilet breaks pre-planned to the hilt, teams working on strategy and every eventuality. And yet somehow, unspooling all the threads in his life wouldn’t have caused Charles to see this particular storyline playing out. It is time for Charles to take something here of his own. To ask time to wait, if just for a while.

Charles gathers Max’s hands. His calloused, careful hands, and presses them against the underside of his own jaw. Putting himself in the hands of the beast.

“Let’s not waste a minute, then.”

Then Max is a sandcastle, collapsing. Leaning in, folding forward to him, inevitable. Quick and sure as Max is on the track, he isn’t here. His hands tremble, thick fingers drawing broken lines between the tip of Charles’s brow, his cheek, the bow of his mouth. Max takes his time chasing the lines he draws with his mouth, breath warm on Charles cheek, gentle kisses telling Charles more in the silence that either of them could put in words.

“Charles,” comes the name, snarled low, but holy. “You don’t know, you’ll never know—”

But I do, I do. Charles thinks to himself. Lesser men have fought for this, lesser men have died for this. The world is vast and unknowable and terrifying, and yet you are here, and you are mine. This is the quieter murmur in Charles’s brain, a soft rattle in a back room that would yawn all monstrous if he gave it too much sun. They do not speak of their yearning, in case making it real means they lose this. So all Charles can do is nod, half lost to feeling, as Max kisses a revarant line along his jaw. To press his palms into Max’s strong shoulders and roll his head back to give Max more room, give him everything as Max’s own hands crawl further down, enclose his waist as if there is any remote chance that Charles would ever, could ever run for this.

Charles could be ten feet tall, a speck on the ground, subatomic. He could be anything Max asked, bend himself in particular shapes, if it meant being held by Max just for a while. The severity of this feeling, this affliction – it already frightens him. For it is the kind of passion that came from books and histories, the realm of the insane. He wonders if Max feels it too.

“We shouldn’t.” Max says, devotion bared in every movement, every pass of his mouth on Charles’s skin.

“We can’t.” Max says, again, fingertips deceiving him all the while, both of them knowing it’s a lie. How could they fight this?

In response, Charles only leans in and kisses him back. Kisses Max fully on the mouth, drags his tongue across the seam of his lips. Kisses like he races, arrogant, cunning, nothing like how he is off track because they are their truest when they’re moving fast and uninhibited towards the same finish line. Charles’s hands are sharp in Max’s hair now, nails scraping through skin, claiming what’s his. No longer content to play prey and follow the predetermined schedule. Charles licks hungrily, teeth scraping Max's bottom lip, and Max makes a noise, a rumble deep in his chest, dick hardening against Charles’s hip.

This is it, he thinks. What it’s like to take your place, instead of being second by, by default, each time.

This is it, Charles thinks. The cliff, both of us tumbling off.

Max’s body curves forward, giving away how much he has needed this. In response Charles splays his fingers wider on Max’s back, pulling him closer. Max likes this, shoving a knee between Charles’s legs with an assertiveness that makes Charles's head spin, makes Charles moan. Max drags his teeth along Charles’s neck with such hunger that it crawls into Charles’s gut, the voice in his head urgent now, insistent for more, beast begging to be fed. Each pass of their mouths against each other, each startled gasp, an uncontrolled demolition. This is how they are, always. Step for step. Leap for leap. Breath for breath.

“I want,” Max mumbles, into the side of his neck. His breath is hot there. This close, Max smells like musk and steel. “We should—”

A bleep in the distance, suddenly loud, then stopping just as abruptly. A preset alarm, it must have come from one of the screens. A technician will come and fix that soon, they both know. No driver can be alone in this terrarium of dreams for long.

Max presses his forehead, gentle as winter snow, on Charles’s for a moment.

When they finally break apart, they are both breathless. Max has colour high on his cheeks, his hair is a mess. Charles is sure he is not much better for wear, blood having rushed south, heart pumping at a rapidfire clip. The bright expression on Max’s face reminds Charles of when they were much younger, only that their lives are now infinitely messier, and somehow after all this year, still so intertwined.

“They’ll be waiting.” Charles says.

Max nods. “Take a minute.”

“Separately. That is probably wise.” Charles adds, conscious of his own arousal.

Max takes several steps back, smoothing down his own suit, and starts pulling the zips back together. Charles’s fingers itch to do the work for him, but he won’t. Not now, and not yet. He has already given up enough.

After taking some distance, putting the beast back in its cage, Max turns to go. Charles wonders, as he has done in the past several months, whether this thing between them could truly be tamed. What the world would say if they found out about this, whether they would survive it. An even worse voice asks whether Max truly returns his depth of feeling, or this is just a strange form of one-upmanship for him, a convenient plaything.

But then again, this has been an unprecedented day, and there may be more yet. Some questions are too big to deliberate with your rival in the sterile white lights of a garage.

“I’ll see you on the podium.” Max says. Running a hand through his hair, pulling his cap back on. Charles nods, and tries not to think about the blooming lovebites on his neck.

“They’ll talk, won’t they?” Charles asks, tentativeness creeping in. Max stares at him. Sends a funny feeling squiggling into his gut.

“So let them.”

The cameras will show them laughing. Patting each other on the back, champagne spray a golden rainbow above their heads.

The cameras catch everything. Almost. This is a secret they’re willing to hold to their chests.

But meanwhile, here? As they open the doors, turn to walk to the press conference?

Their fingers touch. They share a secretive smile. Hands, threaded fully into each others, squeezing just once.

Reality beckons. But in the walk over, as the silence is filled by something much bigger, louder – Charles figures it out.

That there is no word yet for what they are, but maybe he doesn’t need a word either, for what is yet to be.

#lestappen #prompt fill #f1 rpf #f1 fic #this became a kind of weirdly regency x Red Bull vibe #don’t ask me to explain it I’m already insane #f1 fanfic #lestappen fic #formula 1 fanfic #fanfiction #wisteriawritesstuff

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mr-ding-dong · 4 months

Text

DBD men... And would I blow them?

...

The Trapper - No, I just feel like he'd be way too rough.

The Wraith - Yes yes yes... I will not further explain my reasoning.

The Hillbilly - no, I know he's musty from being in those walls for ages. But I'd give him a hug.

The Doctor - HELL NO... he creeps me tf out, and he's a huge psychopath... Most killers are, but he's on a special level.

The Shape - Probably, like in a really odd circumstance.

The Clown - Nope, I know for a fact he probably has some disease down there. Mungy clown.

The Cannibal - No... But I'd give him a hug and head pats.

The Legion (Frank) -... Maybe, he's a mixed bag for me. Probably not, simply because of Jules.

The Legion (Joey) - Yes, he's hot. Duh.

The Nightmare - Nope, I'd rather kill him.

The Ghost face - Yes, why not, seems like a fun time.

The Demogorgon - IT'S A BEAST ALIEN, WHY WOULD I DO THAT?

The Oni - I'd be down, ngl. Like 👉👈 perhaps I'd go down if my life was spared from his blood rage 👀

The Deathslinger - Nope, notta chance. Sorry... But no.

The Executioner -... Yes, he's definitely musty... But I'm willing to somewhat look past it. Just no damn scarab beetles.

The Blight - Nope, I don't want any of the infection juice he's having. I wouldn't even high five him without ten gloves on.

The Trickster - Nope, I hate him. I don't care if he's hot, he's not getting any, I'd rather kick his ass.

The Cenobite -... Probably. Not in the chatter skin, but if the chains don't go through my skin and just kinda tie... I'd be okay.

The Dredge - Wtf even is it? Does it even have one? No... Ew.

The Mastermind - Nah, I'm good. He doesn't need more of an ego trip. I'll be passing on that even if he's British.

The Nemesis - No... Again... Does it even have one?

The Singularity - Does it even have one #3? And no! I'd rather feed it a bomb and watch it explode, before high fiving Gabriel.

The Knight - Handjob... I feel like something is wrong down there so my mouth ain't touching shit.

The Good Guy - No, he's a married man and a doll. And a father! No... I'm not that type.

Jake Park - Yes, already on knees. No hesitation.

Dwight Fairfield -... Out of pity, sure. But only once.

David King - Nope. Not my type, too rough and weird face... Ngl.

Bill Overbeck - No, he's cool... But like in a badass grandpa type of way.

Ace Visconti - No... I can smell the STDs off of him, I don't trust that man.

Adam Francis - Sure, he seems nice, probably clean too.

Jeff Johansen - Nah... I'll pass. A bit too much like a relative.

Quentin Smith - Sure...if I don't stare at his face for a long time, because they really messed up his face.

Steve Harrington -... Yes. I won't deny it.

Ash Williams - He looks like my father, so no.

David Tapp - Nope, probably married or something and I don't do that.

Felix Richter - I just don't vibe that way, I forget he exists most of the time. So no.

Leon Kennedy - YES. Sorry Ada, but YES.

Jonah Vasquez -Nope, I just don't really... Like the vibes... I'll pass.

Yoichi Asakawa - He's so sweet, so yeah... Plus he's pretty. I'd be down.

Gabriel Soma - 100%, he's definitely traumatized but who isn't from the survivors...and killers.

Vittorio Toscano - I don't usually go for much older men or beards....but I'd be down.

Renato Lyra - I like messy hair, I'm a sicker for it. So as long as he doesn't cut his hair, my knees are on the ground.

Nicholas Cage - No! He is a married man with kids. Nuh uh.

Alan Wake - Nah... No offense but he looks like a cheaper Keanu Reeves. I'll pass.

#dbd killer #dbd survivor #Dbd #dbd fanart #dbd #dbd art #dead by deadlight #dbd fanfic #dbd fandom #dbd frank #dbd clown #dbd chucky #dbd cosplay #dbd headcanons #dbd hillbilly #dbd wraith #dead by daylight #horror #hornyposting

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silverstonesainz-archive · 2 years

Note

A.[relief] + mick

i love me some mick

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

prompt: forehead touches - [ RELIEF ]: having lost sight of the receiver in an intense moment of danger, the sender spots them in the distance, and rushes to them, embracing them and resting their foreheads together out of sheer relief.

warning: i talk about his japan fp1 crash and i do mention jules once.

it's humid and wet in japan that friday, and you could feel it even deep in the garage. and while being in tokyo was nothing short of a dream, suzuka is quite the opposite. you don't enjoy wet races very much. and with the memory of jules looming over the garage, you're finding it very hard to sit still and watch the first free practice.

"baby, it's going to be fine." mick reassures you, kissing your forehead. "it's just practice."

"i know just... be safe."

"always."

you hang back, waving at your boyfriend before he slips into his car and drives off.

you wrap your arms around your body, hugging yourself tightly as you sit and watch mick drive. several mechanics engage in conversation with you, and you happily oblige. you have a laugh as you share your favorite stories of mick, and what you hope to be a good weekend for him.

the hour flies by, mick only coming into the garage twice without getting out of his car. the session is finally coming to a close, the garage begins to grow busy again and you retreat towards the back once more. a wave of gasps, and the sudden stop of movement has you whipping your head around and up towards the tv. a replay of mick's car crashing out and into the barrier replays on the screen and you feel your hear drop into your stomach.

there is a moment of tension, everyone holding their breaths until mick's radio plays on the tv. mechanics fall back into their chairs, shaking their heads as relief washes over the garage. except you. the relief completely skips over you. your body remains rigid, even when you see him walk out of the wreck seemingly unscathed. you rip the headphones off your head, walking towards the opening of the garage and wait for your boyfriend arrive back. you look past all the other cars parking, the many bodies making busy to prepare for the next practice session. you tap your foot nervously, teeth chattering from the cold rain hitting your body.

then you see mick's pretty blue helmet littered with cherry blossoms come in to view. he walks with his head hanging low, arms swaying ever so lightly. you feel tears well up in your eyes when you see him, suddenly you're able to breathe. he's back, and he's okay.

mick rips his helmet off, his balaclava soon following after. that's when he sees you, lip quivering and glossy eyes. his eyes grow soft, almost apologetic at the state you're in. your feet move before you can even think, rushing towards him and jumping into his arms. he catches you without hesitation. he holds you tight against him, and you ignore the water off his suit seeping into your clothes.

he sets you down on your feet, forehead touching yours and his hands cupping your jaw.

"i'm okay," he whispers, "i'm okay."

fluff party!

#lightsoutsainz fluff party #mick schumacher #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher imagine #mick schumacher fluff #ms47 drabble

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 11 months

Text

Vesuviella: Part 17

It seems that your friend group has a gift for knocking on your shop’s back door whenever you’re trying to rest. First the Devorak siblings' uneven rhythm, and now the sharp sound of metal tapping on wood as you’re just getting ready to head upstairs for a bedtime snack. You briefly hesitate before turning from the steps to let Lucio in.

“MC! Surprised to see me? You know, you should really consider changing up your -” Whatever else he planned to say is drowned out by the ruckus of two large, white, excited dogs pushing their way into your shop and jumping up to lick you. Between their barking, Lucio’s continued nervous chatter, and the late hour, you cave and open your door further.

“Come in.”

He’s already making himself at home at your backroom table by the time you relock the back door. He’s still talking, something about a group of strangers recognizing him and insisting they buy him drinks and dragging him to this part of town which is why he’s here now, and –

“What’s wrong, Lucio?”

“Huh? Nothing’s wrong! I'm great! I’m always great!”

You lean back in your seat opposite him, too tired to do anything beyond fixing him with an unimpressed look. Mercedes and Melchior are happily rolling on the rug behind your counter, and that’s where Lucio fixes his gaze until he can’t take the silence any more and breaks down.

“It’s not fair. You know I’m good-looking, right? Anyone with eyes does. Jules is just being stupid about this, like he always is. What was he thinking, making me the Ugly Stepsister? Look at me! I’m not ugly!” He pauses in his outburst and glances at you, a flicker of uncertainty in his silver eyes before it vanishes. “Right? I’m not ugly?”

You battle to keep the sleep out of your voice as you try to hide a yawn. “You’re not ugly, Lucio.” You’d normally sound a little more enthusiastic, but keeping your eyes open is a struggle right now and your response is all he needs to keep ranting.

“Of course I’m not ugly. I’m the handsomest guy there is. But what if they can’t see that? You know – because I’m such a good actor, I’ll have to pretend to be ugly, and people might believe it, right?” He’s getting fidgety again, clawed metal gauntlet beginning to put dents in your table and shred at the already fraying edges of the coverings. “And then you’re going to say no to me – in the play, you’re going to say no to the Ugly Stepsister in the play, and go off with that good-for-nothing magician. I mean, Cinderella. It’s just not a good idea to -”

His voice dies in his throat when you lay your hand over his metal arm, just as it’s about to put another gouge in your poor tabletop. You look back into his face, bravado and fear and a little bit of hurt twisting across it, and say the only words your sleep-deprived brain can come up with:

“You can’t control what people see, Lucio. Do your best and the effort will show.”

His face relaxes into a sharp smile. “You think so?” The metal hand under yours turns over to clasp your wrist gently, another warm, human one coming to rest on them. “I’ll be the best, MC. We’ll be the best. There’s no way I can do badly if you’re with me! I mean -”

And he’s sputtering off into another bout of verbal diarrhea as your head begins to nod. Mercedes and Melchior take that as their cue to being roughhousing again, which knocks a whole lower shelf of goods to the floor. Somehow, in the space of about thirty seconds, Lucio manages to wrangle the dogs out of the shop and shoo you off to bed before he disappears down the street. You don’t notice the way your name has been absentmindedly carved into the table where his gauntlet was resting until the next morning.

#vesuviella #the arcana #lucio the arcana #lucio morgasson #the arcana brainrot #arcana brainrot #the arcana fic #the arcana fanfic #the arcana crackfic #the arcana game #ask arcana brainrot

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goblinofthelaboratory · 3 months

Text

fine, I'll introduce myself

Greetings, and welcome to my...collection. Call it weird, call it creepy, I call it home. Basic rundown, here we go:

-I am a gargantuan nerd. About nearly every academic subject to exist and still others.

-you may call me Jules or goblin (or whatever you want)(in good faith of course)

-All pronouns (especially it/its, ve/vyr/ver, and other neos), please don't stick with just one set

-my gender is multifaceted chaos, you cannot constrain it with labels

-voidpunk (specifics are unclear as of yet but it's something otherworldly and incomprehensible)

-orientation: somewhere within the realm of aroace

-in a qpr with @snailcheeserulz <333 love you man

-adhd, peer reviewed autistic, possibly other neurodivergence??

-main interests: color psychology and theory, mechanics of light, linguistics, arthropods, physics of light, folklore, birds, research, color, light, neurodivergence, crafts, fonts, sociology, poetry, physics, plants, rocks

media i like: mostly a casual enjoyer but ones i like are, the owl house, percy jackson, Neil Gaiman books, Discworld, gravity falls

tags i use:

#eternal goblin chatter in my brain my original posts

#mentally tagging that one irl posts reminiscent of one particular friend

#for the goblins future reference my saving stuff tag

#hopepunk self explanatory

#remember this for bad mental health days

#reblog bait protective tag

#horror block tag for those who want it, generally creepy/gore/thriller stuff

i don't sort neatly

sideblogs:

@consistent-scribbles [my shitty attempt at an art blog mostly dead rn

@el-bicho-muy-codicioso-conocer [spanish langblr, mostly piecemealed out of the dictionary

@another-animists-treasure [pagan blog for saving witchy/animism stuff of the religious persuasion

~secret~ vent blog

YOU CAN ALWAYS INTERACT WITH ME THAT IS AN OK THING TO DO AT ANY TIME i may not respond quickly but i encourage engagement of any sort

please don't tag me in "if this gets x notes" posts, reblog games are welcome

no dni because they usually don't work and i can block whoever i don't want to be around

#eternal goblin chatter in my brain #pinned post

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jules-douglas · 1 year

Text

“So whose blood is that? Back at Kappa they mostly used Sammy as my personal bloodbag which had its own ethical issues, but stealing blood donated in good will to a hospital? Dicey.” Jules sets up an easy chatter as he settles into the chair, rolling up his sleeve. He’s resentful of those that broke him out of Kappa: but that’s nothing to do with Raul. He’s just a phlebotomist, which is a group of people with whom Jules is instinctively comfortable. Especially when they’re DILF-y, because, you know, when you spend your life sick and miserable you take the little victories where you can. @wolfsonged

#raul #raul: bloodbag

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standbyric · 1 year

Text

[PART I]

06: Red Bull 1-2

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x Female!Driver OC x Pierre Gasly Premise: Formula One, Female Racing Driver Rating: 18+; Mature themes (explicit language, death, trauma innuendos, motorsport accident, mentions of sex) Timeline: Back and forth Word Count: 6.3k Sum: But was she guilty? Ogling her eyes out for Pierre Gasly, yet keeping Daniel close? Trigger warning: Mentions of period and female genitals.

⬅️ Chapter 05 | MASTERLIST | Chapter 07➡️

Sochi Autodrom, Russia, 2014. Flashback to Zea’s debut race.

She felt grim.

Bleak.

Her insides churned like the wheels kneading milk to butter; only the bitterness—not the savoury—tanged her tongue.

She’d qualify at 13th for tomorrow’s race, her debut race. Not ideal, but enough to give her a shot at fighting for points.

She sat herself beside Max Chilton, Jules’ former teammate, now hers. The chatters around the spacious conference room had long been on mute as her mind replayed Jules’ radio, over and over again, like a reeled-back tape, when the accident swallowed him not even a week ago.

She was a witness.

Yet another helpless bystander.

The muffled scream, the static afterwards, and the pitter-patter of the rain. The echo of his engine as it delved into the crane at 92Gs, the immediate silence. And then, she was face-to-face with the barely recognisable chassis—or whatever was left of the car.

It had been doing things to her mind. Weird things.

One moment she was working on the car with the other Marussia mechanics. The other instant, she was lost, momentarily placing herself in the late Frenchman’s position, thinking how unfair it had been for his family.

At the same time, an understanding of her father registered. Clearer. Almost like an awakening. The realisation that came faster than a bolt of lightning—the realisation that papa must’ve had it worse.

That was when Charlie Whiting took the centre chair on the dais, opening the briefing session, snapping her back to reality.

Nothing more than a greenhorn, fresher than a daisy.

Zea understood that better than everyone else.

The fact that even her teammate hadn’t exactly shown interest in chewing the rags with her, and most of the other drivers not even approaching her, dismissing her like a ghost, was enough indication that she was less than a cursory visitor.

Hopefully, it wasn’t because she had ‘stolen’ Jules’ seat.

Because although her heart had been mourning gravely for him, she wasn’t going to be the hypocrite, refusing to exploit this opportunity. Jules was nothing short of sweet to her. Never giving her a side look, respecting her like he would every other driver on the grid. Wouldn’t then dedicating her performance to him be the rightful courtesy he deserved?

But right now, it stood that she was nothing more than a greenhorn.

Which has a professional translation as sit still and shut your yap because your opinion is not welcomed. Yet all this back and forth on better cockpit safety triggered her knowledge.

She’d shake her feet, restlessly biting the bottom of her lips to prevent words from accidentally slipping out.

Because the answer had been hanging in front of them this whole time, cordially saying ‘hello’.

Yet in the name of preserving the ‘danger element’ and Formula One being the epitome of open-wheel racing itself had long dictated no to closed cockpits. But Zea claimed this was no time to be bothered about that. At least not her. Jules’ casualty only extended her reasons.

“Listen, Zea…? Was it?” Zea nodded politely to Charlie. Clearly losing the battle against the temptation of staying still. Her raised hand betrayed her muscles, and her voice cheated her mind as her degree-backed opinions poured fluently off her mouth when the thirty-minute debate kept going around in circles. And she couldn’t take it anymore. Why everyone was surprised as if her mask would impair her ability to talk baffled her somehow.

“Bianchi’s accident was unfortunate, but a closed cockpit is not an option. We dismissed that long ago because then it’d be more difficult for drivers to get out in case of fatal accidents.” And to that statement, most drivers nodded in agreement, presuming her so-called ‘advice’ to be outdated.

Zea stifled a sigh. “No, sir, I never said closed cockpit. I said, a structure that could almost hover above the cockpit, acting like a barrier. Still an open cockpit.”

“Then you will need three legs for it to ‘hover’. One must be right in front of the driver, which will disrupt their vision. You’re only increasing the probability of accidents,” said the FIA chap whose name and position Zea forgot—assumed important since he was sitting next to Charlie on the dais.

What followed was sneers, not covert enough for her to dismiss. Or maybe that was the intention. And Max Chilton nudging her arm, reminding her not to get into any argument.

Zea glanced at the section where each team’s head engineers were seated. They were silent, eyebrows crooked, slightly nodding like bobblehead dolls. Must be because they knew she wasn’t spewing nonsense, yet too prided in admitting. Her calm and composed tone perhaps made the idea even more unfriendly, no matter how fitting it could be.

“I reckon it’d be an excellent investment if we start exploring the idea. You said it was crucial for us to find the solution. And besides, on the issue of peripheral vision—“

“—I’ve taken enough notes.” Zea bit her lips behind her mask as Charlie cut her off. The eerie glances from the entire room made her nauseous. As if her audacity was undue.

“Right. Of course.”

Felipe Massa was the only one who offered some form of support after the pack was dismissed. Tapping her shoulder and affirming her opinion was not less valid. Perhaps from the sense of shared-flag sentiments. Or perhaps from hands-on experience, having encountered flying debris over his head, cockpit safety issues became more prominent to him.

But she’d gladly take it—the sentiment, she meant.

Not that she needed the assurance that the grid accepted her, but she was still keen to take any form of goodwill.

So when she’d finished fourth on the Sunday race, relief rushed over her.

Yes, she had benefited from inheriting positions over well-timed undercuts, but it didn’t mean her chiselled driving was absent from the fight. But more than anything, she hoped it was enough to pay her respect to Jules.

Almost instinctive, as soon as she lifted her helmet, she went down to check the flooring of her car. The rattling had been bothering her the whole cool-down lap, almost like a game of daredevil of who was going to combust first—the car; or her anxiety of combusting in a car that combusted. And the prospect of dying there and then wasn’t so appealing.

Came Sebastian Vettel in the navy Red Bull suit.

He stood there, confused. Angling his head at the bizarreness of whatever was taking place. Because his intention was simple: to congratulate the rookie who started from thirteenth, dropped to fifteenth, and then shot up to fourth. In a Marussia. Everyone knew the only race that car could par in was one with Koala bears. Hell, even Koala bears were quick on the ground.

But when everyone else was busy completing their parc ferme, well-done wishes exchanged, the rookie girl in front of him was going down on her car. Literally.

“Um, hello…? Excuse me?”

Her little head popped up over the body of the car. Eyes wide open at Sebastian, hands seemed to struggle to pull something from underneath her car. “…Are you talking to me?” she said in between grunts.

Took Sebastian a couple of seconds of silence before replying. “…What are you doing?”

She stopped her pulling. Faltering as she immediately stood up, brushing herself off. “Right! Sorry! This was—is—was? This is part of my job back in the garage, sorry! Am I—am I not supposed to do that here? Oh God—I’m not supposed to, am I—?!“

Sebastian’s laugh cut her off. Why she had to say sorry while stumbling over her words was confusing in a funny way to him.

“It’s okay, I’m not a blabbermouth, I won’t tell the stewards. And besides, I just want to say congratulations on finishing fourth in your debut race.”

Silence. And Sebastian couldn’t even make her expression because of the mask. Fearing his light joke might’ve somehow offended her, he shuffled his feet.

“…Oh! Thank you!” Her gratefulness freed him from that thought. “Oh, and trust me, I’m smiling right now.” Perhaps that was her means of soothing the German driver when she noticed his perplexed look. That was enough to gauge the smile back on Sebastian.

“Thank you,” Zea reaffirmed her gratitude as she took off her gloves. Her tone was warm and hospitable. “You’re about the only person who’s talked to me this weekend—I mean, except Massa and Chilton, obviously. Thank you.”

Sepang International Circuit, Selangor, Malaysia, 2016. Back to the Present.

What a weird day to remember Sochi, Zea thought.

Mainly because the two circuits were fundamentally different. But maybe, because Seb’s interview was being broadcasted on the big screen, and the Ferrari driver said he was looking forward to seeing her make-up positions from the back of the pack.

Which she was, too. Honestly. Having to shoulder a pit-lane penalty for her new power unit.

And that bit of nostalgia was something she needed, too, to distract herself from her conniving mind, which, for the past 30 minutes or so, had been busily entangling itself from the many loose ends of delusion that would probably be the rope she’d hang herself with.

Because if the Malaysia sun was murder on her skin, the fiery pit of hell wouldn’t be a good thing.

He was not a prostitute, she reminded herself, trying to stop any further dirty thoughts—or actions—her brain was beyond willing to conjure up.

Maybe blame the hormone and the shit Elijah declared before she was due to jump in the car. When Pierre kept licking his lips—seductively, or perhaps that was just her indecent thoughts, she was having difficulty differentiating—chatting with Antonio as they walked past the Audi garage about how terribly hot Malaysia had been. Clearly, he was referring to the country’s temperature.

“Oooh… I wonder what else that tongue can do.”

Zea had gasped, pausing to fully express her horror at Elijah’s statement. But the arse smirked like the devil he was, focusing instead on prepping her neck muscles before the race.

Well, fuck her mind because now she couldn’t stop thinking (thirsting) about it.

And as far as reasons go, the stars must’ve been perfectly aligned for Irza and Elijah because those two were fated to co-own hell. Which made all the more sense now, considering we’d established the twin sister would be a resident of that very hell.

Because, while it was perfectly normal to find the man irresistible—she was positive there were enough women and men alike affected to guarantee a support hotline—she should be feeling friendship. Camaraderie. Nakama. Shit like that. Getting all hot and bothered was not helpful or conducive, especially considering that on his side of the road, all he felt was probably nothing. And especially considering she had a race due.

“That fucker.” Zea’s murmur startled Vishal, who was adjusting her belt. “Did you just curse at me?” her mechanic staggered backwards.

“Wh—No!” Her objection was quick. “I—I was talking to myself….” Perhaps now was about the right time to pick up the shovel and dig deeper into the hole, bury herself or something.

Only after some miracle and serious slap on both cheeks to brush off the remnants of Elijah’s hypnosis could she force herself to gear the race-ready Ace.

Because you don’t have time for that.

That became her mantra for the day.

Already two Virtual Safety Cars (VSC) were launched within the first ten laps of the Malaysian Grand Prix. Vettel retired after the first, and the second wave was Gutierrez squeezing Magnussen against the inside kerb—and Kvyat hitting the back of the Renault.

The midfield came to be disturbed, picking its way through the carnage, allowing Ocon a route through to tenth ahead of Alonso, and for Zea to have somehow shimmied her way to twelfth from the back row, her instincts, as ever, uncanny as she took the wide outside line past the traffic jam on the inside, then jinked through the Vettel mess.

Red Bull had a dilemma of its own to solve mid-race. It looked like the earlier VSC gamble—Max pitting while Daniel stayed out—would play in Max’s favour.

But Daniel had a knack for these Pirellis. In tune with their messages, could coordinate his throttle and steering inputs accordingly and tease stint lengths from them without slowing as much as the others.

Lap forty-four, and Hamilton’s engine blew!

No warning, nothing, just poof, clouded in a foggy smoke. And Hamilton was forced to relinquish his lead to Ricciardo, which the Brit didn’t handle with much appreciation as he brought his Mercedes to a halt, ushered by his roaring rage over the radio, triggering another VSC.

The final sprint was a prompted Bulls’ fight at the front line.

Verstappen supposedly had the lady luck with him in a fresher set of softs than his teammate Ricciardo. If only he could get to within the DRS range… Instead, he locked up his fronts slightly on turn 15 and lit up the rears in wheel spin.

That was all it took.

Ricciardo was home free, Verstappen accepted second, Rosberg fought for third, and Raikkonen a riled-up fourth. Stevens, in fifth, beating his Audi teammate, did a superb job of making his one-stop work, defeating Alonso and Hulkenberg. And Zea’s eighth was a fantastic result from the back of the grid, harvesting good points for the team.

“P8, Zea! Shame? Or brilliant? What do you say?”

The mess of sweat smothered her vision as she attempted to even her breath. “Um, considering I started from the pit lane, brilliant? I guess? Good points for the team.”

“It must’ve been very challenging, yes? All the other drivers said it was boiling in the car. Must’ve been tough to concentrate?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t say it was difficult to concentrate—it’s the other way around for me. ‘Cause I’m actually on my period right now, so all that extra heat in the car helped numb the pain. I’d say the heat actually helped me focus better.”

“…Period…?”

Zea mimicked the reporter as he twisted his head, too confused to follow up. “Yes, darling. Period. Bleeding. From my vagina?”

A harsh sigh escaped Margareth, landing her hand on her forehead upon hearing Zea’s elucidation. Her driver even pointed brazenly to her crotch area.

She swiftly yanked Zea’s shoulder, a preppy smile on her face to dismiss the interview. Fortunately, the man had enough faculty to end her session without slipping into awkwardness.

“Really? Period? Vagina?” Marge’s exasperation was met with Zea’s huge grin.

And Daniel almost choked on his drink when he passed the Audis as they shuffled turns in the media pen. He threw Anne, his PR manager, a surprised look. “Did she just say… Vagina?”

Anne chuckled as she shook her head. “A handful, that one. I honestly feel bad for Margareth. You better behave.”

A muffled laugh from Daniel as he tuned in to Zea protesting.

“—No, ‘cause what on earth confused him? And why was he so surprised? It’s a biological cycle that literally happens every month. This is not even my first race being on my period. Or was I supposed to say oh, I’m in that part of the female mammal’s menstrual cycle where I bleed like a waterfall from my vagina, so I crave heat?”

He meant to be discreet, but his chortle at her graphic description slipstreamed right off his mouth.

Right. Why had it slipped his mind at all? She’d been a woman this entire time. He even remembered vividly how his sister would be every time Aunt Flo came around, which begs the question—how the fuck did she race in that condition?!

“What? Are you begging to be congratulated for winning?” She met his eyes, crossing her arms. “Well, congratulations, P1.”

“Hi, P5.” His cocky grin made two dimples pop on his cheeks. And Zea gasped.

“What?” Her hand daintily rested on her chest while an adequate amount of shock flashed across her face. And Anne nudged Daniel by the shoulder. “Stevens finished fifth. Zea eighth.”

“Oh shi—“

“—You totally did that on purpose.”

Daniel tried to deny it with all of his body. His head wiped around so fast Zea was surprised it didn’t pop or something. His eyes wide from shock. Or joy. It was a coin toss. But either way, the milk had been spilt. Or, in their case, oil? Because the Red Bull boy seemed to revel in playing with fire.

Because while Zea dismissed it with a broad smiley face, her insides were burning. Didn’t matter if he wasn’t actually deliberate; Mr Wide Grin didn’t need to rub it on her face like birthday cake now because she’d rather have popcorn.

She still managed to throw a chuckle, taking the ‘joke’ like a big girl, before walking away with P1’s I-really-didn’t-know shout bellowing in the background.

Now that only added to her annoyance. Because him really not knowing only meant their gap was bigger than the Atlantic Ocean.

Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration.

But in between pain screaming in her lower back and knots massing in her head, his little jab did nothing to improve her mood. Not that he was obliged to, anyway.

“Period and vagina, huh?” Katey Ash slipped her arm around Zea. “How scandalous.”

“Kitty!” Relief flowed through Zea with Katey’s belated appearance. “I thought you were with Adrian.”

“Oh, I left him. There’s no way I’m staying there, smiling like his accessory while he talks business.”

Zea chuckled, shaking her head. “You know he’d never think of you that way.”

“Him, no. The journos behind the lens with an acute disease of believing their own press? Yes.” Being in love with Adrian was one thing, but other than that, Katey had absolutely no interest in his family business and all the bullshit that stemmed from that. It was as straightforward as the long straights in Baku to Zea. Especially ever since her best friend fell victim to media slander, her double titles downplayed simply for dating a hotshot of the business world.

Life of women in sports where equilibrium is heavy on the testosterone side.

“Now real talk: was that even allowed?”

Zea shrugged leaning to Katey. “It’s my mouth. I can say whatever I want?” And Marge glared at Zea, hoping her subliminal messages of please-act-normal were through. Which probably didn’t because Zea sported another grin.

Marge sighed. “Briefing in 30 minutes, now I will assume Katey you’re the more normal out of the two, so make sure she’s not late. And make sure she’s on her best behaviour.”

Oh, how wrong she was.

“Of course, Marge,” Katey elbowed Zea softly when she noticed her friend’s real struggle to suppress a laugh. “You have nothing to worry about. She’ll be there in thirty minutes. Tip-top shape.” And when Marge left the two alone for her meeting, Zea’s laugh ruptured. “You? The more normal one?”

“Come on, girlfriend. Normal has a broad definition.”

Zea’s laugh got louder.

Of course. Just about right with Katey. The girl responsible for ‘tainting’ Zea with the otherworldly version of ‘normal’.

Zea’s giggling came to a halt when she felt someone tap her shoulder.

“What a march.” Pierre slipped his shades down the bridge of his nose, peeking over the lenses. And every single muscle of Zea’s body seized at the sound of his voice.

Do not look at his lips.

Not his chest, either.

Sweet baby Jesus. Malaysia was hot enough. Pierre had no business challenging that.

“Heyyyy, hot stuff.” She was hoping she didn’t salivate more than one of Pavlov’s dogs.

“Hey, Princess.”

But the man was killing her.

Killing her. With somersaults in her tummy might as well help her cross the ocean. But maybe that was just her period pain.

Their game wasn’t new. This whole charade was her idea—or supposedly—ever since Hungary, and he was just playing along. At least, that was what she had deluded herself with—denying the possibility that maybe Mr Hot Stuff had the steering wheel all along.

“You were driving like a madman. How many positions was that?”

Oh, him and his compliments.

“Psh, I know. I am great, amazing, magnífica.” If only she were a stranger with his habit of throwing compliments like Hallmark threw out Christmas cards, she would’ve swooned—not that she didn’t either way. Besides, she liked his little ayayay that followed every time she big-headed after his compliments. Like he just did. “Still better than your P11. Did Antonio take the win?”

Pierre tsk in faux annoyance. “What a bad habit, princess. Is that how you return a favour? ”

“Heyy, you know that’s not what I mean. I mean, it’s okay for you to chillax a little; there is still one more race. You haven’t lost yet; you can still win the championship.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, wasn’t really feeling the car today.”

“Exactly. It’s just one of those days. And besides, you are still recovering. How are you feeling, by the way?” Now her concerns were real. Pierre was still recovering from spinal injury since Silverstone, a road accident that unfortunately left his mom in the hospital.

“Well, as you can see, I’m still good-looking. Still the hot stuff.”

“Oh my God.” Zea punched him lightly, ignoring how the sturdiness felt good on her fist. But at least that meant he was much better if he could joke about it.

“So, to what exactly do I owe your imminent visit, then? Are you just here to help me inflate my ego? Make me feel better?” Because if he were, then thank you. After a certain someone—whether intentionally or not—decided today was a good day to smoulder her morale, Pierre was doing a good job doing the opposite.

“Actually, yes.” He rummaged for something from his pocket while Zea’s eyes widened, didn’t think Pierre was taking her joke seriously. “Here. They’re warm now.”

Imagine Zea’s surprise as Pierre casually took her hand and placed the familiar items there. “Are these heat packs?”

Pierre shrugged.

Zea gasped, exchanging looks with Katey as she put them on top of her stomach area. “You’re being sweet…” Warmth spread through her chest.

“I am sweet. What’s with that look.”

“You’re beginning to make me think you want something from me. Alright. Spill it, hot stuff. What do you want?”

His chuckle rumbled as his hand landed on her head, shuffling her hair. “Stop being so cynical about my intention. I gotta run back to the garage. See you around?”

“…Yeah.” Fortunately, Zea had enough consciousness left to return him a fist bump. And the hot stuff left.

“Shut. Up.” Zea gave Katey an ultimatum even before she had the chance to say anything. The billiard girl was gasping, fanning her face and whimpering in one breath it was a miracle she had enough air.

“You were flirting.”

“I was thanking and cheering him up.”

“You know he’s interested.” Katey’s voice lowered, and Zea wasn’t sure if she was being discreet or about to activate her nosy DNA.

“I have boobs and a pulse, Kitty. Of course he’s interested.” Zea rolled her eyes, her distrust of men whose 9-to-5 was driving cars that could cost ordinary people arms and legs—literally, even—around in circles poking through her nose.

“But he is your type. I know your type.”

“My womb is in pain. I just finished in eighth. Dead tired. And a certain arse totally rubbed that on my face. Can we focus on that instead?”

Katey snickered. “Okay. We can elaborate on hot stuff later.”

“Wh—No!” Zea almost had a conniption at Katey’s suggestion. “No later. This is done. The end.”

The two ladies’ laughter sounded bittersweet in Daniel’s ears, who had inadvertently bore witness to an upcoming rom-com series. Or was it a tragic love story between a princess and her hot stuff? Nah, the latter smelled more like an insect called spite. And he wondered, since when had his hearing been this good?

One thing was for sure; he messed up—albeit unintentionally. He’d genuinely thought Zea’s car was the higher-sitting Audi because that was how it usually was. It was wrong of him to assume.

He’d pissed her off, and now making it up to her was at the top of his list. And he knew with her current mood-flow, she wasn’t going to let him off easy. But how? He didn’t know. Yet.

But letting her pissed-off door close with Pierre being the one who lifted her spirit back up didn’t sit right with him. Because it had to be him. Talk about taking responsibility, right?

“Stop staring at it.”

While Pierre’s heat pack bribery—yeah, she was going to call it that to shamelessly flatter herself—was one thing, Daniel’s flannel shirt was another thing. The only thing they had in common was the degree of headache they cause Zea.

Night had fallen in Malaysia. But alas, the cool wind from the open balcony of her suite did nothing to cool her head.

The scattered papers over the table, the graphs on her laptop, namely her second means of distraction—the first being attempted mind control, which unsurprisingly didn’t work—in the form of comparative analysis between the top five teams on the grid was equally futile.

Not when the flannel shirt hung neatly across, and the out-of-commission heat packs stacked next to her laptop had the willpower of three hundred spartans pulling her focus away.

“You have no power here.” King Theoden’s tone when he reacted to Gandalf’s futile attempt at undoing the mind-control spell that Grima had casted on him spilled out of Zea as her index pointed alternatively to the red flannel and the stack of bribes.

She was double positive she’d lost her mind.

She was about to return to typing furiously when her hotel room was knocked. And after checking briefly from the keyhole, her fingers fumbled quickly to open the door.

Fuck the three hundred spartans. The Grima Wormtongue to her mind control stood with Irza’s arm slung over his shoulder. While her twin carolled his sorry attempt at Mariah Carey’s Christmas hit, Grima Ricciardo smiled, raising both eyebrows to greet her, oblivious to his own magic spells.

And the smell of alcohol slapped her like the salty breeze of the ocean, only this one unpleasant.

So she slid back without a word, letting Daniel carry the sluggish limbs of her twin inside, a look of shock painted still on her face. Irza had excused himself to join the Bulls in celebrating their long-overdue 1-2, but it seemed like he over-partied himself. Where was the surprise, though?

She stared at her sprawled-over womb-sharer on the bed, crossing her arms. “What the fuck did he booze himself with? Moonshine?”

Daniel chuckled, pushing himself off the bed to join Zea scrutinising the wasted Irza after carefully tossing him onto the soft mattress.

“He needs to learn self-control, I swear to God. Look at him, he’s toasted—“ Irza’s loud burp cut her off.

Daniel’s laugh roared.

Zea pinched the empty space between her brows. Embarrassed and disgusted at the same time.

“Oh, he’s disgusting. I am so sorry you have to see and smell that.”

“Come on, woman, it’s fine.”

“And I bet he sang the whole journey here.”

Daniel giggled lightly. “I—well, I sang along.”

Zea looked over at him. Horrified.

“We’re best buddies now.”

“Oh, trust me, I can tell—“

“—Z! I know you’re there!” Irza’s sudden yell was almost as if he had a third eye for people talking shit about him.

“I’m here. What do you want.”

“Good. Take me somewhere. I wanna puke.” How he was still able to deliver proper sentences impressed Zea. His eagerness to move, not. He rolled from the bed, not giving enough time for the two drivers to catch him when he fell and hit the ground face-first. The groan was next; Zea and Daniel froze in place like they’d been hit by Hermione’s stupefying charm.

“Thank you. I’ll puke now.”

“Wh—NO! You’re not somewhere yet—IRZA!”

It was a disaster in the making.

Zea wished she had boosts up her arms, yet Daniel was the one with quick thinking, uncannily moving like he was accustomed to the situation. “Phew, his puking timing is exactly like Michael,” he chuckled after sliding an empty tray, so Irza’s puke didn’t sully the carpet flooring.

“N-nice save!” The relief on Zea’s face was genuine. Her reflex was thankfully quick enough to hold Irza’s head, preventing her twin from duking into the pool of puke. “And I’m sorry to ask, but can you please put him back on the bed? While I clean that and get him a change of clothes.”

“Got it.” Daniel shot Zea a wink, hoping to give her the assurance that he didn’t mind. She mumbled her thanks.

Quickly, Zea flushed the barf off, mulling her gratefulness that Daniel was there to help with Irza’s shenanigan. Really, that boy needed to learn self-control.

When she came back with spare clothes, Daniel was already unlacing Irza’s shoes while her twin snore his shamelessness away.

“Geez, thanks. You didn’t have to.”

Daniel shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. Come on, make a man feel useful.” He pouted for the extra points. Zea’s eyes narrowed before bursting into a delicious giggle.

“Thank you.” She was so appreciative that the warmth it gave shook his whole body. Maybe it was guilt? Because clearly, she wasn’t happy with him during the day.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted without thinking. “I didn’t mean to piss you off. I really thought you were—“ Zea’s laugh swallowed the rest of his sentence.

“Whaaaat?” her voice hitch was back. “Oh, please, stop! I’m not that petty—okay, maybe I could be, but not for that. You did piss me off, but not enough for me to hold it against you.”

Daniel scratched his head. He couldn’t read her. Her downplaying could mean he was insignificant and she didn’t want to waste her avenue thinking about it. That bothered him even more.

“Don’t say that. You were in pain everywhere, and your hormones must’ve been spiralling out of control. I really should’ve been more careful.”

Zea stared at him. “Hormo—how did you know? How did you know I’m in my…”

“Jesus, woman. You literally broadcasted your period to the whole world.”

The realisation hit her like hot water. “Oh, right—OH SHIT.” Because she hadn’t exactly talked to her team principal after the broadcast, and from Marge’s body language after getting his call, pleased wasn’t what Alby felt. “Alby is gonna kill me.” It was a declaration to acquiesce her wrongdoing.

“Anyway.” She tapped his shoulder, deciding Alby’s wrath was a given whether she thought about it or not. “I have forgiven thee,” Zea said with a faux British accent, her little giggle making Daniel laugh in response.

“Why don’t you stay a bit? I’ll make some matcha tea. It’s good for hangover.”

And Daniel froze.

Between Irza’s amplified snore and his heartbeat tap-dancing its way out of his chest, it was difficult to make out who was going to win the war of being louder.

Zea had leaned closer to sniff all over him, her nose dangerously close to his lips. “I can smell it from you, too, you know. The smell of tomorrow morning’s hangover.”

She’s just extending her gratitude, he reminded himself. But it was difficult to brush off the cajole of being seduced when she smirked at him like that.

So he shook his head, shutting down whatever adrenaline rushing to write unnecessary scenarios in his head like maybe she was hinting a green light? On that note, he wasn’t a very good writer either, although his efforts of keeping his manners and not launching himself to her deserve a medal of valour.

And while Daniel decided Malaysia’s night breeze could probably cool the hot mess down south, Zea shot herself to the kitchen. Her relief when she realised Daniel didn’t follow was probably bigger than she intended.

“Have some integrity, young lady,” she snapped her finger to herself while waiting for the water to boil. Maybe, she should stop her habit of sniffing things. At least not to people. Because their lips were so close, all she had to do was reach up and kiss him, consequences to be thought of later. And while she was tempted to do so, her rationality attacked her like the Colossal Titan wreaked havoc on Wall Maria.

Now she had to brace herself and pretend that the intensity they’d just shared was nothing more than her imagination. Because hey, wasn’t being an actress her retirement plan?

Zea placed the cup of perfectly brewed matcha on the small table next to where Daniel was standing. He was leaning on the balcony, the moonlight illuminating his sculpted jawline, making him a contender for a place in an art gallery. If Pierre was unripened fruit hot, then Daniel was the ripe hot, in all its sweet and juicy glory. About time she admitted that.

But clearly, whatever fervour had taken place a couple of minutes ago had no effect on him whatsoever, or so Zea thought.

“Taste.” The equivocality of her word was obvious even to her. She mentally slapped herself.

Get ahold of yourself, hormones.

Sure. Blame the hormones.

She tipped the cup of liquid greenery toward him. “The secret is to pour the water before it hits boiling point.”

“Wow, that is really good.” His tongue seductively slid across his lips, collecting the remnants. “And yeah, that’s different from the one in Maccas.”

“Mmm.” Zea took a sip from her own glass. Not sure if her moan was because her tea was good, or because Daniel enjoyed it, so it came out automatically. In her defence, it was 2 AM, and maybe the doctor association should do research if intoxication was infectious. Or maybe it was a twin thing.

“And please,” she collected herself. “That’s like comparing a pair of Adidas with Christian Louboutin. Yeah, sure, both are meant to be worn on your feet, but one is handy while the other one is a work of art.”

He laughed. “Well, I don’t think Christian Louboutin has my size, so…”

No, maybe she should start the research on her own and then present it to the doctor association. How his voice sounded euphoric, like his mouth was made of endorphins, might be one piece of evidence.

“You’re right. This is really good for hangovers. And it gives me the edge.” He drank all of it, placing the cup back on the small table. He didn’t specify what edge he meant, or why he was looking at her so intently, so Zea cleared her throat.

“M-mom’s know-how. She loves matcha. And I just, you know, am really thankful you didn’t ditch Irza somewhere in the bushes and took your time to bring him back here, sang along with him. I mean, you were supposed to be enjoying your party but—“

Oh. My. God.

The rest of the sentence, she swallowed as his lips crashed hers, his tongue teasing against her mouth as she stood there, cup on hand, unable to move.

It was a runaway train she had no chance of stopping; her elbow instinctively taking control, clocking him right in the gut.

Spills of hot matcha poured on his chest. Thank goodness he moved quickly enough to prevent himself from being completely showered.

Her lips tingled from the residue of his lips, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes widened.

“Fuck.” He laughed as he pulled away. “That didn’t go how I’d planned it.” He shook the matcha spilled off his hand.

“I didn’t expect you to kiss me,” Zea huffed out, her lungs feeling like they needed to re-learn how to regulate air.

She was horrified.

Completely disgusted.

Not that he’d kissed her. Please, if Zeus would have given herself half a chance she’d have threaded her hands through his hair and fused her lips to his mouth. But he’d taken her by surprise, and her martial arts reflexes must’ve been ingrained deeper in her than she thought, completely screwing herself out of the opportunity.

Shit.

“Yeah, I guess the element of surprise didn’t go so well.” He chuckled, rubbing his gut lightly. “I just, didn’t want you to go out of your way to thank me so much.”

Zea shook her head. “I’m sorry, I was just surprised.”

Guilt, and maybe a hint of regret, laced her voice. He was definitely never again going to get any closer without cladding himself in a hockey mask and a chest protector. And honestly, who would blame him? It’s not every day you kiss a girl and get an elbow strike as your reward. Thank Jesus, or the Viking Gods, whichever was present first, he hadn’t done the deal in the living room where she had access to her spiky purse. It was as much a statement of fashion as it was a weapon. She’d have probably maimed him and left the poor guy partially immobile.

Hey, the world was never a friendly place for women to stroll alone. Especially in the middle of the night.

“I should—we should call it a day. I should probably leave. And uh, thanks for the matcha.”

“I—I’ll call you…?” Zea’s lips twitched as she waited for Daniel to answer.

But he didn’t say anything. He threw her a simple smile and wished her goodnight before disappearing from the front door.

And she sagged against the wall. Her breathing yet to regain its composure, the taste of his lips lingered.

Which brought her to the realisation that she hadn’t even had his number.

Perfect.

⬅️ Chapter 05 | MASTERLIST | Chapter 07 ➡️

Okay so, I actually had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I hope it translates to the writings! Do share, like, reblog, whichever you prefer. I appreciate it so much! I don't have a beta reader so everything I write is never proofread HAHA. I'm sorry for any mistakes.

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Tag list: @scotlynaurora @squidwardsluverxx @aisharmi

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