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gremlingottoosilly · 7 months

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A bomb threat (And how it got you a boyfriend) special forces!Konig x fem!college!Reader

Konig saves you from a bomb threat when you get stuck at your Uni. Based on his bio - presumably, Konig was a part of the Austrian Special Forces before joining KorTac. He is also a bit of a dork and we have a bit of an obsessive episode.

Tags: Fluff, Reader is a cringefailure, Konig is overstepping his authority, hurt(not really)/comfort Warnings: Bomb threats, mentions of terrorism Word count: 2450

Someone called a bomb threat in your college.

Well, at least, this is what the automatic email is telling you. The email that was sent to you, about especially avoiding the library on the second floor because the anonymous(not for long, since they have a knack for exposing who the hell is calling those threats each time) caller said that there is a huge chance of the bomb being placed here.

You know, the same library that you were sitting in, right now, reading this exact email on your laptop. You thought no one was around because it wasn’t a busy day, just after the major finals, with most people staying on campus only if they failed first tests or just wanted to get extra credits for some extra curriculum. Even if you were staying here just because you wanted to work on campus’s newspaper – the library is a good place to scoop for some rumors about the dean of the uni being three raccoons in a trench coat, or the lunch staff posing as Polish mafia.

The thing is – it seemed like you were the last fucking person to receive the email. The thing is, there are only a few weeks left before summer break, and the campus already started to turn off major announcement equipment since no sports or other events are planned. Are you going to die? Probably, there is a huge chance of you dying, as you can feel directly in your bones – god, there are probably some terrorists or uni shooters or that weird Christian suprematist who are going hysterical at the mere sight of religion other than theirs. You are going to die, you are going to die, you are going to…

— Scheisse! There is a civilian!

You were never particularly religious, maybe only at the time of finals and work submissions – and in situations like this, where you are already mentally preparing yourself to get blown up with unfinished articles and forgotten hopes and dreams and everything and…

You were never particularly religious – so you have no idea why your pre-death auditory hallucinations suddenly included an angel’s voice with devil's timbre and some huge, tree-trunk-like hands wrapping around your waist, checking you for possible injuries or explosive device.

These hands are really huge – and muscular, you can see how tense they are even through your black uniform, and they are roaming over your body in a way that would make you scream bloody murder and file sexual harassment if it didn’t belong to an obvious angel. Angelm in special forces uniform, an angel with a really nice boyish voice and warm hands that are sliding to your thighs, groping and checking for every possible outcome – for weapons, probably, because you are literally the only person in the room that was deemed as a bomb threat, and if you were this guy, you’d also think that you were the culprit.

His fingers linger on your hips perhaps a bit too long – you can him patting you down like you were heading to a club – and then he lets you go reluctantly, not finding anything except for your phone which he also checked for possible timers. The interaction lasted…a minute or so, but you are already hot and bothered, getting off the strong hands holding you, even though he already let you go.

— Are you alright?

He must have noticed your worried face and international student badge – his English is a bit accented but nonetheless confident. You never thought that small traces of German in a speech can sound so fucking hot but, perhaps, you are just traumatized and high on adrenaline and weren't getting laid for too fucking long.

He wears a badge – something something long German words, huge design construction that made you think he must be pretty high-rank – knowledge that you only had because of the movies and games you were playing, trying not to get off the military kink too much. Something in the situation told you that you’d spend the whole evening searching for porn with guys dressed in all black today. Maybe, a touch of cargo.

— Y…yeah. Fuck, sorry. I’m fine, fine. Yeah.

You are rambling and he tilts his head to the side. This large, looming hand goes to your face – you wait for either a harsh slap to return you back to reality, or a passionate and deep kiss from your fantasies and dirty novels. He slowly traces his fingers on your face, getting up, in the hairline, searching for something – perhaps, a nasty head parasite that got you acting so weird around this random guy. Random guy who is just doing his job, securing that you’re safe, sound, and not going to explode in the next few minutes.

— No head injuries. Gut.

You want him to touch your face some more. You want him to check for mouth injuries, to evaluate the status of your lips. Maybe do some chemical tests with that gloss you were using today. Check the reaction with his tongue.

He twirls you in place and you almost want him to press you against the wall. Search you some more, maybe get his hands a bit deeper, pass the oh-so-modest pants that made you look like a little bitch boy – his hand goes to cup your waist again, checking for anything that might catch his interest. Nothing – and you were never this sad about Hot wearing a concealed weapon that might force him to pin you down or get you into a chokehold with those massive biceps of his.

— What were you doing here, ma’am?

Studying in Vienna, you never found an Austrian accent this sexy. Never knew that you might like being handled like this before – it’s not romantic, not even in the slightest, but you smile a bit shyly, a bit awkwardly, and look at him from under your lashes, trying to look as innocent as possible. You are innocent – you weren’t doing anything, you were just trying to study and write in the last few weeks. Concentrated enough, so you never even noticed a fucking bomb threat. Didn’t hear soldiers running through the building, securing each room.

— I…study here?

You gulp loudly, taking a few steps away from the soldier. Allowing him to examine the room, deem it safe – the bomb threat called on your university was probably fake. Maybe a call from a paranoid individual, maybe someone with nothing better to do than pranking colleges. You seriously doubt anyone would try to blow up this place while almost none of the students are actually inside – especially the library during the low season. Even you almost decided to ditch the traditional writing atmosphere and just do something in the cafeteria.

— Oh.

His voice actually sounds…nice. Funny even, that small remark also makes him cough and look at you more seriously. He has a mask concealing his face, some weird hood or net on top of it – you try to see his eyes, but you can only occasionally catch glimpses of ice staring at you. Mysterious, you like it. Too mysterious, that little journalist club member inside of you is itching to get a look at his face better – you tilt your head to the side, contemplating just yanking it upwards and praying that he won’t kill you.

Although you wouldn’t mind being crushed in his hold.

— Let’s get you out of here, ja?

You don’t question him when he suddenly picks you up – when the world starts to spin and you are pressed against his chest, his hands are supporting you under your knees and back. Securing you in place, making sure you are nice and comfy in his hold. You don’t ask questions when he slightly adjusts your hold so he can touch more of your thighs – you think he is just getting you comfortable, and you appreciate just how thoughtful he is.

You don’t ask questions when he holds you almost like a bridal carry, even though you are certain you aren’t injured, and someone like him probably has more interesting things to do than saving poor college students who decided to ignore bomb threats.

His hands are warm, his chest is even warmer, and his muscles aren’t even slightly trembling. You don’t know what sort of training those guys are coming through, but it must work – his steps are light and decided even when he can’t press you firmly against him, vest standing in the way. You don’t know what to do with your hands and you don’t want to mess with the government property – you think there is a law against fidgeting with special forces soldiers on duty – so you just get them on your knees. Like a good girl. Polite girl. Girl who isn't drooling over the guy who is just doing his job.

— Thank you. For saving me.

You whisper it in his headset – you are worried about someone else also hearing you, but there is something intimate about tilting your head upwards and getting right into his face, your lips millimeters away from the edge of his mask. You don’t want to sound suggestive, so you sound weak instead. You don’t to sound ungrateful, so you sound pleading instead.

His hold on your thighs gets stronger. You lick your lips nervously, chuckling to ease the atmosphere a little bit.

Your leg brushes above his waist – and you swear that you can hear his breath hitching. It’s impossible, you think, he must be a tough and content little soldier, perfect to save damsels in distress just like you – but something in his posture, in the way his fingers twitch slightly at the edges of your body, makes you think otherwise. Maybe, you’re just dreaming. Maybe, you know nothing.

Someone slams into the room. Another man – shorter than the one who holds you, by a large margin, but none less intimidating. Burly, muscular, dressed up in full uniform which is expected – and with his face covered up by a similar veil or mask or whatever this is – which is unexpected. You thought that special forces would have something less eye-obscuring, but what do you know? You would be dead if the bomb threat was real.

— Other sectors secured. No bomb in sight. Commander.

He almost hisses, the similar accent in his voice makes your cheeks heat up even more. You feel weird, dirty even, thinking of those two large, intimidating men in such an intimate setting while they are just trying to save your life – but you try to silence that little annoying voice, to convince yourself that this is probably just adrenaline, ovulation and sudden urge to procreate before you would die.

You feel your entire body stir when the man takes a step closer, looking at you. You can’t see his face, not even the outline of it – but you feel the burning gaze on your scared expression and obediently folded hands.

— Gut. Other civillians? — 20 civilians in the building in total. University workers, some students. Already evacuated. — Any casualties? You hear a cruel chuckle from a shorter man. — If they were, you’d hear about it, sir. No, the sector is clear. — Gut. Dismissed – we’re finishing here. — What are you doing with the civi…

— Kruger, dismissed.

The man who holds you is surprisingly stern when he isn’t talking to you. He used a much softer, quieter tone when he was talking to you, observing if you were hurt or in danger – and he is much, much different now. A cold voice, serious tone, the image of the ruthless commander flying in your head – well, at least you were right about his patches meaning something important.

A shorter man leaves, and the door behind him swings open. To your surprise, the man who holds you – a mysterious stranger, you can’t even seem to find a name on his uniform – doesn’t let you go. His touches feel like you’re burning alive, he is igniting and brilliant and fucking perfect and…

He lets you down to the care of the local police department and some of the uni workers. His hand brushes over your face again – you think he was checking for the injuries but, then again, why would he touch your hair ever so gently only to move it out of your face to take a good look at your lips before letting you go? You’re imagining things, you probably must be – the man is just doing his job, he isn’t trying to fuck you in the nearest hallway even if you wanted him to.

— Sir. I…thank you, really. For the help.

— I didn’t do anything, Schatz. Someone must been playing a joke on everyone.

You are going to find the guy – or a girl, or someone else, you don’t discriminate, everyone is equally capable of calling on the false bomb threats – who informed the special forces about the bomb in the building, and then you are going to kiss them.

— What kind of joke is this?

— A dumb one.

He looks over to his unit – a group of tall, burly men, with weapons and uniforms and everything a girl could ask for – already packing in the vehicles to move out. You brace yourself to ask for his number – for his contact, anything, everything, maybe the favorite tree in the park under which you could meet again. You know that those guys aren’t supposed to reveal their identities, that he is probably out of town anyway, special forces aren’t usually called off to false threats, you know that your attempts are futile and yet, you lick your lips for added confidence and…

— Goodbye, Scahtzen. Stay safe, ja? Don’t want to save you from a real bomb one day.

— I…I…um, you mean you wouldn’t save me from a real bomb?

He was already halfway to the armored car before you could say anything. You aren’t nearly confident enough to yell across the whole fucking campus territory to get a number of this hot special forces guy, and something in his hunched shoulders, twitching fingers, and slightly less social and more abrasive manners tells you that he would hate the gesture as much as you would.

Just like this, your first even real-life military crush is driving away, leaving you bombless, hoeless, and, most certainly, more depressed than ever. Summer is going to be great, right?

*** — What do you mean calling a fucking bomb threat?!

Your friend wasn’t happy about the pick-up strategy you wanted to use.

*** — Of course, sir, let’s raid a fucking college dorm room.

Sergeant Sebastian Josed Krueger wasn’t happy about his commander’s newfound love for college girls.

Mostly because König refused to fucking share.

#cod #call of duty #cod x reader #konig x reader #cod x you #yandere konig #konig mw2 #reader insert #cod imagine #imagine #konig #sebastian krueger

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year

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König w/ a Mommy Kink

Warnings: 18+, mommy kink, breeding kink, kinda submissive König, mention of plugs, smut, pet names, AFAB Reader, etc.

This is in my brain. I’m now making it your problem.

There’s nothing in this man’s history to suggest parental issues, but I can definitely see him having a mommy kink.

When he’s in a subby mood, he’ll beg you to ride him

something about seeing you on top makes him weak

The first time you discovered König mommy kink was completely accidental: you'd managed to hit his sweet spot and, reduced to a moaning mess, König yelled, clear as day, something obscene.

"M-Mutter!"

You didn't realise what it was at the time, assuming it was something in German, but you'd never heard this before, regardless of context.

You stopped bouncing on him, your hands on his chest, and leaned down to him.

"What was that, baby?"

König didn't reply, his face flushed with either exasperation or embarrasment - it was impossible to tell.

When you came to realise he wasn't going to talk, you slid a hand up his throat and gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

"I said, what was that?"

König eyes couldn't meet yours, eyes settling somewhere on your chest instead.

"Mutter," he said, voice low, quiet. He swallowed, feeling you weren't going to let up.

"It means 'Mother' in German."

Your heart jumped in your chest, like you'd discovered an island no one else had.

König couldn't say a thing, worried he'd frightened you off with his...particular interests.

Instead, you smiled, releasing his jaw and returning to his chest.

"Alright," you said softly, half-lidded gaze making König weak with anticipation.

"I'll take care of you, baby. You gonna let me do that?"

König couldn't get the words out quick enough, a stream of hasty 'yes's falling from him.

After that initial discovery, you teased König for his mommy kink.

Any chance you got - you were relentless.

"König, sweetie, can you come and help mommy out in the kitchen?"

"Sure thi- wait...what did you say?"

And his face would break out in a contained blush each time.

You knew when to stop, though; you weren't a monster.

Whenever you were topping, you'd call him "baby boy,"; "baby,"; "sweetie," - things like that.

And he'd whine and moan every time.

"You gonna cum for me, baby?"

"Y-yes, mutter..."

One night, you asked him if he wanted you to breastfeed you.

You had no milk in you, obviously, but that didn't stop König.

While he sucked on you, you stroked his hair, calling him a "good boy," - telling him how you'd "have to let you put a baby in me someday,"

His eyes lit up at that.

And then you unearthed his breeding kink.

He loves you, wants to possess you in ways nobody else can, and to have something he literally put inside you was, in his eyes, the best way to do it.

Calls you mutter when he's trying to breed you, though for a different reason.

"You'll be such a good mother to our children, my love," he'd say, panting as he slammed into you.

He wouldn't leave until he knew you were satisfied and full.

And my god, this man won't stop until you're passed out beneath him, unable to take any more of him, his cum leaking out of you.

Is the type to plug you, either with his cock or an actual plug.

Won't let you take it out. It's staying.

Can get a bit dominant when you disobey him.

"Did I say you could do that, baby?"

Transitions into a daddy kink.

This man's transitioning through the kink spectrum fr.

When he's topping, he'll make you call him daddy.

Gives him a feeling of power.

If you want some more dominant König, read this.

Overall, you just make him feel so safe, so loved - he could scarcely think of any other name to call you except mutter (though, of course, not exactly appropriate in an every day context).

He loves you more than absolutely anything, and there are no limits as to what he would do for you.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

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#konig x reader #konig mw2 #konig headcanons #konig call of duty #könig x reader #konig x you #konig modern warfare #König #könig x you #könig call of duty #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #mw2 smut

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headspace-hotel · 1 year

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I hope I can express this properly and sensitively, but I think oftentimes people need to have Categories and Identities and to be healthily exploratory and playful and elastic about them, else they can get vulnerable to some negative things, sometimes really awful things

I wish I could remember where I read it, but there was something that wrote about whiteness in America as an abyss.

Whiteness is something that sheltered white Americans' ancestors, and at the same time devoured them. They used to have a distinct medley of heritages: Irish, German, Scottish, Italian. "Whiteness" ate it up, the languages, the cultures. There were privileges if you destroyed it, and punishments if you held onto anything that was "Other." In a white supremacist society, white people wanted to be "white" first before any other possible identity or connection they could have.

Yay! You're white. You're on top. You win...what? Turns out the prize for "winning" is just that you get to perpetrate the violence of the game instead of being on the receiving end of it.

And that's the nasty twist—there is no prize. The deeply embedded vice of "Southern pride" is not just what the Confederate flag stands for, but also why they've got to cling so hard to that symbol of traitors and losers: they need to be on top of something so bad that even a pile of shit will do. My ancestors were ultimately dirt poor, loads of them ending up in prison or breaking their bodies down doing hard labor, but they were white. Their reward, and their pride, was being stepped on by the violence of poverty only, instead of also by the violence of white supremacy.

"White pride" is all about hate because white supremacy didn't give these folks anything to be proud of. It stripped away the culture and heritage their ancestors had in favor of "whiteness." All those jokes about how white people have no culture, well, it's true isn't it? This shit is how we ended up a primarily monolingual nation. And what looks like happened is that white Americans wound up just...scavenging most of their culture from those they oppressed. Food, music, all of that stuff. Our white ancestors didn't GIVE us anything that was their own to start with.

And this is something that really strikes me about the white supremacist and fascist movements nowadays: the starvation and hollowness behind them. These folks are empty inside. They were given nothing by white supremacy except a very vague sense that they deserve something, and they see people of all different cultures celebrating and flourishing in their unique heritages and identities, and they feel like...they've been cheated.

Equality is so threatening when you're in this situation because it feels like you've got less than everyone else at the end of the day. Not just because of comparison to previous privileges, but because your whole identity was "person that gets to step on everybody else" and your whole inheritance was "shit stolen from everybody else" and in a world where all is set right, you have no identity and nothing. You are nothing.

Anyway I was looking just now at a blog that seemed really white-supremacist-leaning and it was 99% about like, Norse and Proto-Indo-European paganism and "traditionalism" and that's what got me thinking about this again.

This person had apparently done DNA tests on themselves or something, and were really fixated on figuring out their Norse and Germanic ancestors and separating out their genetic and racial identity at a level of precision that seems really pointless that far back in time. And honestly all the paganism stuff seemed like totally arbitrary speculation as well.

And how to become satisfied as a person like this? I am just as much Germanic or Norse as they are, but I don't believe that distant ancestors determine who you are to such an extent that I have some sort of innate cultural tie to Vikings or Visigoths or what have you. I know what percentage Celtic or Anglo Saxon or Norse I am—zero. I learned about those things in books the exact same way I learned about all the cultures and past kingdoms of the world that I presumably don't have ancestors from.

I feel like the experience of being a baby ally and obsessing about apologizing for being white is the same kind of thing in another direction, or another outcome of the same process. Some people seem to get really twisted up for a time over how to stop being guilty about being white.

It's part of the same thing as this guy who is trying to genetically identify his ancestors from like 3,000 years ago. It's the emptiness and meaninglessness of "white" identity apart from white supremacy.

I talk about deradicalization sometimes and I've had the notion a few times that fascism appeals to people who are hollow and starving in terms of identity, and if it wasn't for the sense of emptiness and hunger, they would be less easily radicalized. But it's also a little bit awkward to talk about the deeply unsatisfying nature of white supremacy, because...well, that is pretty low on the list of things bad about white supremacy.

I think this concept is worth talking about in general, though: People want to feel like they come from or are part of something meaningful. They are drawn toward Identities and Categories and Belonging to groups. This is something I think is commonly true about humans, I think it is normal and not a bad thing, and I think we could stand to be a little more upfront about its reality.

I think this means that wanting, and seeking, a sense of cultural identity as a white person (particularly an American) needs to have some kind of non-horrible outlet for it. Because right now, it's nothing but a way to get radicalized, and the dominant other option people take (becoming the Guilty White Person) is liked by no one and helps nothing.

And maybe it doesn't need to have anything to do with race or culture or your ancestors or any of these things that can lead a person down such terrible paths. Maybe more of us should be furries!

As just another thing to consider, I'm reading the book Ecology of a Cracker Childhood and the author of the book uses the word "cracker" not like, with the gravity of reclaiming a "slur" or something like that, but seemingly because that is just the word she most strongly identifies with, the word that best articulates who "her people" are. This feels very solid and levelheaded to me, something that comes from someone with a good sense of themselves.

Personally I've thought a long time that more people should reclaim "redneck." Not in the sense of reclaiming a slur exactly, but in the sense of putting it in neutral usage among the folks it always referred to, instead of letting it increasingly be associated with any Southerner (regardless of working class background) that is the sort to wave a Confederate flag around. The very idea of gatekeeping "redneck" away from racists is just absolutely hilarious to me, I won't lie.

#random #identity #whiteness #i doubt anyone asked for an essay from a white southerner about race #but this is just what im thinking about tonight

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holllandtrash · 1 year

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the good guy | mick schumacher

pairing: mick schumacher x leclerc!reader part 3 (and final part) to disapproval read part 1 here and part 2 here

after getting an earful from you (and a certain british driver) it finally sinks in for charles how much he's been neglecting your happiness and he starts to see how much mick truly means to you

word count: 2.8k warnings: none except lil bit of asshole charles still

When Charles met up with Lando and Carlos for a late lunch, there was no way he could ignore their looks of disapproval. Lando even had sunglasses on and Charles could see the judgement through the dark lenses before he could sit down.

Charles could see the shift in dynamic as well. Lando and Carlos were friends, but they way they both sat on the same side of the table, leaving the other side empty for himself made this whole meal feel like an intervention. Maybe that was their plan, they wanted to talk some sense into the Ferrari driver.

“Do not say anything,” Charles groaned, slumping in the chair. Not like they would listen to his request anyway. He glanced over the menu but nothing seemed the least bit appetising. Last night's drinks were still sitting in his system and he was worried one bite from a fruit platter would cause everything to come up.

But the alcohol wasn’t the only reason why he felt sick.

Just seeing his sister’s face when the elevator doors opened told Charles that he royally fucked up.

“Was the Instagram story apology your idea or the PR teams?” Lando asked, reaching for his water. Carlos scoffed, but Lando continued on calling their friend out on his mistakes. “You realise that’s probably the worst way to apologise, right? You’re a laughing stock all over social media right now.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Charles admitted, waving his hand at the server when he came by to take his order. He couldn’t eat anything.

Carlos leaned forward. With the most serious, dead panned look on his face, he looked directly into the eye of his teammate, “Has it ever crossed your mind to give Mick a chance?”

Charles glared at the Spaniard, “Mick isn’t the problem. She shouldn’t be dating any driver, period.”

“What about me?” Lando teased, only to be met with a similar death glare that had Lando sinking back into his seat. Charles could be intimidating when he wanted to.

“Mate, Mick is a good guy,” Carlos defended the German driver as he had done so many times before. “Your problem with him comes from your own insecurities.”

Charles grimaced, “My insecurities? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Camille?” Carlos brought up his last girlfriend, but didn’t stop there. “Colette? Who am I missing?” He looked at Lando.

“Mélanie,” Lando added, another ex. “You’ve got a bit of a track record, Charles. It was your own mistakes that ended those relationships and now you think every driver on the grid is as bad as you are.”

Was he really being scolded by a 23-year old gamer who’s most meaningful relationship was the one he had with his golf clubs?

“Most of them are,” Charles retorted. He knew first hand what majority of the drivers got up to after a race weekend. Infidelity, the partying and the lies that followed. Some of the guys were in serious relationships, more serious than his ever were, but that still didn’t stop them from making bad decisions.

“Mick’s not one of them,” Lando told him and Carlos nodded in agreement. “He’s not going to hurt your sister and if he does then he has 20 of us to answer to.”

Charles laughed at the idea of Lando trying to be threatening. That man couldn’t hurt a fly.

When Carlos excused himself to answer a phone call, Charles was really hoping that they could drop the conversation. He aimlessly picked up the menu again, not like he was going to order anything, but he only managed to scan about half of it before Lando threw a crumpled up napkin at him.

“What?” Charles spoke through clenched teeth. “I fucked up, I know.”

Lando took his sunglasses off, resting them on the surface of the table. There were no dark bags under his eyes, he probably had a great sleep last night. Lando was one of the few that didn’t wake up in the mornings wondering what sort of damage control he’d have to do to make up for the night before.

“Y/N has been nothing but supportive of you and your career,” Lando told him, as if Charles wasn’t already of that. “She’s a damn good sister to you and you can’t be arsed to show her and Mick half the respect that they give you. She’s family, Charles, but try hard enough and you will push her away. Put your own stubbornness aside for once and see how much Mick means to her, how happy he makes her. You're one of my best mates, so I say this with kindness, but you're honestly acting like a dickhead. You're not a child. She's not a child. She's in a relationship with someone who clearly loves her. Don't get in the way of that and for Christ's sakes, give Mick a break already. He's a good guy, you're not."

This was not the first time Charles had any heard this, but this was the first time he had all of it all at once from one of his closest friends. And after the events of this morning, it was sinking in deeper than it ever had before.

Charles opened his mouth, to argue of course, he didn’t like to be put in his place or told when he was wrong, but maybe it was for the best when his phone started to ring. He held his finger up to Lando and leaned back in his chair, answering immediately when he saw your name on the screen.

He barely got a word out when you started swearing at him, both in French and English. Charles couldn’t keep up with how fast you were talking but he got the main idea. That Instagram story apology did shit all to help make anything better.

Charles hated being yelled at though, so the more you raised your voice at him and told him how much of an ass he was, the more defensive he got, even when he knew he was the one in the wrong.

“A fucking Instagram story apology?” Your voice was so loud that even Lando could pick up on your words.

“What else do you want me to do?” Charles yelled back and across the table, Lando laughed.

“Be a better brother,” Lando suggested and Charles just flipped him off.

You scoffed into the receiver, “I want you to not lie on social media and put a fucking effort into getting along with Mick! Give me one good reason why you don’t approve of me dating him,”

Carlos had come back at that exact second and raised his eyebrows towards Lando who simply mouthed your name. Carlos hummed and sat down, watching the rest of this disaster of a show play out in front of him like it was a blockbuster film.

Charles had about ten reasons in the forefront of his mind as to why you shouldn’t be dating Mick, but for the life of him, he couldn’t get them out.

“You can’t,” you pointed out.

Charles rolled his eyes, not like you could see it, “He’s older than you.” Both Lando and Carlos groaned at that piss poor excuse.

“By two years.”

“He doesn’t have a career.”

“Harsh, mate,” Lando blurted out. Charles gave him a look, telling him to stop putting his two cents into his conversation.

“Maybe he’s not currently driving but that doesn't mean he’s done for good.”

“He can’t support you,” Charles said.

“I can support myself.”

Eventually, Charles just came out with it, “You shouldn’t be dating a driver, Y/N, okay?”

And it was really his own fault for using that excuse. The second those words left his mouth, you hit him right where you knew it would hurt.

“Just because you were a shitty boyfriend to your ex-girlfriends doesn’t mean Mick is going to treat me poorly too.”

Charles had never told you what happened in his last relationships, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. People gossiped. Rumours spread around the paddock and Charles knew damn well that a handful of drivers weren’t good at keeping their mouths shut.

“What is she saying?” Lando asked, more invested in this conversation than he had a right to be. Charles leaned away from the two of them, but it didn’t give him any more privacy.

“Charles, I don’t know what happened in your relationships,” he could hear the hesitancy in your tone, “but whatever fear you have, whatever you did…Mick isn’t the same guy. He’s not you, he’s-”

“Better,” Charles finished your sentence. Mick was better than he was. Mick was a good guy. He would give you the world world if you asked for it.

You laughed into the phone, agreeing that Mick in fact was a better person than Charles would ever be. “I mean, yeah. And I get it, you want to protect me but this isn’t how you go about it. You’ve just been cruel and closed off and you haven’t even tried to see Mick for the guy he is. Do you even know how happy he makes me?”

And what could Charles say to that?

He wasn’t blind, he saw how much of an impact Mick made on your life. For whatever reason that he still couldn’t wrap his head around, Mick meant the world to you. Charles told himself that it wouldn’t last and that you would eventually move on, but that still had yet to happen. Maybe it never would.

“I love him,” you said quietly, voice broken like it was your final attempt at getting through to Charles.

And again, what could Charles say to that?

This wasn’t a conversation he could have on the phone.

He abruptly hung up and slid his phone into his pocket, ignoring the confused stares from the other two drivers. Charles pushed the chair away from the table and stood up, not bothering with an explanation as he hurried to rush back to the hotel.

Charles packed up what he could in a frenzy, texting his assistant and asking them to grab anything he might have missed. His priority wasn’t making sure he had everything with him, it was getting to Monaco where he knew you were. Where else would you have gone? With that race coming up, it only made sense that you would go home early.

So a few coffees and five hours later, Charles found himself outside of your apartment building. He typed your code into the keypad to gain access and then next thing he knew, he was in front of your door.

It took nearly a minute for him to actually knock. He had no idea if you would listen to him, or even let him in. He thought about turning around and just heading back to his own place. Sending a text to meet up later might have been smarter, he’d have more time to think about what the hell he was going to say.

But no, he was already there. He had to talk to you. He needed to make things right.

When you opened the door and saw Charles, you had no idea what to think. It didn’t help that he still didn’t say anything. He drove this whole way and yet he couldn’t form a single coherent sentence. You were still waiting for a sincere apology.

“Y/N did you want Mozza or did you want to try that new sushi place?” Mick walked out of your office, focused on his phone that he didn’t even see Charles until he looked up to find out why you weren’t answering.

Charles cleared his throat, “Hi.”

Mick nodded firmly, glancing your way to get your read on the situation. He could tell right away that you didn’t invite him over. He could also tell that you didn’t know what to do and Mick being Mick needed to steer this in the right direction.

“Well don’t just stand there, come in,” Mick offered, putting his hand on your back to usher you to the side so you weren’t blocking the doorway. His touch sort of snapped you out of your own thoughts and you nodded in agreement, watching as your brother entered your flat.

This was awkward for everyone. This strange tension lingered in the air. You were mad at Charles. Charles wasn’t a fan of Mick. Mick was stuck in the middle because he loved you but he didn’t want to overstep and do anything that would really set Charles off.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. You leaned against the edge of your kitchen table and watched as Charles shifted uncomfortably until choosing to lean against the wall behind him. He was out of his element here, especially with Mick at your side.

“Change of plans,” he said, his eyes landing on the way Mick still hadn’t removed his hand from your back. The way you leaned into his side didn’t go unnoticed.

“I find it hard to believe you drove home early just to stop by and say hi,” the bitterness in your tone caused Charles to tense up. You didn’t want to fight, truly, but you were still annoyed with his actions.

Mick’s fingers brushed against the material of your top and you inhaled a deep breath.

“Charles, you’re family and I love you, but-”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, interrupting you halfway through your sentence. Your eyes widened, not out of shock but because you were waiting to see if more followed. “Really, I am. I’m sorry for how I’ve treated Mick since the two of you have started seeing each other.”

This apology wasn’t for you. You just shrugged your shoulders and nodded your head towards your boyfriend, “Don’t tell me that. Tell him.”

Mick straightened up and you could see it in Charles’ face that he really didn’t want to have to repeat himself.

“Mick I’m-” Charles paused, glancing at you but you were staying out of this. He needed to apologise to Mick first and then the two of you could work out your issues. Charles sighed, “Mick I’m sorry, mate. I know you’re a good guy and I know you’ll treat Y/N right. I just can’t help but have my guards up for her. I know what some of the guys on the grid have done and I’ve seen-” he hesitated when you raised an accusatory eyebrow. “It’s not easy for drivers to be in relationships and I just don’t want to see Y/N getting hurt.”

“I would never hurt her,” Mick assured him, sliding his hand further around your waist. His fingers rested on your side as he pulled you against him and gave you a gentle squeeze. "Charles, I love your sister. She's my entire world, she means everything to me."

“I know that now,” Charles said, but you were still having trouble believing his words.

“Do you?” You asked, quite bluntly “Because I’ve been saying this for months and suddenly, out of the blue, you’ve come to your senses? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Honestly you can thank Lando,” he admitted. “He reminded me how supportive you’ve been of me my entire life. You’ve stuck by my side through everything. Every win, every loss- both off and on the track and I haven’t done the same.”

“Nope,” you agreed. “You haven’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles finally directed the apology to you. His green eyes were filled with sorrow and guilt and for the first time there seemed to be actual strength and meaning behind those two words. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I haven’t been a good brother.”

“You’ve been the worst.”

“I know.”

“You never even tried to get to know Mick off the track.”

“I know.”

“You’re always so caught up in your own world.”

“I know.”

“You don’t even-”

“Y/N,” it was Mick’s turn to cut you off. He looked between you and Charles. Whatever you were going to say, Charles would just keep agreeing. This could go on for hours if you all let it, but Mick stepped in. “I think we should just all agree to move past this.”

You nodded, but when you looked at your brother, you were still hesitant. How did you know he wasn’t just saying what you wanted to hear?

“I need to see more of an effort from you,” you declared. “I’m not saying you two have to be the best of friends but for the love of God, Charles, don’t be an ass anymore.”

“That sounds fair,” Charles said as Mick dipped his head and chuckled.

You expected Mick to be the one to extend the first olive branch, but it was Charles who stepped forward and held out his hand. Mick, who had been waiting for this since you started dating, happily stepped away from you to shake your brother's hand, only to pull him into that sort-of half embrace that men were notorious for.

“I know it doesn’t need to be said- or maybe I should have said it a long time ago," Charles started off as they pulled away, keeping one hand on his arm, “But welcome to the family, Mick."

Things weren't perfect after that, not at first at least. It took a bit of time, but eventually, Charles truly did see Mick as part of the family.

yourusername

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yourusername it only took a game of football for them to become best friends❤️😉

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charles_leclerc we were literally rooting for different teams

yourusername at least you're watching the game together mickschumacher he's still bitter because his team lost

fiftyfive the duo we needed

landonorris why wasn't I invited i'm the one who talked some sense into charles in the first place

charles_leclerc mate its been months let it go landonorris never

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mickschumacher

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mickschumacher quick dip

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carlossainz55 did you push him in?

yourusername he did mickschumacher it was self defence charles_leclerc 🤨🤨🤨

f1 here for this bromance

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f1 we love seeing the drivers hang out during the summer break❤️😉

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yourusername i was literally suffocating

charles_leclerc you're the one who wanted us to get along yourusername laying on top of me was not what i had in mind

paddockgf y/n is actually living the dream

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mickschumacher it's always been you and I against the world, but now it's official ❤️ I love you, I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you

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mercedesamgf1 so is he taking her last name or

charles_leclerc yes

danielricciardo WOOOO CONGRATS TO THE HAPPY COUPLE

landonorris mick are you sure you want charles as a brother?

yourusername do you want to be invited to the wedding? landonorris hey its because of ME that charles even gave you his blessing, you wouldn't even be dating if it weren't for me yourusername it's actually impressive how much of that sentence is inaccurate charles_leclerc i mean, he's not completely wrong

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yourusername forever with my best friend? obviously i said yes❤️💍

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mickschumacher i love you❤️❤️

georgerussell63 congrats you two🥂🥂

charles_leclerc if i'm not his best man then the wedding is cancelled

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requests are open • masterlist

a/n: i guess its time for a new mini series hehe

taglist: @spicyclover @leclerc16s @totally-random-person @majx00 @lighttsoutlewis @ellethewitchbitch @grimmducky @lucyhotchner @clintsupremacy @sussyzee @fock-smash @that-aesthetic-chic @alma23f1 @sbgal @h0e-xoxo @ivegotparticulartaste @sachaa-ff @emiiarmenn @konsti081 @pierre-gasllllllyyyyyy @melagemo0263 @myescapefromthislife @mehrmonga @pleasantducktimetravel @whatthefuckerr @kuskumu

#mick schumacher imagine #mick schumacher x you #mick schumacher one shot #mick schumacher instagram edit #mick schumacher #f1 social media au #f1 requests #f1 one shot #f1 instagram au #f1 #charles leclerc #instagram au #social media au #holllandtrash #lando literally saves the day i guess #lando norris #mick schumacher x reader

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effortandmore · 11 months

Text

the sleeping hours | knj x f!reader

summary: namjoon thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you.

pairing: namjoon x f!reader

rating: explicit (18+ please)

genre: fluff, smut, angst

au: okay. so this is canon-compliant but also maybe a little bit of a time-travel/multiverse au

warnings/tags: here we go... time travel (kind of), discussions of war, descriptions of famine, talks of anarchy/revolution, descriptions of ww2 germany and nazis, minor character death (not a tannie), implied gun violence, the japanese occupation of korea, sex worker!namjoon, soldier!namjoon, architect!namjoon, idol!namjoon, spy!reader, namjoon has a big dick (ofc), mentions of blood... smut, including: biting, unprotected sex, sex work (this is not the unprotected sex), oral sex (f!receiving), a little bit of cumplay... idk i think that's all but honestly it's not as weird as it sounds i promise

word count: ~12k

a/n: i have wanted to write a songfic for "here i dreamt i was an architect" by the decemberists for... years now. and with my three month vacation from work, i've finally done it! listening to the song will help this make more sense, but essentially there are three verses, and they start like this: "here i dreamt i was a soldier," "here i dreamt i was an architect," & "and in spain i was a spaniard." so, i thought it would be fun to turn that into a story about namjoon and reader across all these different universes. my research for this fic was completely unhinged, and i'm sure i still got some things wrong. if you need translations for any of the dutch, german, or spanish in this, lmk but i think it's pretty readable given context. i hope you like it, but even if you don't, i'm glad i wrote it. thank you so so so much to @ugh-yoongi who assured me this was not too unhinged for the locals—ily and i appreciate you

read on ao3

Namjoon always tells people he doesn’t have dreams, but it’s a lie… Sort of.

If these are dreams, he doesn’t know how billions of people aren’t talking about them like they’re magical experiences, can’t fathom why so many people still don’t believe in multiverse theory.

Lying about it seems infinitely easier than trying to explain it to people. His “dreams,” if that’s what they are, seem so real. He can smell the scents, he can feel the rain and the blood and the orgasm that courses through him when he inevitably, in every single one, finds a version of you. When he wakes up, he can feel the phantom pain, feels like his skin’s just barely dried out from a shower, feels loose and lazy with the pleasure he’d felt while he was asleep.

So, he says he doesn’t dream, because he’s halfway convinced they’re actually happening, and he has absolutely no clue how to explain that to anyone. He thinks there must be infinite versions of the universe, infinite versions of him. At first, he thought maybe it was a past-lives sort of thing, but he’s lived parallel paths on different parts of the planet during the same time frames. Or, he’s dreamt that he has, anyway… maybe they’re dreams. Maybe not. What he’s sure of, though, is that you must be out there in the universe he lives in—you must exist outside of this near fugue state where he always finds you. If you’re on the streets of Germany during the war, if you’re in Andalucia dancing the flamenco and catching his eye on every twirl… If you’re fleeing with him to Jeju as more and more Japanese soldiers encircle your small farm town… If you’re all of those places, he knows you must be here, too.

There must be infinite versions of the universe, and in every one he’s known, he’s meant to love you.

Every dream is different, but the love he feels for you? It’s always the same, and it goes like this:

Birkenau, Germany — April, 1942

He comes to, and he’s lying in a cot. It’s dark. It would be pitch black, except there’s a crack of light on the floor that’s muted and warm-looking even though the air around him still carries a bit of leftover winter chill. Somehow, he knows there’s a coal shortage this spring because of the war. There’s an everything shortage, really. No coal, no clothes, no food… He can’t think of a time he’d eaten anything but potatoes in days… Namjoon can’t think of anything, really. It’s strange, his memories feel dull, rounded around the edges and blurred out, everything just slightly out of reach. Maybe it’s lack of sleep, maybe it’s hypothermia (he’s a little dramatic), maybe it’s hunger; he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know, because there’s not much to be done about whatever it is. Knowing the future doesn’t always mean you can change it, he thinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The clothes he is wearing are stiff—they make it hard for him to bend his elbow to reach his own face. There’s a worn crease in his right sleeve from saluting, dirt that will never scrub out on his lapels… his badges and patches do a poor job of covering the wear and tear. Although his brain isn’t fully awake, the thoughts still cloudy, two are clear: he is ready for this war to be over and he is terrified that he is a little in love with the woman lying next to him.

If someone asked him how he got here, to Birkenau, Germany in the middle of the spring in 1942, he couldn’t tell them (a consequence of for some reason not remembering anything concrete prior to this week at the moment—just feelings and sensations and language and you). He feels as if he doesn’t belong at all and at the same time, as if he’s always existed right here.

He teases you awake slowly. Whispers sweet nothings to you in a language he finds himself surprisingly fluent in—it’s not his native one. He doesn’t know if it’s yours, either, but he knows you like hearing his voice. Remembers how you ask him to tell you stories of his home, how you hum softly along with the folk songs he sings to you when he thinks you’re almost asleep in his arms. He knows he likes the noises you make as you start to come to, knows you need a soft re-entry into wakefulness or else you’re a little off for the rest of the day.

You’d both fallen asleep after what some people would call lunch, although the persistent pit in Namjoon’s stomach would argue that. It’s hard to have energy when you can’t really eat, so the two of you do your best to conserve it.

Tonight, though, tonight he wants to be special. The carnival is in Birkenau this week, maybe longer, but he won’t know. He’ll leave soon, onto the next base, the next battle. It’s a miracle he’s able to go tonight, being a foreign soldier here is dangerous and the demands on him are high. He wears his uniform while he sleeps to stay warm, but doesn’t dare wear it in this town outside of this private and safe space that you’ve carved out for him. It’s been going on for a while, this sneaking away to be with you. There’s another soldier, Seokjin, on his base, who always covers for him. Namjoon doesn’t know how, it’s one of the fuzzy things he can’t figure out. Regardless, he’s here with you now and he knows he’s always grateful to his fellow soldier. And here, he’s someone different. He’s not Namjoon the soldier, he’s Namjoon who loves you, who will give up almost anything to be with you.

Except the one thing you ask him to.

He may be grateful to escape for a while, but he is duty-bound—loyal to his country, to the cause. He is, above everything, a soldier, and that cannot change. The Remington on the cheap bedside table is his best friend, and a reminder that this between you is dangerous, that it has a time limit.

And you? You have to leave, too. He knows it, you know it. It’s not safe for you here, probably just as dangerous as it is for him.

You don’t wear a uniform, you don’t carry a gun (often), but you move under the cover of the night and you deal in secrets you’re not supposed to know. The work you do is just as important as his—sometimes he thinks it’s probably even moreso. He admires you, adores you, thinks you’re brave and beautiful and brilliant. Maybe he thinks some of those things because of how dangerous you are, because of the risks you’re willing to take. Being with him, hiding him here with you is a big one.

Beside him, you stir. Your voice is a melody, always lilting, tumbling from one word to the next. “Love you, Namjoon. What time is it, baby?” Later, he won’t know why he never thinks it’s strange that you weave words across several languages. Maybe that’s just how all spies are; and that’s what you are, at the core of it, isn’t it?

“Is it time?” you ask into the darkness.

“Yes. I need to change and then we can go.”

“Do you think we’ll find something to eat there?”

Namjoon smiles even though you can’t see him in the dark. “We will. Sausages and sauerkraut, I’m sure.” He waits for you to make the gagging sound he knows you’re about to.

You do. “I hate German food,” you complain. “Can’t wait to get out of here once and for all.”

“They’ll have schnitzel,” he says, trying to make you laugh.

“Germans and their pork,” you say dismissively, “swine for swine.”

“They’re not all bad.” He means it, but it sounds a little weak when he says it. It’s hard to see the forest for the trees, sometimes. Doesn’t help that the both of you see the worst of people… that the both of you sometimes are the worst of people.

“Hmm…” you hum, he knows you agree with him. “I know, I'm sorry. I’m just tired. And don’t want to leave you.”

“I know.”

“You could come with me. Run away with me, Namjoonie.”

When you say it, he almost believes it could work. Knows it wouldn’t, knows you’d both end up dead or worse, knows he could never go home, never see his mother again. Knows it would break his heart to bear witness to the secrets you have to keep, to the lives you take.

He never responds, just lumbers off of the cot and strips his uniform off, trades it for the street clothes you keep here for him. They’re ill-fitting, cheap and scratchy. He loves them because they smell like you, smell like the soap you carry with you from France—lavender from Provence—the one luxury you allow yourself.

The two of you walk hand in hand through back alleys and quaint cobblestoned neighborhoods, making your way to the carnival. He hears the barkers getting louder the closer you get, promising fun and winnings and love and only happy fortunes told. In reality, there are no happy fortunes here, and you both know that. But Namjoon’s happy to give into the fantasy of it all, just for tonight. Just to see you smile. He’d do anything to see you smile. Except…

“Win me a prize,” you coo sweetly. It’s futile, since you never take anything with you, and later tonight (or very early in the morning), you will leave Birkenau for good—a mission needs completing, and dead or alive, you won’t be back here again.

“Whatever you want, jagiya.”

You bounce on your heels in excitement and drag him to a booth, one offering cheap stuffed birds. There are swans, peacocks, parrots, ducks… He doesn’t know what you’re drawn by, but he’ll knock over as many milk jugs as he has to get you what you want.

“My strong soldier,” you whisper in his ear after he knocks the top three over. It makes him grin, makes him show you his dimples. He loves you so much, loves how you tease and bait him with your words—then with your body in the privacy of your hideaway. Loves your confidence and your unwavering belief. Loves your conviction. “You can do it, Namjoon.”

He does.

The final three jugs topple off the ledge. With you by his side, he thinks he can do anything. He knows he can.

“Wähle eins,” the barker shouts at him, Dutch accent thick in his German.

“De pauw,” you answer immediately in his native tongue, pointing to the top shelf.

The man pulls one of the blue birds down and hands it to you with a smile. You can charm anyone, Namjoon thinks. A skill you’ve honed doing the work you do, he supposes. “Voor de dame,” the huckster says with a bow and a flourish of his hand.

You giggle as you take it. Namjoon’s enamored with you.

As the two of you wander (you clutching the peacock tightly under your arm), he watches as you make friends with a fortune teller and charm free pieces of chicken schnitzel from a mustached French man. Your greatest feat is sneaking the two of you onto the ferris wheel. Namjoon’s in awe of how you move—though sleight of hand is usually what he catches you at, you’re not as skilled a pickpocket as you are a liar—how you can weave in and out of a crowd unnoticed, how you can blend in with any surrounding, any language, any group… It’s a skill he wishes he possessed, too. He’s too large, a little lumbering, a little awkward in his long limbs made to feel longer as he loses muscle to months of being malnourished. But somehow, you make him nimble, you make him invisible to everyone but you. He wants to chase that feeling forever, wants to bottle it up and uncork it again when you’re gone, when he’s so desperate with the want of you that he’s got no other solace.

Bellies unusually full, legs tired, and peacock secured, he leads you back to your basement apartment. He pulls you along to follow a different path to return than the one you took there—a trick he’s learned from you. Don’t give people the opportunity to see your face twice.

It’s still dark, and you have no electricity, no oil for your lamps, so Namjoon makes love to you by memory.

He feels so foggy, but this he knows how to do, like he’s done it a million times and will do it a million more until you and he become different versions of the same thing. Maybe you already are.

Slowly, using time you don’t have, he undresses you. He’s careful with the buttons of your blouse after he slides your cardigan off of your shoulders. Takes time to press his nose into the skin of your neck once it’s exposed, to try and remember the way that you smell, that lavender soap and the iron of the hard bathwater and the danger that rolls off of you in waves.

When he lets his arms drop from your body, you walk backward toward the cot, unlacing your skirt as you go. Namjoon can’t see you well, but he hears the sounds of the cotton strings being pulled through the gussets, the soft swoosh of it hitting the floor when you shimmy out of it.

“Come here, Namjoonie,” you whisper. He would, even if you didn’t ask. Wouldn’t be able to help himself. Always pulled to you like a magnet.

“Yes, jagiya,” he breathes, now trembling fingers removing his own clothes as he moves. When he finally can feel your skin under his hand, he’s fully undressed, thinks you are, too. Lets his fingertips explore your limbs just to confirm.

You straddle him on the cot, press your thumbs into the meat of his thighs and tell him he’s brave, powerful, that you’re so lucky he’s chosen you. But he knows it wasn’t a choice. Can’t explain it, but he’s always existed for you, would always find you. Couldn’t choose anyone else if he wanted to.

He doesn’t.

The way you kiss him feels like forever, but he knows better. Chases something deeper and messier as his heart rate rises. Knows you don’t have time to draw it out, knows he won’t be able to be as gentle with you as you deserve. No one’s ever gentle with you, is what you always tell him. People who know you know how dangerous you are and they treat you accordingly. Except Namjoon. Namjoon who reveres you and knows you and he are cut from the same cloth—the one where you need to fight for what’s right at any cost. It doesn’t make you dangerous to people who don’t deserve the battle scars you dole out, he thinks. It makes you a hero. To him, you are a lionheart.

Your palms press into his chest above his own heart and you sink onto his length. Every time you’ve been together seems to bleed together for him, but he knows you know exactly how to move to bring him bliss, knows you feel like the god who seems to have abandoned you made the two of you for one another.

It’s a risk, but he reaches up to pull the thick curtain back just a few millimeters. Wants the sliver of light to illuminate the tendons in your neck with your head thrown back as you ride him. Wants to see the peaks of your nipples, the smooth skin over your ribcage, the mole you have right on the plateau of your collarbone. Wants to let his eyes roll back in his skull, that’s how good you feel, but can’t let himself pull his attention from your body.

“Come here,” he says quietly, wraps his spindly arms around you and pulls you down so your chest is flush with his. “Be with me,” he almost begs, “look at me, love.”

Your hands cup his face, and his guide your hips on top of his.

“I want to feel like this forever,” he thinks he hears you say, and Namjoon can see a tear dripping down your cheek before you lean in to press your lips to his. He licks at your mouth, gets you to open for him, plays melodies along your tongue with his.

He thinks they’re love songs.

He hopes you know.

You’re all tight heat around him, and your nipples brush his chest in time with his tongue brushing yours. Your lavender scent is a balm, your tears drip onto his cheeks from above, and your breaths come shallow and labored as he fucks into you.

“I think I’ll love you forever,” he says.

“Mijn schat...” You whisper, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone and smiling the sad kind of smile. Quietly, you tell him that you want to feel him, beg him to move.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t stop. Thrusts into you, lets the sound of his skin against yours get louder and filthier. He knows he should stop. Can’t make himself. “Are you sure?” he asks, but it’s probably too late.

You’re nodding anyway, letting out a sweet little moan when his fingers find your clit and he comes, deep inside of you. Feels like a claim he shouldn’t be making. Gets one back from you just moments later when you squeeze around his softening cock, shuddering with your release above him.

Against his chest, you breathe, and he waits for the moment when your inhales align with his. It’s going to be the last time you share the same air, he thinks.

Your work tonight will be messy. He doesn’t ask what that means, thinks he already knows. Eyes the Remington in his periphery and you give him a tight-lipped confirmation. Yes, you have things you have to do. Yes, they’re worth sacrificing your life if you have to.

Namjoon spends a lot of time wondering about the balance between sacrifice and selfishness.

Never seems to decide where he sits on the spectrum.

Lithe like you are, he should barely feel it when you climb off of him, but it’s a crushing weight. Feels like his heart might be melting, like his lungs can’t expand anymore.

Once you’re dressed—in clothes he’s never seen before, those usually given to people of a different gender, maybe a different time—he watches you toss your skirt into the hearth first, then the clothes you’ve been lending him for your trysts. He watches you find the smallest vial of kerosene and some tinder you’d been collecting and add those, too. It’s as if he can see you in your full vibrancy now: focused on the mission, focused on destroying the you that has existed in this space, the him that has loved you.

The fire burns more brightly than he could have imagined after all the time you’ve spent together in the dark. It allows him to see the hope in your eyes when you lean down to kiss him one last time. Allows him to see the tears you no longer let fall when you hand him the peacock, press it close to him so he can hold it like a child.

“Why the peacock?” he asks when you turn to leave. It’s the only question he can think of that he suspects you’ll give him an answer to.

“Immortality, Joonie. You know, the Greeks thought the flesh of the peacock would never decay? Perfect and enduring even in death.”

“Are you the peacock or am I?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” you say as you heave open the door.

He shudders with the cold gust and wishes he knew what to say. Wishes he could choose you over his gun. Wishes you would choose him over yours.

“Until next time, Joonbug,” you say against the wind.

You pull the door hard behind you, and when it punches shut, Namjoon is startled out of his dream.

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“You gotta stop falling asleep in here, hyung.” Jeongguk’s voice is almost drowned out by Seokjin’s laugh.

“I covered for you at the last meeting, told them you were chasing down an idea… don’t interrupt a genius… creative flow… you know.”

Namjoon rubs his eyes and sits up. Of course he’s not in Germany during World War two. Of course he’s in his studio in Gangnam, and apparently he’s slept through a meeting.

He hates these dreams because he feels so thrown off when he wakes up. The pain of losing you always sticks with him for a while afterwards, makes his whole world tilt about one degree. Not enough to change anyone but him, but more than enough to notice.

He loves the dreams because he gets to be with you—tries not to let that thought be concerning.

“What’s that smell?” he asks, still half asleep.

“What smell?”

“Mmm… you know, the lavender smell.”

“Hyung, are you having a stroke?”

“I think people who have strokes smell toast,” Jin says.

“Nevermind,” Namjoon sighs as he gets off the couch. “Thanks for covering for me, hyung.”

“You owe me now.”

“Sure, yeah. Of course.” Agreeing is always easier than arguing with Jin.

Namjoon’s awake enough now to notice the looks that Jeongguk and Seokjin are passing between each other. He knows they know something’s going on with him, sees how they adjust the ways they move around him after these dreams, when he’s out of sorts and halfway out of commission for a half a day or so. It’s not just them, either. Jimin has tried to talk to him about it, but didn’t get very far. Hoseok knows Namjoon’s had a few bad dreams, but that’s the extent of it.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell them, it’s more that he doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding like he’s completely batshit. Doesn’t know how to tell them that he knows you’re real, that he believes in you the same way he believes in the existence of his sister or his best friend, Heeyoung. It’s part of the problem, really. Because every time he has one of these dreams, he finds himself actually looking for you. In real life. In Seoul. In every city they have a show in. Thought he saw you once in Switzerland, but was too afraid to get close enough to know for sure… Still isn’t sure if he regrets that or not.

It really messes with him when he’s in a city that he’s dreamed you in. Once, in Sevilla, he was too fucked up about it to even leave the hotel room. Tried to explain to one of the managers that something bad had happened last time he was there, but it got complicated when Namjoon couldn’t explain when exactly that was.

“What’s on your mind, Namjoonie?” Seokjin’s tone is gentler now, cautious.

“Spain.”

Another look of concern between Jeongguk and their hyung.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jeongguk asks softly. “Sometimes it helps to talk about things—you taught me that.”

He can’t help but smile at that. Caught in his own words. And he’s so tired of this, so tired of feeling like no one will understand… he’s tempted. To be honest, he could probably talk about it with Taehyung. Maybe that’s what he should do, he thinks. Tae would listen, wouldn’t judge him. But maybe Jeongguk and Seokjin wouldn’t either. Namjoon has assuredly done more questionable things than possibly believe in a ghost. Or whatever you are.

He sits back down on the couch. “I’ve been having these weird dreams,” he says.

“About Spain?” Jeongguk and Seokjin find seats to settle into, too.

“About a girl, mostly.”

“Want to tell us about her? Is she Spanish? Is she someone you know?”

“I’m not sure,” Namjoon admits. “She’s whoever I want her to be, I think.”

Seokjin’s eyebrows almost lift off his face. “Okay, Namjoonie. Why don’t you tell us about these dreams?”

Namjoon nods. “Well, the one I just woke up from, we were in Germany.”

“All of us?” Jeongguk asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Just her and me. I think hyung maybe, too, but I never saw him in the dream.” He gestures to Seokjin.

“But you have these dreams often?”

“Yeah.”

“And one of them was in Spain?”

Namjoon’s not sure what they’ll think of him once he tells them, but maybe he doesn’t have to give everything away, he decides. Maybe he can just tell him about one of the dreams and see what they think.

“Yeah, I can tell you about it if you want.”

Jeongguk nods eagerly and Jin does, too. He supposes he can’t back out now.

“Alright… well, here’s what I remember…”

Andalucia, Spain — Summer, 1913

The heat is relentless.

Namjoon sweats so much under normal conditions—this is borderline torture. If it were up to him, he’d be back in Sevilla with you, content in the small pension you both scrape together rent for every week. It’s shaded by the orange trees surrounding it, feels safe and private and cool, and most importantly, it’s yours.

Ronda is less forgiving. Maybe because he doesn’t know it as well, isn’t sure who might be someone to know and who might just be pretending. He’s done this for long enough that he thinks he has a pretty good sense for it, but he’s still sucked into having his time wasted on occasion. Wouldn’t mind it so much except it’s time spent away from you.

Blas Infante has been yelling on the steps for a while. His throat should be raw, but the adrenaline of agitating the people of Andalucia keeps him fresh, voice ringing clearly through the square. Namjoon has been watching the wealthiest in the crowd drift away, paying attention to where they’re going, making sure he’s got a line on which bars and cafes will be the best to move on to. The time is about right, he thinks. They’ll be a few drinks in and soon the wider crowd will disperse. Wants to make sure he can find a seat at the bar next to someone rich, attractive if possible. If they’re a little desperate that’s even better.

They probably all will be given the way the political winds are shifting in Andalucia.

As he turns from the crowd, he hears Padre de la Patria Andaluza shout, “the moment has come for the privileged to die!” The remaining crowd roars like the lions on their flags, angry and proud. He agrees with them—as long as he gets his money first.

When he slides onto the barstool, he makes sure to order his own drink first. Chilled palo cortado says he’s from around here but maybe a little down on his luck, otherwise, he’d be drinking Fundador.

It’s strange, he knows he grew up poor, but he can’t remember any of the details. It’s as if his whole life before knowing you is completely out of focus. He feels the resentment, though, the frustration of knowing there’s more for the taking if you have the right family, the right education, the right skin color.

But he’s older now and while it’s there, it’s in the background. Because he knows how to get his share, knows now that it’s also for the taking if you have a nice smile, a silver tongue, and a willingness to do whatever it takes to succeed—including changing your definition of success. Including sacrificing the things you believe in the most.

Good thing the only thing Namjoon believes in anymore is you, and you’re willing to stick by his side no matter what.

She’s not anywhere near as attractive to him as you are. She’s round in all the places he likes—soft hips, soft stomach, thick ass, but there’s something with her face. Too drawn, a little gaunt in a way that doesn’t suit her. It’s age maybe, she’s got to be thirty years older than him.

Age is another one of those tricky things that feels a little elusive to him.

He thinks he’s around nineteen and she’s probably fifty. Doesn’t care, really, as long as she’s got pesetas.

She does. A lot of them.

He fucks her slow in a room above the bar and calls her “Princesa” because she asks him to. Because she’ll pay him more if he does, because he knows how women like her work. It’s been quiet between them since he took her upstairs. They don’t talk about her husband, her children… They don’t talk about you.

She shifts a little below him and it almost hurts. He’s not used to sex so dry like this—makes it hard to imagine it’s you beneath him. Digs his thumbs into the flesh at her hips and tries to picture you instead, but her noises aren’t as sweet as yours, her skin isn’t as supple.

At least, he thinks as he thrusts over and over to her guttural cries, he’s doing this for you. For the future the two of you have dreamed of since you were basically kids and he would throw stones at your window after dark to sneak a piece of your attention. He’s fairly certain you almost have enough saved up to escape, to get away from your father and brother who have never once approved of Namjoon. In their eyes, it’s bad enough he’s a foreigner, but then he has the audacity to be poor in addition.

He wants to give you a good life. There’s still a part of him that thinks someday he can give you an honest one, as well. There’s a part of him that hopes he’s not only his mistakes like your father thinks, that he’s capable of so much more than the world has allowed him to give so far. He thinks you see it, too. He’s pretty sure that’s why you stay.

As the work drags on, he realizes he’s made a critical mistake—he didn’t ask her how much she’d had to drink, didn’t think to slip the bartender a note to water it down a bit. Feels like she’s never going to come, and he can’t leave a job undone. God, he just wants to get home to you. Wants to take a lavender-laced bath with you and cleanse himself of this sin and the thousand others he’s committed before it. Wants to start on new ones with you.

The thought of you: in your orange grove, smelling of sun-dried linen and laughing while he chases you… it gives him the will to keep going.

Ironic that his love for you is the reason his cock is buried in someone else.

Eventually, she comes, and he lies and says he does, too. Makes quick work of ridding himself of the condom with his back to her. This isn’t the first time he’s lied. Would he sound like too much of a romantic if he said he’s only ever had an orgasm with you?

For tonight, his patron seems satisfied, romanticism or not. She asks to see him again the following week and he tells her all about how he’d love to, but he just doesn’t have the money, see? So, if she wants to see him, it wouldn’t be possible unless…

She’s more generous than he’s expected. What she gives him to come back to Ronda will pay for a month of your pension. He shoves it in his pockets and tells her he’s going to get them another bottle of sherry from the bar.

When he slinks out into the finally cool night air, all he feels is relief. He’s going to make it in time to hop the late train back to Sevilla, back to you.

He looks up and down the cobblestone street, taking a second to remember which direction he came from. Notices a man watching him, seems like it should matter, but all that matters is getting back to you.

Namjoon counts his earnings under the moonlight as the train rumbles through the countryside. It’s enough. He’ll need to count what’s at your home to be absolutely sure, but he thinks it’s enough to get you out of there. You dream of Valencia—of a different kind of orange grove, of thick and salty sea air, of vacations in Madrid or Barcelona, strolling the markets and church grounds.

He looks out the window at the moon and thinks of how bright your face will be when he tells you the good news. He looks at the stars and hopes they will guide you both faithfully to a better life.

The train pulls into the station at Sevilla several hours later. Namjoon feels like the time just slipped away, doesn’t quite know how he passed it. Maybe the wine was stronger than he’d first thought…

It’s quiet in Sevilla at this time of night, but he doesn’t pay too much attention to the bustle in front of him, the same man from outside the bar in Ronda rushing up the road ahead of him. Must be in a hurry to get somewhere—Namjoon can relate, he’s in a hurry to get home to you. His bag is weighed down from the coin he’s bringing home, but oddly enough, he feels lighter than ever knowing he may never have to give himself to someone that isn’t you again.

It’s freedom.

After years of conning and scraping and scratching to climb out of the poverty he’s known, he finally has hope for something better. Because of you, because you gave him something to believe in and to fight for.

Tomorrow, he’ll take you to the gardens at the Alcazar, and amongst the flowers and the peacocks you love, he’ll give you the news—tell you it’s finally time. Maybe you can even take the train to the sea that night.

He loves you so much, owes you everything because he gets all that he needs from your company and your faith in him.

As he draws nearer to you, dirt road narrowing as he approaches the pension, he hears raised voices. Yours and someone else’s. Maybe more. It’s all he needs to take off running, can’t fathom why you’d need to be fighting with anyone in the orchard after midnight.

“Namjoon!” you exclaim when you see him sprinting up the road.

He can hear the fear in your voice, and it only makes him come to you faster. “What is it? What’s going on?” he calls. And then he sees them: your father and your brother, gesturing wildly and yelling.

“Mija, you know what he’s doing in Ronda? How disgusting he is? How he’s making a fool out of you, making fools out of our family?”

You’re calmer than they deserve, standing your ground with your arms crossed over your chest, full skirts whipping around you in the breeze. You look brave, intimidating, and more beautiful than ever.

Namjoon starts to understand, realizes he should have known something wasn’t right, that the man in two places would be a problem. Hadn’t let himself believe your father would have had him followed, but why wouldn’t he?

“You know nothing,” you snap at your father. “Mind your own business, old man. I’m not your family anymore. He’s my family now.”

Namjoon joins you in front of the pension, stands by your side, wraps an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple. “I think you should leave,” he says to the men facing you.

Your father spits in his direction, your brother makes rude gestures with both hands. They call him a whore, call him disgusting, claim he’s giving you diseases and ruining you for the god they say you need to meet one day.

(They still believe, Namjoon never has, and you think you already know god—that he lives in the way the birds call a bright greeting to the morning sun and the flowers bend to offer the bees what they both need to live.)

“Leave,” you say firmly. “We’re leaving for Valencia soon—you’ll never have to see us again. I’ll change my name, no one will know the disgrace you think we’ve brought to the family. Just let us be.”

And if Namjoon thought the crowd in Ronda was loud, he hadn’t yet had the screams of your father to compare it to. His face is a violent red, his whole body shakes with his anger, and Namjoon feels scared for the first time in a long time. The arm he has around your waist tightens as your brother pulls a revolver from the back of his trousers.

You are ever courageous—Namjoon can hear your racing heart, but you betray nothing, staring down your brother with iron conviction and pressing in tightly to the man at your side.

“No one will take you from us!” your father yells.

The barrel is pointed straight at the two of you. Namjoon can see your brother’s finger shaking and it’s as if he knows what’s about to happen. He can’t let it, would sacrifice anything for you, already has given up his body and his soul to you in some ways. He’s prepared to do it again. Would never make a choice that wasn’t to protect you. Loves you like you’re oxygen, like he needs you to survive.

He’s nothing without you, but you can be something without him. So, he moves.

And as Namjoon twists to pull you behind him, a single shot rings out through the Andalucian night, louder than a firecracker.

Seoul, South Korea — Present Day

“And then what?” Jeongguk asks, leaning so far in he looks like he’ll topple at any second.

“I don’t know,” Namjoon shrugs, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “That’s when I woke up. I had the window open and I think there was a car accident or one backfiring or something. Startled me awake.”

“That’s so romantic,” Jeongguk sighs. “Don’t you think, hyung?”

Seokjin nods along. “How often do you dream about her?”

“Every few weeks… for a couple of years now.”

“Shit.”

Namjoon explains how he can’t stop thinking about you for days after the dreams, how you always look different in them but he knows it’s you every time. There’s something in the way you speak to him, in the way you know his mind, in the way you move across each time and space so self-assured and brave and admirable. And then the words just keep coming. He tells them about how he always dreams of you existing at night—never in the morning. Never had a dream where the two of you have made it through the night and woken up together in love with no tragedy befalling you. He almost cries when he tells them how badly he wants to find you, how he knows you must be real, a person he’s just yet to meet… Says he’s not sure he believes in something like soulmates, but that sometimes his chest actually aches with the need to know you, to be with you. Tells them that you’re never perfect in any of his dreams, but you’re perfect for him: a partner in crime, a lover, an intellectual rival, a battleground ally, just always by his side making him sharper and better and happier. Tells them that all he wants is the chance to wake up next to you just once, sunlight and joy and no crisis clapping him awake. Tells them how lonely he is in the mornings.

When he finally trails off, out of ways to explain that each time he dreams of you, the desire to find you seems that much more urgent, Seokjin and Jeongguk are speechless. Jin looks like the fish he loves, mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Jeongguk is a little teary-eyed and his hand is rubbing careful circles between Namjoon’s shoulder blades.

“You have to find her, hyung,” Jeongguk says softly.

“I know.”

“We’ll help you find her, I promise.”

Namjoon thinks the commitment from Jeongguk is sweet, but doesn’t know how they could possibly help. You look different in every dream, a different voice, name, language… It’s an impossible task made even more challenging by the fact that you probably don’t actually exist. Just a figment of his imagination his brain has made to give him some stress relief, some friendship. He says as much, and he can tell Seokjin agrees with him, but Jeongguk is insistent. At the very least, it’s a little comforting that he’s told them what he feels like is probably his weirdest, deepest secret, and they didn’t laugh at him, didn’t march him upstairs to the company therapist.

After that day, Namjoon feels a little bit better about everything. Better enough that he doesn’t dream about you for a few weeks, starts to forget to look for you in the face of every person he passes. The best part is that he’s really able to focus on their upcoming tour, and by the time he boards the plane to another continent with the rest of the members, he wonders if he’ll ever dream about you again.

It’s been long enough that he misses you a little bit, as ridiculous as it sounds. He doesn’t mention that part to Jeongguk or Seokjin.

They touch down in a new city, and Namjoon rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’d fallen asleep on the flight—no dreams. It’s early, but they don’t get the day to themselves. They’ll eat a snack in the cars on the way to the venue, run a short rehearsal for blocking and then Namjoon will do some foreign-language interviews from the hotel. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls his mask up, trying to mentally prepare himself a little bit for the remainder of the day. And then he smells it, as he steps into the airport, a gentle lavender scent that’s so familiar he thinks he might be imagining it.

Namjoon stops in his tracks right outside the gate and starts looking. It’s practically instinctual at this point, head on a swivel trying to spot you. It’s so ridiculous and he knows it. But there’s just something… it’s like he knows you’re here.

Unfortunately, it’s a terrible place to be having a crisis, and he’s literally knocked out of his search when another passenger on their phone runs right into the back of him.

“Fuck, sorry,” you say, only glancing up from your phone for a second.

Namjoon doesn’t look at you, just flushes with embarrassment as if anyone could possibly know what he’s thinking. Keeps his head down, says, “no problem,” and tells himself that the weird pit in his stomach is nothing and the smell he’s so drawn to is in his head. The you of his dreams isn’t possibly in this airport in a city on the other side of the world.

He tries to shake it off all afternoon, all evening, but doesn’t think he’s too successful. Thinks he probably fucked up a couple of the interviews, hopes one of his managers would have stopped him if he was too off the mark, though. It’s probably fine.

That night, for the first time in weeks, he dreams of you.

Gyeongsangnam-do, South Korea — Summer, 1931

In these most uncertain of times, Namjoon is sure of two things: you are the most beautiful woman he’s ever known, and he is so much in love with you that he feels shaky with it.

It’s quiet in your father’s farmhouse save for your soft moans. With a rare stroke of luck, your mother and father have left to negotiate with the angry man who owns their land now, and Namjoon has taken advantage of sneaking away from Pukyong’s campus to be with you. He’d come to review plans for a new barn with your father, but finding him gone was a blessing.

You and Namjoon haven’t been able to find much time alone since he left for Busan. He comes back when he can, which isn’t often, and you sneak out to the edge of the fields to meet him under the moonlight. He’s gotten used to fucking you quietly and in a hurry, helping you brush grass and twigs out of inappropriate places when you’re done. This though, this is a luxury, to be with you in your own bed, in the daylight. To be as loud as you both want—Namjoon could write a dissertation on how nice you sound when he fucks you.

You’re slick and tight, and you’re the only home Namjoon’s ever really known. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and watches as you arch your back underneath him, whine a little, tell him not to leave marks where your parents might see.

Because you’re young and reckless and you’ve both only ever loved each other, he knows he’s got to pull out soon, but it’s hard to remember in the heat of the moment.

You call him “Namjoonah,” you tell him how good he feels inside you, breathy and sweet, running your fingers through his hair to brush it off of his forehead. It’s gentle, the way you touch him, like he’s something worth taking care of. You say all the nicest things to him when he fucks you—you tell him he’s strong and handsome and so big, you always emphasize, widening your eyes and palming his cock through his trousers. It’s probably giving him a little bit of an ego, he thinks, but he likes it anyway. Being the focus of your attention is so flattering. He always wants your eyes on him, your hands on him, your thoughts about him. You make him greedy and selfless at the same time—he wants everything you’re willing to give him and he wants to give you even more in return. Wishes this fucking war were over so he wouldn’t have to be on edge all the time. Knows he’s lucky not to have been conscripted to the Imperial Army yet, but that it’s probably a matter of time.

It’s a blessing, being smart, which people have told Namjoon that he is since he can remember. At least they’ve spared him so far because he’s of more use to them at Pukyong, learning how to be the best architect he can be, than he would be as a soldier. Someday, his own father says, he will build castles for a Korean leader, walls to keep the Japanese soldiers out. Those conversations are had in secret, in whispers and gestures. It’s dangerous to be someone like his father, to think there’s a chance for Korean independence, to fight for it in secret… But it’s dangerous to be fucking you into your mattress when your parents could come home any moment, too, and that doesn’t stop Namjoon.

Like father, like son, as they say.

He’s sure it’s not a secret that he’s your boyfriend. Your parents know him, invite him for meals, they like him. They think he’s a sweet, smart, college boy who’s going to give their daughter a better life than they can someday, and they’re not wrong.

Though, he’s also sure they’d like him a lot less if they knew he was a sweet, smart, college boy who loves your body, loves the way your soft thighs feel around his head when he licks at your core, loves the way he can throw your calves over his shoulders and hold you in place as he thrusts home. Loves the small violet bruises he bites into your skin, hidden away under your long skirts and long linen sleeves. Loves how you let him pull out and cover those bruises with his cum, and then especially loves when you run a finger through it and lick it off—when you tell him he tastes good and you thank him for sharing with you.

They’d think he’s ruined you, and he’d cop to it even though it is absolutely the other way around.

You come with a sweet, loud moan. Your throat sounds a little raw when you say his name again, which only turns him on more. With a few strokes, he follows you, leaving his release across your stomach and breasts and thinking that if all art looked like you do in this moment, he’d change his major.

Lazily, he lies next to you and pulls you close. You should clean up, you should get dressed, Namjoon should be sitting at the kitchen table studying his drawings with his shoulders back and glasses smart across his nose when your father gets home. You don’t want him to leave though, asking him to stay just a little longer, turning your head to kiss him softly.

When he wakes up, it’s dark, and he panics. You’re pliant in his arms, still sleeping, and your parents should be home—what if they’ve seen you? What if they know that Namjoon is taking something sweet from you at every opportunity, paying you back with pieces of his heart?

Maybe it’s time he faces this like an adult, he decides. He’s going to marry you someday anyway, it’s a foregone conclusion. They may not like that you’ve been breaking so many of their rules in secret, but someday you will be his wife, and he will care for all of your family as his own, and hopefully that buys him a little leniency with your father. He kisses your temple and gets out of bed as quietly as he can, pulls his clothes back on, and pads out of your room to meet his fate.

He spots them immediately, and as soon as he has the thought that he’s going to be sick, he heaves all over your kitchen floor. It’s going to wake you up, but he needs to spare you from the scene. Somehow, he gets their bodies covered before you get up. It’s the best he can do but it’s not enough—the scream you let out is haunting, half shock and half anguish. When you crumple to your knees, he holds you, lets you sob and scream into his chest and rocks you steadily. He doesn’t know what else to do.

After that day, he files for a leave from school and essentially moves in with you. You use your anger to fuel you, fighting for independence in secret alongside the bravest Koreans Namjoon knows. Your landlord comes around and neither you nor Namjoon even try to hide your rage and disgust. You spit at his feet and he warns you to be polite unless you want to end up like your parents. Namjoon tries to convince you that the old man isn’t even worth your anger, that you’re better off serving your parents’ memory alive than alongside them in a grave.

As the war picks up, so does conscription. Namjoon thinks he’ll be called any day, but the idea of fighting in the Imperial Army makes him ill. So instead, he makes a plan.

It’s only a matter of months before you’re on the ferry to join him on Jeju. He’s been there, building and fortifying. Perhaps it’s cowardly to cut and run, but he doesn’t care. It’s the only way he can be with you, the only way he can keep you safe. With the farm equipment sold off and a bit of his family’s money, he’s made you a home there, and it’s finally ready for you.

There’s a tearful reunion on the dock, and it’s followed by a trip to the courthouse to get married. It all happens in a daze, the memories hazy and dim, but the way he felt as he kissed you and made you his wife burns in him bright, bright, bright.

He makes love to you on the floor of the new cottage that night, slow and sweet. Tries to make you understand how much he’s missed you, how much he loves you. Thinks he succeeds when you tell him you love him as you come, thinks he’s never seen or heard something more beautiful in his whole life.

Finally, he leads you up the narrow staircase to the room he’s built for you. It’s got a big bed, but not too big, because you always want to be close to him when you sleep. Its wooden floors are made warmer with a rug his mother made for you, a wedding gift. The balcony is small, but he designed it himself, based on a wish you’d told him about, that you’ve always dreamed of a place to read in the mornings. It’s shaded from the eastern sun with a balustrade you can kick your feet up onto. There are crude drawings of your favorite animals carved into the balusters, alternating lions and peacocks. Protection and immortality, built into the home he’s made for the two of you. When you see it, you look like maybe you finally understand the way he cares for you, the way he will do anything he can for as long as he lives to keep you happy and safe.

You let yourself out there, and light up the night with your happiness. Namjoon watches you from the bed. He’s been on the balcony, and it’s small. He’s not technically the architect he always thought he would be since he’s left school for good, but he tried his best with this design, and then tried even more when he built it for you.

Maybe he should have seen it coming, maybe he shouldn’t have been so confident. The funny thing about light and sound is that he sees it happen just barely before he hears it. Sees you stumble a little to your right, sees the balcony wobble and thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Then he hears the deafening crack and it’s perfectly timed with his stomach sinking and you disappearing from his view, the balustrade going with you.

New York City — Present Day

Namjoon wakes up in a cold sweat, the alarm blaring next to him. He hates this feeling—the one immediately after the dreams. At least he has most of the day off. The company always gives them time for the jetlag, supposed to be for sleeping, but he’ll use it to shake himself out of this fog that settles in after the dreams. Maybe the Met this time; he saw the Whitney last time he was here and he sort of wants to get out of Chelsea, anyway—thinks the walk might help him clear his head.

He sees you when he’s standing in front of a moon jar, wondering to himself what right these people have to even store this piece and then charge people to see it. Wonders if he could get it back to Korea somehow where it belongs, mutters something under his breath about colonialism and notices you smile at that out of the corner of his eye.

It’s exactly like he’d always thought it would be to see you: immediately he knows. There’s no question. You look different again, not quite like you have in any of his dreams, but you smell the same and you’re wearing a blue and green dress, tight around your figure and flouncy at the hem that reminds him so specifically of a peacock he wants to cry. You smell like fancy French lavender soap and you have a smile that could bring world peace.

The sight of you makes him freeze. What would he even say? There’s nothing he could tell you that wouldn’t make him sound insane, nothing that he’s willing to admit to a stranger, even if that stranger is you. His heart races and he feels himself start to sweat nervously. He’s been looking for you for years, and when he finally finds you, it sends him into a panic. How perfect for him.

He can’t stand in front of the same moon jar forever, though, so he swallows his nerves and stands up a little straighter and begins to turn to you, even if just to introduce himself like a normal person.

Namjoon’s heart sinks when he realizes you’re already gone.

He’s talking to Jeongguk while he sits on the steps of the Met, phone pressed to his ear.

“I know it’s her,” he says, sending Jeongguk into a frenzy of questions.

Namjoon is contemplating the possibility that he’s fucked up his only chance to meet you, when you appear, out of the blue, to take a seat a few feet away from him, he rushes out a “Gotta go, Kookie, bye,” and hangs up as Jeongguk is still talking.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi.”

“This is probably so weird, but…” You straighten out your skirt and don’t make eye contact. You look equal parts beautiful and nervous. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Namjoon gets this question a lot. Usually, it’s fans trying to ‘play it cool’ when they run into him in Seoul, trying to give the impression that they don’t immediately know who he is. And yeah, he thinks he’s more humble than some people less famous than him, hates to assume, but it’s always pretty transparent. But, for as much as he gets this question, as often as he brushes it off with an, “I don’t think so,” and a rushed exit from wherever he’s been recognized, he has no idea how to answer it when it comes to you. So, he just gapes at you. It’s mortifying.

“Sorry,” you continue. “It’s just that… Well, this is probably gonna sound crazy, but I think I’ve had dreams about you.”

“Holy shit,” Namjoon says, living up to his reputation as a certified genius and a clever songwriter.

This response flusters you even more, it’s clear you’re embarrassed. The way your eyes flit around and look for an exit from the situation tells him everything he needs to know.

“Sorry again,” you groan more than speak. “Nevermind.”

You start to stand, and Namjoon barely gets his shit together in time to grab your wrist and finally speak. “It’s not weird. I have them, too. The dreams.”

“No fucking way,” you whisper, your eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Namjoon nods in agreement. “How’d you know it was me?” He asks.

“Just knew it,” you shrug, wrist still kept tight in his grasp. “I’m not sure. It’s like… you feel the same. You smell like you, too.”

“Come on,” he says, dropping your wrist finally and standing. “Want to get coffee or something?”

To his relief, you do.

It’s awkward at first. Where do you start with someone you feel like you’ve known forever but you’ve never actually met? Namjoon has a million questions he wants to ask you but none of them seem to fully form in his head. It’s bad enough he has to think through how to not be seen with you—his lifestyle adds a whole layer of complication you’d never faced together in his dreams. Eventually, you knock on his hotel room door about ten minutes after he gets in. It had been a little stressful, waiting for you. He made you promise three times you’d actually show up and then on the fourth one, he made you pinky promise. When you took his little finger solemnly, instead of laughing at him, he was finally (mostly) convinced you’d be there.

And now, here you are, sitting at the little table in his room, clearly trying to be polite and not look at the mess of stuff he’s accumulated in just one night. After all this time wishing he could find you, he’s got no idea what to say to you.

“So… why the Met?”

You smile a little sheepish and shake your head. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“I doubt that,” he says, trying to be as reassuring as he can for such a weird situation.

“I thought it’s where the lion statues were… you know… on the steps. I thought if I went there, maybe you’d be there. I was sure it was you at the airport but by the time I realized it, you were gone. So, I guess it was the only place I could think to look for you where you might look for me, too. But they’re at the library.”

“The lions?”

His confusion seems to make you a little shy; you duck your head and shake it, like you’re telling yourself off before you even explain. “You always say I’m like a lion in the dreams. No matter where we are or what’s happened to us. You say I’m strong and brave and beautiful—”

“A lionheart,” Namjoon whispers.

“Yeah,” you brighten at that. “Is it like that in your dreams, too?”

Namjoon tells you it is. And then he tells you about all the dreams he can remember. Not in detail, and not the worst of the bad endings, but enough that the two of you can compare notes. Enough that you realize you’ve been having basically the same dreams, although not at the same time. Both of you have had some the other hasn’t had yet. He loves it when you tell him about one that ended happily, the two of you betrothed in the Joseon era and figuring out how to fall in love. You think it’s supposed to mean something that the two of you are always facing something that’s keeping you apart—you wonder out loud what might keep you apart in reality, too.

“I hope nothing will,” he says without thinking.

“You don’t even know me!” You’re laughing, but he’s clearly taken you by surprise.

“Don’t I, though?” And the mood changes. You swallow thickly and he tries his best not to break eye contact with you even though he thinks you’re so gorgeous he might not make it through the day without passing out. “Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly, but he’s already moving to your side of the table and you’re already scooting your chair back to make space for him.

You don’t kiss like you do in the dreams. In the dreams, you kiss him like he’s the beginning and end, like you’ll take anything he gives you. There’s something nice about that, makes him feel wanted and strong. In reality, you kiss him like you know it’s the other way around. You’re confident, teasing—you smile against his lips when you do a thing with your tongue that makes him let out a moan.

In the dreams, he can’t remember ever kissing anyone but you. But now he’s got your lips on his and you’re definitely not the first person he’s kissed by a long shot, but you’re absolutely the best. It’s almost like having something to compare it to makes it even better.

Maybe there should be some hesitation, but neither of you seem to have any. Not when he pulls you up from the chair so he can kiss you without bending all the way over, not when he walks you back toward the hotel room bed, leaving a trail of tender kisses up your neck and across your jaw in a surprising show of coordination.

It’s inexplicable, he thinks, how he feels like he’s done this a million times with you before but in the best way. He can kiss you without any of the awkward, nervous, first time worries he normally has. He can trust you without knowing quite why, and that part is probably the weirdest thing about all of this because he can’t trust anyone outside of the members and his family usually.

“Is it weird I feel like we’ve done this before?” you ask as you run your hands from his shoulders down his arms.

Namjoon just shakes his head and winds his fingers with yours, leaning in to kiss you again. “No, it’s the same for me,” he says.

Because of the familiarity, maybe, it’s not urgent when you undress each other. He takes time to appreciate this version of you, the one he’s actually holding in his arms, the one who pinches his side gently and then laughs. “Just making sure you’re real,” you say when he yelps in protest.

There’s a moment when you’re both naked, standing in front of the bed, when the air feels thick between you. You’re holding his jaw in your palm and he’s got his hands around your back and neither of you speak for a long beat. For him, it just feels incredible to be here with you. He doesn’t care that he has no idea what you do for a living, where you live… Doesn’t know anything about you except that he thinks he has loved you for a long time. Thinks maybe he was put on this planet specifically to love you. Wonders how the two of you could have messed this up so badly in every other universe, but is actually really glad you did, because maybe that’s why you’re finally here with him now.

“I… I think I love you,” he says timidly. “Makes me feel crazy.”

You have a tear falling down your cheek, but you’re smiling—Namjoon is pretty sure you’re not supposed to be crying before sex like this, but you seem happy. “S’not crazy, I think I love you, too. I’m so happy I finally found you.”

“I looked for you in every city,” he confesses before he presses his lips back to yours, then kisses the tears off your cheeks.

You go soft under him, body pressed into his, and he guides you onto the bed. The two of you laugh into each other’s mouths, mutter how you can’t believe it’s happening, let your breath grow heavier as you take time to learn each other. Namjoon loves it when your lips move against his pulse point, when you get a little rough with him, leaving small bites and bruises in places the stylists won’t give him shit for. You like when he talks to you, tells you how you make him feel, how much he wants to be with you—he whispers right into your ear, the sweetest confessions sandwiched by pure filth that makes your breath hitch and a shiver travel down your spine.

Namjoon’s dreamed you a hundred ways, in a hundred places, but here, spread naked underneath him in this hotel bed and laughing with him while he fucks you slowly is better than any dream he’s ever had.

“Can’t believe you’re real, baby,” he breathes as you run your fingertips down his sides. He looks down to see where his cock is moving inside of you, and he thinks this must actually be a dream. You’re perfect, he thinks as he moves fingers to your clit and presses there gently. When you pull him down to kiss you, it feels familiar again. You brush his hair off of his forehead like you’ve done in every one of his dreams, and now he feels like he could cry—he’s just so overwhelmed by you, so in awe just like he knew he would be. Just as he always has been.

You whisper his name when he makes you come. You tighten around him and dig your nails into his shoulders and Namjoon thinks this is the closest to heaven he might ever get. When you finally work through your orgasm, you encourage him to change positions, to lay on his back and let you ride him.

The way you know exactly what he likes is magical, that deep grinding of your hips in his lap. You don’t have to ask to know what makes him tick, bringing his hand to your lips as you move, sucking two of his fingers into your mouth and whining around them.

He’s always preferred this to something faster. This way, he gets to watch you, feels like you’re taking your pleasure from him, feels like you’re both getting precisely what you want from each other. He could lift his hips and fuck into you, could hold your waist and get you to bounce on his cock like you’re making a sex tape. But this is better. This is you and him, moving like you’re meant to be connected.

You absolutely are, he’s sure of it.

It’s a movie script ending when you come again just as he does for the first time—he wishes he could feel all of you when he spills into the condom, wishes he’d found you years ago and built a more tangible history with you. Hopes more than anything that you want to try to do that with him now.

The two of you clean up with a little bit of shyness; you hide your face as he cleans you carefully with a warm washcloth, and he tries not to let you see him get rid of the condom. It’s not as easy as the dreams where those things sort themselves out, but Namjoon wouldn’t trade these awkward moments for anything.

There’s not really a need to ask you to stay, he knows somehow that you will, but he asks anyway, preens when you agree and ask to borrow a shirt.

He can’t really risk room service with you here, but he gets a manager to bring you food (hand stuck shyly through a crack in the door as to not interrupt), and while you eat, he peppers you with questions about your life. Feels like he knows the important things that are the same as in his dreams (he loves you, you’re loyal), but wants to learn all the mundane stuff, too.

Much later, before the sun rises but after some people would already call it morning, you fall asleep in his arms and he lets himself drift off thinking of lavender and peacocks and falling in love.

Namjoon’s alarm goes off, and the sun must be high in the sky because the light in the room is a bit muted. It’s the first time in a long time he’s woken up content, hesitates for a second before he remembers why, remembers everything that happened the day before, remembers that you were real and here and in his bed and his arms. He lets himself just exist there for a minute, eyes closed, thinking about what might come next, how he’ll explain you to his family…

Then it sort of dawns on him that you should be right there, that he fell asleep wrapped around you and now he isn’t. He panics for a split second when he realizes you’re not pressed against him, doesn’t think he could handle it if this was a dream, too. Tries to be rational, but for some reason can’t quite bring himself just to tip his head over and open his eyes.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, smells hotel laundry detergent and sex and the faintest hint of lavender. He says a silent prayer and then sticks his hand out to the other side of the bed to feel for yours. Thinks he might scream when he doesn’t feel you there immediately.

Namjoon snakes his hand across the sheet and hopes he never has to dream to see you again.

#bts x reader #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon angst #namjoon fluff #rm smut #rm fluff #rm angst #bts imagines #namjoon imagine #rm imagine #kvanity #bts smut #bts angst #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #rm fanfic

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cedarxwing · 30 days

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The ending of Hannibal the novel explained

(aka the breastfeeding scene)

Here's the passage (end of Chapter 101):

I thought everyone was kidding about the breastfeeding kink jokes until my partner read Hannibal and the whole ending flew over their head. Their main takeaway was "that was weird." When I checked reddit, it seemed everyone was confused there too. I was gobsmacked to see one guy say that Thomas Harris was playing some cruel joke on the reader by writing an ending that didn't make sense!

How many people are reading Hannibal like this, completely missing the resolution to Hannibal's character arc? They must finish the book confused about what it was all about in the first place. So here's how I understand it!

First, I need to get this out of the way: a lot of people hate this scene, and from what I understand it's because they're weirded out by the "breastfeeding kink." Which is fine, but it makes me want to gently hold them by the hand and tell them that it's ok for someone to suck on a nipple. It happens all the time. Sometimes it just feels good, sometimes it's part of a breastfeeding fantasy, and sometimes it's literal breastfeeding. Between consenting adults, this is all fine and normal. Let's all move past this knee-jerk repulsion (or alternatively, sit in our discomfort and expand our horizons) so we can analyze this piece of art together. :)

Next, authors LOVE Freudian psychoanalysis. Even though it's all nonsense, it's full of literary allusion and makes for compelling narratives and character studies (childhood maladjustment, repressed memories, etc), which is basically catnip for a writer. Thomas Harris was no exception, and probably creamed himself (as I did) when he learned that Freud's oral-sadistic stage was also termed the "cannibalistic stage," referring to the time when an infant is growing teeth and begins to bite at the breast--the psychosexual urge to devour and destroy the thing you love. What could be more appropriate for Hannibal?

Next, consider the pattern of Hannibal's Il Mostro murders. He killed young couples in one of the most romantic cities in the world, then arranged them as Chloris and Zephyr from Botticelli's Primavera, exposing Chloris's left breast just like in the painting. In classical art, an exposed breast is often a symbol of fertility. Chloris is associated with spring, new growth, and transformation.

Perhaps, at the time, Hannibal rationalized these murders as retribution for rude behavior. Maybe the couples were performing disgusting PDA. Maybe they were obnoxious tourists on their honeymoons. Either way, it's clear to the reader that Hannibal has some deep-seated hang up about sex and romance.

The particulars of this hang up are open to interpretation, but based on Hannibal's obsession with the rape and transformation of Chloris as well as his embarrassment at the paintings of Leda and the Swan in the German's house, I think it's safe to say that Hannibal feels like any relationship he has with a woman who isn't aware of his true (monstrous) identity would involve a degree of violence/lack of consent. He is forever barred from normal romance.

Having given up on sex/romance, Hannibal is unable to consciously recognize his desire for Clarice, so he sublimates it into a more general familial love. He longs for a return to innocence, to return to the time before he ate Mischa and became an unlovable monster (cue the teacup metaphor).

But even familial love seems like too much to hope for, so he sublimates it further into something that seems more attainable: resurrecting the person whom he loved and devoured, and who loved him in turn (Mischa) through Clarice.

So we have the breast as a symbol of sex/fertility (Chloris/Clarice), as an object that is loved and devoured (Mischa), and as a literal source of sustenance that must be given up during infancy (mommy).

Big brain Clarice connects all these dots and, in the very same style of therapy that Hannibal has been using on her, distills Hannibal's psychological problems into a single poetic gesture that completely fixes Hannibal in an instant, proving that she's not only his intellectual equal, but is, in some ways, his superior.

When Clarice asks, "Did you ever feel that you had to relinquish the breast to Mischa? Did you ever feel you were required to give it up for her?", she's ostensibly asking Hannibal if he's stuck in the oral stage of childhood development (which yeah he probably is). On a deeper level, she's asking Hannibal to consider if he's given up on love.

When Clarice exposes her breast in the same fashion as Chloris, says, "You don’t have to give up this one", and suspends the drop of wine from her nipple, she is shifting his perception of her breast from familial devoured sustenance to a sexual object. Basically, "Why do you want me to pretend I'm your sister when we could be banging?" Hannibal is being aged out of his childlike mindset, not regressing into one.

There are other layers of meaning in this act. The hedonism of using thousand dollar wine for food play is a sign of Clarice's character development. The way Hannibal kneels before Clarice is a position of subservience, but could also be interpreted as devouring Clarice in a way that's new to him. It's the most self-actualized thing Hannibal has done since escaping prison (LOL) and marks the end of his hero's journey (as one of the first things we see him do in Hannibal Rising is nurse).

Personally, I don't read this scene as breastfeeding kink. Yeah, Clarice talks about breastfeeding, but that was more a metaphor for other stuff. Considering the direction of Hannibal's character arc, I understand this scene as him briefly licking the wine off before they have sex. But to each their own! ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

ANYWAY, yeah, it's unsettling. It's obviously meant to be. But it's beautifully unsettling! Hate it all you want, but this is peak cannibal romance, to me!!

#hannibal meta #hannibal #clarice starling

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edenfenixblogs · 3 months

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"Night" is Free if You're an Audible Subscriber

A lot of people's only experience with learning about the Holocaust is Anne Frank's Diary or works of fiction.

Anyone speaking about i/p right now NEEDS to read this first person account of life in a concentration camp.

There is a right way and a wrong way to read this book.

The right way: Sit with the uncomfortable feeling that non-Jewish people did this to Jews. Not just Germans and not just Nazis. The European leaders who aligned with Hitler and fought with him did this. The Russians who distributed and popularized the antisemitic conspiracy theories which informed much of Europe's Jew hatred at the time did this. The neighbors who sat back and watched as government officials carted off people they knew and saw every day or shot them in the streets and buried them in mass graves. The ones who convinced themselves they were good people simply because they didn't pull the trigger or operate a gas chamber. The citizens of nations of the Allied powers who turned away Jewish refugees from Europe. The Nazi sympathizers in the US. The vast ,expansive hatred against Jews that prevented anyone from intervening on our behalf.

Sit with the fact that nobody intervened to protect Jews, ever. The Allied powers intervened to stop German expansionism, not to protect Jews. They did not fight in WWII to protect Jews. That any Jews survived at all is a miracle. The fact that the camps were liberated at all is a miracle. Because it wasn't a goal. It wasn't something that people were fighting to achieve. That's what people don't seem to understand.

Killing Jews WASN'T the thing that the Allied powers had a problem with.

Plenty of Americans and Europeans from Allied nations thought it sure was a shame that Hitler was so aggressively expansionist, because he had some great ideas about how to kill all those Jews.

And unless you're Jewish, there is the extremely uncomfortable but likely chance that someone you loved was pretty OK with killing my family.

Or, at the very least, that someone killing my family was not something they had the emotional capacity or willingness to engage with. Think about what that does to my trust for YOU. And if you don't think that someone you loved passed on that apathy and antisemitism to you, then you're naive.

The only correct way for a non-Jew to read this book is to sit with who they are as people and think about how they treat Jews and try to empathize with how this indescribable tragedy affected and continues to affect Jews worldwide.

If you have never read this book, I want you to think long and hard about how absolutely terrifying it is for Jewish people that, I, a Jewish woman, have to BEG non-Jews to read it. Because your education system failed you. And because Jews are afraid that YOUR BEHAVIOR WILL DO THIS TO US AGAIN.

The wrong way: Making this true memoir about living through an industrialized genocide about ANYTHING other than antisemitism and antisemitic apathy. You don't get to use it to draw parallels to other atrocities or wars or people. At least not during/while processing your first reading of this book. Why? Because until you sit with your own internalized antisemitism, where and who it came from, and are willing to confront your own hate toward us, then you are missing the point. The point is that people can convince themselves they are good and that they care about their fellow humans and they can have empathy for everyone except Jews. Sure, they might think it's sad that bad things keep happening to Jews. But it never really seems to be the priority, does it? It never seems to be a pressing enough issue to be worth addressing. There's always something more important happening.

That's antisemitic thinking too. You do, actually, need to prioritize dismantling your antisemitism in order to, you know, dismantle it. Just because you don't sit around daydreaming about Hitler doesn't mean you're not antisemitism. Ignoring us is part of your antisemitism--one of the most damaging and intrinsic parts of antisemitism actually. The Holocaust did not happen because most people hated Jew enough to kill us. The Holocaust happened because a bunch of people didn't care enough Jews to stop the people who DID want to harm us.

If you can't think of the last time you tried to unlearn something antisemitic within yourself, then people like you are why the Holocaust happened. If you have had to tune out Jewish pain because it feels like a "distraction," then people like you are why the Holocaust happened. If your reaction to reading this is to feel some kind of righteous anger that I've called you a bad person because you have proof you care about other people, then you are the kind of person who allowed the Holocaust to happen. And you're also wrong.

Because I'm not calling you a bad person. I'm calling you a flawed person who has the ability to fix a flaw that has the potential to harm others. I'm not asking you to care about other, non-Jewish, people. And I'm not asking you to STOP caring about the non-Jewish people you care about.

What I am saying is that claiming that you care about Jewish people is not the same as actually caring about us.

I'm asking you to sit and read this book and to remember that it is about JEWISH PAIN and a JEWISH TRAGEDY that happened to JEWISH PEOPLE. You need to actually devote time to caring about Jewish people, because society never taught you how to do that, and it has no infrastructure built to help you do that. Because antisemitism is baked into the infrastructure itself. Take the time. Read the book. Let Jewish pain be about Jewish people. Let us own our own tragedy. Do not take it from us to apply to other situations. ESPECIALLY not when the actual original situation was something that nobody cared about enough to prevent.

Understand this: If you're not Jewish, there is no way I can explain to you how painful it is to watch people be so invested in likening every terrible thing that happens to any other group of people to the Holocaust, when those same people never actually first tried caring about the Holocaust and the people it actually happened to.

#an eden original #elie wiesel #antisemitism #holocaust inversion #leftist antisemitism #shoah tw #holocaust tw #night

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katelynnwrites · 8 months

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You With The Dark Curls (You With The Watercolour Eyes) | Laura Freigang

warnings: my subpar writing cause i really am not happy with how this turned out 🥴

word count: 1451

summary: you’re the one with the dark curls and laura’s the one with the watercolour eyes, she loves your curls and you love her eyes

a/n: requested

Laura’s watercolour eyes are what first drew you to her.

They are precisely the same shade as the ocean on a cloudy day. The prettiest of greys with the tiniest touch of blue. You think you would be happy to drown in them.

Three years of being with her and they still have the same effect on you.

Honestly, you would say that they have an even greater effect on you because you now well and truly know her.

In the clear grey blue of your girlfriend’s eyes, you can read every emotion that she is experiencing. You know when she is happy, sad or frustrated.

And you know that she is completely in love with you, just as you are with her.

You see it now, as she gently combs her fingers through your hair. She plays with the ends of it, letting your dark curls wrap around her finger.

Your girlfriend’s adoration is obvious, when her eyes meet yours in the mirror.

She smiles as she notices you watching her and presses a kiss onto your neck, to convey her affection.

The smile stays on both your faces as she reaches for your hand and leads you towards the shower.

Once inside, you switch the water setting to one that you know the blonde prefers.

She picks up on it the moment she steps under the water spray and thanks you by pulling you flush against her.

‘Laura!’ You gasp, grabbing onto her waist in fear of falling.

The Eintracht Frankfurt forward laughs, ‘Don’t worry schatz. Did you really think I would let you fall?’

‘No…’ You murmur and Laura presses a kiss in between your shoulder blades.

You shiver and she eagerly kisses you in the same spot again.

‘Lau.’ You breathe and you can feel her smile against your skin.

‘Good. Cause I would never let you fall. Except for me of course.’

She adds the last part confidently and you roll your eyes.

Your girlfriend giggles at her own silliness a moment later and you find yourself turning around to face her and blinking water out of your eyes just so that you can see her eyes properly.

Her eyes that you adore.

They’re ever changing, the grey blue shifting between minuscule shades depending on the lighting and her mood.

You think she must know of your adoration that almost borders on obsession by now but for good measure, you lean in and Laura’s infinitely alluring eyes flutter close in anticipation.

The blonde is not disappointed when you place two very delicate kisses against her eyelids.

‘Ich liebe dich.’ She promises.

‘I love you too.’ You whisper and Laura lets her hands wander across your body appreciatively.

You do the same to your girlfriend, eliciting a soft hum from her.

It’s only for a few brief moments because the both of you are tired from playing the full ninety minutes but it’s enough to assure you that she wants you and you her.

Then she just tucks your head under her chin and wraps her arms loosely around your waist while the two of you enjoy the hot water.

Unfortunately the intimate moment can’t last forever and both of you begin to actually get clean.

Laura does quietly ask if she can wash your hair though.

And as always, you say yes.

So your girlfriend squeezes out a generous portion of her own shampoo and carefully works it into your hair. Her fingers are soothing as they lightly massage your scalp.

While she does so, you can’t help but smile a secret smile to yourself at how possesive she is. Her habit of wanting you to smell like her is endearing.

The German forward helps you rinse the citrus smelling shampoo clean before repeating the process, this time with conditioner.

‘All done schatz.’ Laura tells you, leaving a kiss on the back of your neck.

You turn around to face her, tiptoeing so that you can kiss her gratefully. The way your girlfriend melts into you in response gives you butterflies inside.

‘Do you want me to wash your hair?’

‘No it’s okay, I can do it myself.’ Laura assures you.

‘You sure?’ You check and she nods.

‘Just look pretty for me while I do so okay?’ She teases and you giggle.

Your girlfriend washes her hair quickly, all the while sneaking glances at you. You chide her lightly for that, telling her that she is going to get shampoo in her eyes.

Laura does not listen to you but it does make her laugh.

When she finishes and the previously hot water runs out and begins to cool, you and the German forward step out of the shower hand in hand.

You towel dry together contentedly and then your girlfriend guides you back in front of steamed up the bathroom mirror.

She pauses for a moment to draw a smiley face on it. The action is just so Laura that you can’t stop the way your heart warms, filling with so much affection for your girl.

The blonde picks up your hairbrush, running it through your dark curls carefully.

After that, she combs her fingers through the wet strands, separating it into three sections before beginning to braid it.

She always does so when you shower together.

Laura is an expert at braiding your hair at this point, her fingers working efficiently. However your girlfriend does take her time to braid your hair.

You know she’ll say that she wants to do it for you but you know that that’s only part of the reason. It may be the main motivation but you know that she really just loves the feel of running her fingers through your dark and curly hair.

‘Love you Lau.’ You murmur as she ties off the braid.

‘I love you too.’ She whispers and then her eyes meet yours in the mirror and you’re caught off guard by how emotional they are.

They’re a beautiful claret grey now.

She means the simple sentence with her whole heart, you can see it in her gaze.

Turning around, you press a chaste kiss against her lips.

Laura lets out a soft exhale, her hands coming up to rest on your bare waist.

You can’t hide the way you shiver or the way goosebumps clearly form on your skin.

Your girlfriend notices immediately and smirks. She does however cradle your face with one hand and kiss you sweetly.

It takes some effort but you refocus your attention on getting your toothbrush out and brushing your teeth.

Laura is doing the same next to you but when you look up, at the mirror that has cleared up slightly, your girlfriend’s brilliantly stunning eyes meet yours.

And it’s like you’re seeing her for the first time all over again.

Light blonde hair that she’d joke and say is all hair dye these days, a sharp jawline that only accentuates her beauty, pink lips that feel like heaven when pressed against yours and above all, the passion that she so easily shows for the things she loves.

You’re beyond lucky to be one of those things.

The German forward quirks an eyebrow at the sudden way you fall silent.

If only she knew it was because of her. Just her being there, rinsing her mouth beside you.

You never want the domesticity of it all to end, never want to be able to stop coming home with or to Laura.

You want to do the laundry with her forever, clean the kitchen counters with her forever, pack for international camps with her forever.

Forever has a nice ring to it you decide as you wash up and put your toothbrush back beside Laura’s.

She has been waiting for you patiently.

‘Come on.’ She whispers and you follow her out into the bedroom.

You dress easily enough, Laura doing the same.

She finishes first and pulls back the covers on your shared bed.

‘I like your shirt.’ She compliments, making you chuckle.

‘Of course you do, it’s yours.’

‘Maybe I might be a little biased but I can’t help it when you’re wearing my last name on your back.’ Laura concedes.

You grin, slipping into bed, next to your girlfriend.

She spoons you close, once again tucking your head under her chin.

You’re wrapped up in everything that is Laura, her comforting smell, her clothes, her legs tangled up with yours and basically just her.

Her damp blonde hair tickles your cheek and you reach for her hand.

Your girlfriend squeezes it back gently and the reassuring pressure of it as well as her presence are the last things you register before drifting off to sleep.

German Translations:

ich liebe dich - i love you

schatz - sweetheart

#laura freigang #laura freigang x reader #laura freigang imagine #dfb frauen x reader #dfb frauen imagine #gerwnt imagine #gerwnt x reader #woso imagine #woso imagines #woso x reader #woso #katelynnwrites #uswnt imagine #uswnt x reader

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vettelsvee · 1 month

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I WANNA BE THERE, WITH YOU | Sebastian Vettel

f1 masterlist | history series masterlist

summary: seb returns home after finishing the 2008 formula 1 season. everything seems to be going well for him except for his relationship with his girlfriend, hanna, who thinks that, as it is more than obvious, he's hiding something related to a certain toro rosso intern whom seb is so eager for redbull to hire.

word count: 6237

warnings: brief smut (oral, male receiving) and let's say horny moment but not exactly having sex. toxic behavior.

taglist: [@theseerbetweenus @annewithaneofthegreengable @vincentvanshoe @formulaonebuff] if you wanna be tagged in each part just tell me in the comments <3

¡! you can read the fanfic as diana or y/n, but the faceclaim will always be my girl emma stone :)

feedback is truly appreciated!

2023

"Seb, this is the first time you sit alone in front of all these cameras. How does it feel not to have Diana by your side?"

The German didn't find it amusing at all. After spending an incredible day and an even better night with his wife, he felt nothing but helplessness when they called him around six-fifteen in the morning to inform him that Diana couldn't be present in the first part of the recording since it would focus solely on him. Despite finding it very strange, he didn't object. They had a contract to follow, and as much as it hurt, he couldn't do what he wanted.

His anger was such that he didn't greet anyone when he arrived on set. He simply reluctantly dropped his belongings and sat in the chair hastily placed in the middle of the room, hoping the whole affair would end quickly. He didn't even speak to his former colleagues, who remained impassive to Vettel's behavior that morning.

"It's a damn shit, honestly," he answer sincerely and aggressively. "If you didn't want Diana here today, you could have let us know earlier."

"Seb..." Webber began cautiously. "It's not that she's not here because we don't want her, but because from now on, it's going to be like this. At least until this part of the story is over."

Seeing the confusion on the blonde's face, Mark signaled the cameras to turn off for a bit more privacy.

Sebastian wasn't understanding anything, and it overwhelmed him.

"But..."

"We're going to start talking about everything related to your relationship with Hanna," Jenson Button said without hesitation. "We're aware of everything it meant for two or three years in your relationship with Diana, so we don't want you to be influenced when explaining what you experienced with Prater."

"We think that if your wife isn't present when we record part of what concerns your ex, you'll be more honest."

Sebastian nodded. He couldn't argue with them because he'd be lying to himself. Although it was true that Diana had significantly improved her insecurities and had stopped comparing herself to her ex-girlfriend a long time ago, and they even became close friends, Sebastian knew that there were certain things she was better off not finding out, if possible, never. Although that was impossible: Diana was so perfectionistic that she would probably watch the entire documentary as soon as it was released.

"Perfect," the blonde said briefly. "Of course, you're right. Where do you want to start?"

"We already know your whole story: you met in class, then fell in love so much that you started dating the moment you left school," the Australian listed, receiving approvals from his former teammate. "So... how about we start with the end of the 2008 season?"

[...]

2008 November 3rd

The flight back to Germany was becoming exhausting, especially since Sebastian had been answering questions for various media outlets throughout the entire journey that began in Sao Paulo as a proposal established by his new team, Red Bull Racing.

Facing a camera and several spotlights, the German driver, who had completed his first whole Formula 1 season, felt quite intimidated. Despite portraying in press conferences and other types of conferences that he enjoyed the presence of the media and liked the attention focused on him, it was quite the opposite.

"It amuses me that we're talking about the 2008 season as if ten years had passed when it ended just a few hours ago."

Despite being tired of the situation and eagerly wishing to get home to be with his family and girlfriend, his sense of humor was still there. The decision to take the first flight back immediately after the race was not his, but his younger sister Lara's. Lara was eager to hug and play with Sebastian, even go to therapy with him, everything she hadn't done for the past few months. A few pleas and some puppy-dog eyes were more than enough to convince the driver.

"Looking back, it's been an incredible year, no doubt," he commented sincerely. "Toro Rosso has been a great team that has supported me from the very beginning and, above all, has made me feel at home."

The twenty-year-old laughed before continuing, earning approval from his public relations, who at that moment seemed to be a teacher examining him orally.

"Winning a race for the first time, and in Monza, was incredible. And all thanks to Diana..." Oops, he had slipped up. "The team intern, a great friend of mine... well, colleague," he tried to correct himself, stumbling over his own words. "Let's see, not that either. She's just another team member, you know."

If this were a test, he would already be failing with honors. Britta's face in those moments only showed the desire to kill him, something she would gladly do if Sebastian Vettel weren't her main source of income, as well as a very nice guy who became a very important person for her.

"Can you tell us more about this Diana?" the accompanying journalist inquired, wanting to know more about the unknown figure.

"Of course!" he replied cheerfully, ignoring the pleading looks Roeske was throwing at him to avoid continuing the topic. "We're not best of friends, of course, but we have been a significant support for each other during the ups and downs of racing,nd perhaps also for personal reasons," he pointed out, recalling the numerous races he couldn't finish, "Wagner often has incredible ideas, but there are more than a few idiots on the team who only see her as a lapdog to do this or that," he explained. "Even I, myself, have doubted her, but who wouldn't! However, that doesn't mean I don't trust her. I actually trust her a quite a lot," he added.

Britta was looking at him with a very unfriendly face, even starting to wave her hands to get his attention and make him shut up. She knew that a great majority of her client's words were invented and wouldn't serve any purpose other than creating controversy and turning people against him.

"To be honest, there were times when I worried about her antics and the high chances of them sending me into the gravel," the blonde continued, disregarding the gestures from the woman in front of him, "but in Monza nothing happened, thankfully!"

The reporter remained immersed in the conversation, which again focused on Vettel's overall performance in the season. He tried to insert some more personal questions, but either the German was so absorbed in the wonderful professional year he had, or he skillfully avoided them, not panicking when hearing them.

"So, can we assume that the relationship between Diana Wagner and you goes beyond the professional?"

"Excuse me, but I believe we've already talked enough about certain aspects of my client's privacy," Britta intervened, seeing that the conversation might head in an unpleasant direction. "The agreement when this interview was arranged was to talk about Sebastian Vettel's performance at Toro Rosso before his move to Red Bull, not about his appearance on a gossip show, which is what this seems to have turned into," she stated rather abruptly.

Sebastian shrugged, unsure of what to say to the woman's remarks, simultaneously fearing that he might say something foolish and make matters worse.

"But, Sebastian, could you confirm, at least, the rumors about the hotel night you shared during the Italian Grand Prix with that girl?" the man continued, ignoring Britta's previous signals.

"This is going too far," Britta almost shouted. Having lost her patience, she leaned toward the journalist and spoke in a low but firm voice. "Your behavior with my client is unacceptable. You ither leave this area right now, or I'll have to call security and our lawyers. Your choice," she backed away, giving him a very fake smile.

He seemed surprised and somewhat reluctant to the threat. Eventually, he yielded to Roeske's authority, gathering his belongings with his team and immediately withdrawing from the VIP area of the plane while muttering some low protests or insults that the Germans didn't hear.

Britta looked at Sebastian disdainfully, who simply shrugged as if he had done nothing. Britta sighed.

"Seb, you have to be more careful about what you say out there," she explained as calmly as she could. "You can't speak so openly about certain topics if you want your relationship with Hanna to remain private."

"I know, Britta," he sighed, admitting he had made a mistake but, at the same time, not understanding what was wrong with talking about Diana. "Sometimes I don't think before I speak, and I mess up."

"You need to be careful when saying anything related to Diana," Roeske continued, ignoring Vettel's words. "If you don't want to mess up your relationship, of course. I understand that you two get along pretty well, but what you do or say about this girl can be misunderstood. Don't you remember the photos from Monza?" she inquired, making the driver lower his head, embarrassed. "How you called me immediately to say everyone it was me when clearly, it wasn't, and everyone knew it?"

The public relations' anger was increasing, while Sebastian tried to come up with excuses to stop her from lecturing him. He was too tired. He wanted to sleep and get home as soon as possible, eat something, say a few silly things to his younger sister, and go to sleep. Or do something more fun, alone, with his girlfriend.

"Just say she's just a good friend, nothing else," he said downplaying it and curling up in his seat. "You don't have to worry about it. It's nonsense."

Britta frowned and crossed her arms.

"Don't play smart with me, Vettel," she increased the seriousness of her voice. Now she had the boy's full attention. "I know you too well. I'm not telling you not to be friends, but I know there's something more than just a friendship, and you see it as something you'd like to have but, for one reason or another, you can't," Sebastian's face turned marble-colored. Roeske was right, but he was too proud to admit it. "I'm telling you all this for your own good, but if you want your relationship with Hanna to continue as it is, you need to set boundaries. Also," she added, "you know perfectly well that you're playing with Wagner, and I wouldn't want you to hurt her."

"Britta: Diana is an amazing person and very important in my life, but not in the way you're thinking," lie. "I see her as a little sister," another lie, "someone I trust and who, actually, understands me," that was true. "I have no intention of ruining my relationship with Hanna, really."

For now, that's what came to the German's mind, but as soon as he could, he tried to shake off that thought from his subconscious. Sometimes he hated himself to levels he never thought anyone could hate him, not even the guys who had been so envious of him throughout his short life.

The blonde sighed, trying to believe the boy given the conviction his words seemed to have.

"I hope so, Seb. I just want you to make smart decisions and think about the consequences of everything you say, not just for you but for those you care about. They're not to blame for anything you do or say," she commented, trying to reason with him and make sure he remembered the talk they were having.

He nodded sincerely, reclining again in search of a comfortable position to sleep for the remainder of the flight. Britta, mimicking him, leaned back in her seat. She closed her eyes, but she could hear Sebastian calling her again.

"What do you want now, Seb?"

"Thanks for everything," he said sincerely, his voice slightly drowsy from fatigue.

She settled back, and, accompanied by Sebastian's soft snores and the constant hum of the engine, fell asleep, just like her companion.

His sleep was interrupted after what seemed like a few minutes, although the reality was that about two hours had passed. A voice over the loudspeaker announcing that they had arrived in Cologne, their destination, startled Roeske, who opened her eyes abruptly and looked around for a few seconds, a bit confused and experiencing a sudden dizziness. Sebastian was still next to her, sound asleep. Without wasting a second, she approached him and began shaking him to wake him up. For security reasons, they needed to exit the plane before anyone else to avoid encounters with fans.

"Wake up!" Britta shouted in his ear. Seb just purred like a cat, turning around and holding onto the pillow he had in his grasp. "Come on, Sebastian. We've already arrived in Cologne."

Another unintelligible murmur emerged from the lips of the German, who seemed trapped in a dream he was enjoying. The woman realized he had reset his mind in just a few hours and already had it in vacation mode, and that was starting to test her patience again. She took a deep breath and tried to wake him up again.

"Sebastian Vettel, wake up!" she shouted more energetically, earning glances from some of the people present. "We've already landed in Cologne, so don't linger anymore and get up now," she urged, even shaking him to see if it had more effect.

The driver finally opened his eyes, although he was totally disoriented. He uttered some imperceptible words in his native language for Roeske and rubbed his eyes as he stretched, then looked at the woman totally bewildered.

"What's wrong with you?" he murmured sleepily. "Have you had a psychotic episode and need help?"

Britta turned her gaze, impassive to the what the boy said. She was relieved because at least he was awake, even if he was about to surrender to Morpheus again.

"We've landed in Cologne already," she repeated for the third time, now with a more relaxed tone. "We have to pick up what little we have here and get off now," she declared authoritatively. "You know the arrival of a celebrity, fans, and screams are not a good combination."

And she knew it very well. Both Germans began to tidy up the mess they had caused throughout the flight, folding the blankets provided by the airline and throwing away the remnants of food they had been offered. Shortly after, they made sure they didn't leave anything behind and left the cabin they were in.

As they exited the plane and waited for the relevant security members, the PR started explaining Seb's plans for the next few days. They discussed various prearranged interviews, promotional events he had to attend for some brands, and above all, she emphasized the meeting the young man would have with the team later that week to finalize the details of his contract. Even though the holiday period had begun, the schedule was full, and his responsibilities didn't end as soon as Vettel set foot out of the cockpit.

Shortly afterward, the security guards who would accompany them to the exit of the facility appeared. Britta and Sebastian introduced themselves, although they knew the latter perfectly, and received the corresponding professional greetings. One of them, a robust man with an attentive gaze, indicated that they would accompany them, for the time being, to the area for picking up checked baggage.

"I hope you had a good flight, Mr. Vettel, Mrs. Roeske," he announced as they walked quickly through the long corridors of the airport.

"Within the measure of what you can expect from a flight of almost fourteen hours, yes," Britta replied, still smiling.

Sebastian agreed with her, also adding his thanks for caring about his safety and being there with them at that moment to avoid any altercations.

"It's part of our job."

As they began to approach the conveyor belts with hundreds of suitcases from the just-landed international flights, Britta began to notice, in the distance, the presence of several fans who were beginning to gather to see Sebastian. They looked tired, and the blonde wondered how long they had been waiting for his arrival. The security guards also seemed to notice this, as a few more appeared within seconds, surrounding the celebrity in a somewhat alarming way.

Sebastian turned to his PR confused, and gave her a smile.

"Not many usually come," the German commented honestly, "but they never cease to amaze me... How can they always know what time we arrive? Is there someone leaking that information?"

"That's what being a rising star in Formula 1 is like," Britta chuckled softly. "Calm down: you deserve this more than anyone, even if sometimes you want to tell them to go to hell."

The noise of the crowd intensified as they advanced toward the arrivals area of the airport, now with their suitcases with them. The fans' shouts began to resonate loudly, filling the atmosphere with a very positive yet somewhat distressing energy. The security guards kept the more excited ones at bay, who might try to do something crazy; meanwhile, the pilot and PR greeted and smiled enthusiastically.

Sebastian didn't hesitate to drop his suitcase and start approaching the crowd, even though they were telling him otherwise. If the German was there, it was not only because of his effort but also because of the people in front of him at that moment who had decided to put their trust in him.

"Sebastian, I love you!"

"Can you sign my cap?"

"Next year, we want you to come back home with a championship!"

The cheers of excitement and flashes of cameras became increasingly present, all in an attempt to capture the attention of the German sensation. Seb smiled, waved, shook hands, took photos, and signed anything that anyone put in front of him, with gratitude and maintaining professionalism as much as possible, although it was a bit challenging for him.

"Guys, calm down!" the blonde raised his voice, trying to calm the crowd. "I'll be with you as long as they let me, so I'll try to make sure each of you get something from me!"

The young man spent a long time signing caps, shirts, and photographs while briefly chatting with some of those in the front rows. Britta could only smile as she kept an eye on the security guards, who seemed more than accustomed to that kind of massive gathering.

"Sorry, Mr. Vettel, but it's time to go. There are also two people waiting for you in the VIP lounge," commented the security man with whom they had exchanged words, who was already taking him by the elbow and moving him away from the crowd. Sebastian was a bit surprised: who could be waiting for him? "More people are coming, and we can't risk anything serious happening."

"Understood, thank you," the driver answered. "Sorry for the inconvenience."

After turning his back on the man and shaking off his grip, Vettel quickly apologized to the fans and said goodbye as best he could, promising them that the coming season would be much more promising. Roeske remained by his side despite the overwhelm she was starting to feel. The woman's relief was present as the security guards surrounded them and hurriedly led them to what seemed to be the other end of the airport.

"Feeling calmer?" Britta asked her client.

"Not really," Sebastian replied. "I'm a bit nervous because they told me someone was waiting for me," he explained, trying to calm his anxiety. "I don't know who could be in the VIP lounge they're taking us to."

The woman diverted her gaze from the boy and chuckled quietly. She had planned that little surprise for him a few days ago because he deserved it. She knew that fatigue and jet lag, combined with the boredom of the interviews during the long flight, had taken a toll on him. Still, she hoped that when his eyes landed on his father and his girlfriend, who had been waiting for them for quite some time, his spirits would lift.

As the room appeared before them, Sebastian could recognize two slightly blurry figures, which increased his nervousness. Britta just restrained her laughter and, why not, her excitement. After approaching a bit more leisurely, the first thing the blue-eyed pilot noticed was a message written in a font he recognized perfectly: "You're finally back, champion of my heart."

"Seb!"

Hanna, who was a few meters away but right in front of him, couldn't contain her excitement and ran to greet him, not caring who was watching them and letting the sign she had been preparing for days fall instead of studying. Seb, totally moved, opened his arms to receive his girlfriend, whom he lifted slightly when she reached him. Still above him, she kissed him calmly, as if there were only the two of them in the room, while Prater clung to his waist with her legs to avoid falling, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Laughter began to spread between the young lovers after finishing the kiss. Finally, they were living the moment they had longed for so much.

"My God, Hanna... I can't believe I'm finally here, with you."

The German, without taking his eyes off his girlfriend, lowered her to the ground, still hugging her. The blonde could only look at him with emotion, not believing that the love of her life was finally by her side. She took his face in her hands with affection and began to distribute short kisses all over his face.

"I've missed you so much..." Sebastian whispered, putting his forehead against hers and caressing her hair tenderly.

"I've missed you too," she revealed, "and you have no idea how much."

All the couple wanted at that moment was to give each other all the love they hadn't been able to profess for months. Still, the fear of being caught by paparazzi and fans, in addition to the presence of Norbert Vettel, Britta Roeske, and possibly the entire airport security team in Cologne, made them relax a bit.

And thankfully so, because Sebastian knew that, as tired as he was, if Hanna continued to throw him those looks that expressed something more than romance, he was going to end up in the bathrooms with her doing what he had wished to do to her for months.

"Well, well, young man, aren't you going to leave anything for the man who gave you life?"

Norbert interrupted the moment between the lovers, and quickly, they separated their hands, which were still intertwined. Sebastian ran with excitement to hug his father, whom he had missed more than he initially thought.

"For me, my wife comes first," the young man declared, focusing his gaze on the blonde. "That's what you taught me. Or am I wrong?"

His father nodded, crossing his arms.

"Whatever you say," the man said, proud of his son.

He picked up his son's suitcases and headed towards the exit door, where he had parked the family vehicle a bit haphazardly. His wife, Heike, had started calling him. She had been quite insistent in the past few days about their son's return home, so it wouldn't be wise to ignore her call if he wanted to avoid an argument with her.

"Seb, remember that in a week we have the meeting in Berlin with Horner, Marko, and the others," the PR reminded. Vettel began to snort and threw his head back in reproach. "Don't do that!" Britta scolded him, "you know we have to finalize the details of your contract for the next season."

"A meeting? Again? I thought we were on vacation!"

One day, that guy was going to test the woman's patience.

"Darling, calm down," Hanna intervened, taking his hand affectionately and squeezing him. "Don't make Britta angry, you know she's doing this for you. I'd like to know where you would be if it weren't for her!"

Norbert, who was with his son's luggage near the exit, listening to his wife urging him impatiently, let out an exclamation with a tone louder than he would have liked.

Sebastian raised his hands in surrender. He hated that they didn't understand his sarcasm despite boasting that they knew him well. Now he was alone, with the woman who had become his second mother, as his girlfriend had approached Norbert, and they were now engrossed in a suggestive conversation about who knows what.

"All right, all right! I was just joking," the young man directed his gaze directly at Roeske, and for once, she could see seriousness in his eyes. "I thought you knew."

"It's reached a point where I don't know if you're laughing with us or at us, Vettel," Britta replied, emphasizing the latter.

"It's serious, Britta," the blonde insisted, "I'll prepare what you asked for..."

The mentioned woman didn't give Sebastian a chance to finish the sentence. Making sure Hanna was still focused on her father-in-law's words, she looked at the pilot seriously, trying to make him listen carefully and remember her words before committing any madness he might regret in the coming months.

"Seb, I need you to take the decision about Wagner seriously," she articulated firmly. "I don't want you to include her in the team out of pity," she diverted her gaze towards the blonde before continuing, "or due to some personal feeling."

"I think she has what it takes to shine," the boy whispered. "I don't know how many times or to whom else I have to say it."

The older blonde nodded, not very convinced of the boy's words; she couldn't say anything else because Sebastian's family approached to inform him that Heike, the matriarch of the Vettel family, was eager for her son to arrive home, as well as his two younger siblings.

While he heard the farewells between his father and his girlfriend and Roeske, and as they approached the car, got in and headed towards their hometown, Sebastian Vettel thought again, before falling asleep on the way back home, about the last words he had shared with Britta. He promised himself that this person would not cross his mind again during the winter break of 2008, but it was inevitable for him to dream of Diana Wagner giving him orders on the track and celebrating his second victory with him, all while his head rested on his girlfriend's shoulders.

[...]

The first dinner back home with his parents, his girlfriend and his two younger siblings, Fabian and Lara, had gone better than he had imagined. Even Heike, the matriarch of the Vettel family, encouraged Hanna to stay overnight with her son, considering how much they had missed each other. After a somewhat rushed dessert due to the sleep consuming Sebastian, the couple decided to retire early with the intention of going to sleep. They would talk and do everything they wanted the next day.

The room where Sebastian had slept almost all his life was shrouded in darkness, with the only trickle of light coming from the full moon that adorned the sky that night. Hanna, before making sure the room's door was closed, felt Sebastian's lips starting to travel her neck. She sighed softly, feeling excitement starting to fill her, especially between her legs, as Sebastian's lips only left a trail of kisses all over her skin. The intensity of the moment increased when the driver's hands went towards the girl's breasts. Hanna moaned as subtly as she could and fiercely kissed the blonde, pulling him closer to her.

They both wanted more. The voracious hunger they felt for each other was evident. They had been in a sexless state, between Vettel's absences and Prater's studies, since the summer when they had decided to take a short trip to Berlin. No matter how hard they tried to control themselves, they couldn't stop kissing each other. The fabric that clothed them began to disappear, bringing them closer and making them lie on the bed with only their underwear, even rubbing desperately against each other.

However, the girl couldn't continue when she thought she heard, amid one of her boyfriend's moans, what seemed to be the fourth letter of the alphabet.

Hanna lifted herself slightly, looking directly at the blue-eyed man, still lying down, with a somewhat strange mix of passion and confusion.

"What did you just say?"

Sebastian blinked, sitting up as quickly as he could.

"Say?" he paled. "I didn't say anything, Hanna."

His girlfriend wore a displeased expression, still puzzled by the sound she thought she heard. At that moment, doubts began to invade her, and images of Sebastian with the intern, Diana, in Monza, along with rumors about the night they had spent together, flooded her mind. Desire, doubt, and concern were the three emotions that began to overwhelm her; she also felt fear and, above all, insecurity.

While Hanna knew that her boyfriend had a strictly professional relationship with the girl, she couldn't help but think that maybe something more had happened between them.

"Seb, I...," began the blonde, trying to keep her tears in check, "I need you to explain who Diana Wagner is and why everyone associates her with you."

Sebastian sighed, took a breath, and, as he had done several times before, explained who the blonde was:

"Diana is just a girl studying Mechanical Engineering at a university in Barcelona, doing an internship at Toro Rosso," the guy explained. "That's it. There's nothing more to it, Hanna."

The girl didn't seem convinced. Her boyfriend always ended up giving her the same speech, and he had said the same thing so many times that she had memorized those words, pauses included.

"I know you might worry about our relationship," Seb continued, soft but firm, "but there's nothing beyond a professional relationship." He left out the part about their friendship.

"Why did you arrive in the paddock with her, then?" Hanna asked again. "And why do all the journalists now ask you about her? And the hotel room...?"

"I'll repeat it, love: she's part of the team," he explained again, cutting her off and trying not to lose patience. "Everything gets taken out of context just to sell a bit. As for the hotel room," he added, "she was just helping me with some strategies that helped me win in Monza."

Hanna tried to believe him, but she couldn't. She knew it wasn't the German's fault, but hers for having so little trust in herself. Although the hatred she had for Diana Wagner was well deserved... Who did that girl think she was to be with her boyfriend like that?

No, she couldn't think like that. That was being a toxic person.

"She's a temporary worker," the girl suddenly exclaimed angrily, catching Sebastian completely off guard, "not a track engineer as such."

"She helps me, and I like her company. She's very pleasant," the blonde finally admitted. "I don't know why you're making a drama out of all this when I've literally explained a thousand times that she's not someone I care about."

Tension was escalating rapidly, and an uncomfortable silence enveloped the room suddenly. Sebastian knew he shouldn't have said that last part because he did care about his colleague; however, Hanna's incessant words and apparent lack of trust were confusing him.

"Hanna, I feel nothing but pity for Diana, okay? That's why I requested in my contract, and I'll keep insisting at Saturday's meeting, for her to accompany me at Red Bull," he explained desperately. "There's no other reason beyond that, I swear."

"I'm not making a scene or anything," she said, returning to the previous conversation and avoiding her boyfriend's latest revelation. "I'm just trying to vent with you."

Sebastian's patience was wearing thin. He no longer knew what else to do to make the girl beside him believe him.

"I love you, Hanna," Vettel said sincerely. "Why do you think, since those photos came out, that I'm hiding something from you?"

"I don't know, why have I never been to a race?" The girl looked at her boyfriend with sadness and frustration once again present in her mind.

Sebastian sighed, trying to find the right words. He knew she was having one of the many jealous episodes she'd been having since she found out about Wagner.

"You know as much as I do that you don't like races," he reminded her. "Plus, you wouldn't enjoy the paddock life. You even told me to keep this private!"

"Are you saying you want to hide me, don't you?"

"Stop twisting this and listen when I speak. You say whatever comes to your mind. This conversation makes no sense, Hanna," Sebastian imposed, a bit annoyed by the confusion his girlfriend was adding to the situation. "One thing is wanting to hide you, which I don't want to do," he clarified, "and another is wanting to protect our relationship, which is what you've been professing since I was called to be a reserve driver last season."

The room's atmosphere was tense, and neither of the twenty-year-olds knew how to proceed. Sebastian was tired not only of having to repeat the same story to Hanna a thousand times but also of her apparent lack of trust. On the other hand, Hanna had been trapped in a vicious circle of jealousy and envy for months, driven by the need to compete and prove herself better than a certain Diana, whom she didn't even know.

After a brief silence, Hanna finally spoke, trying to hide the idea that had come to her mind:

"I've thought about something..."

"What?" Sebastian looked at her with curiosity, a bit scared of what she might say.

Hanna faked a smile too well. Her eyes, however, betrayed her intentions, although Sebastian was too blinded and distracted to notice:

"Starting next season, I want to accompany you on some weekends, as long as the university allows it, of course," the driver was totally surprised by the girl's statement, who continued speaking. "I've been thinking that it would be nice to stop being so perfectionist in my studies to spend more time with you."

"Of course!" Seb exclaimed happily, giving her a hug, unaware that she was lying, despite knowing her so well. "Don't worry about anything. We can plan everything and find weeks when you don't have exams or any assignments to submit with Britta next week, okay? She already has the schedule for next year, and..."

Hanna nodded slightly, indifferent to the future damage she might cause to her, until then, boyfriend, who continued talking quite excitedly. She knew she wasn't behaving rationally, and envy was driving her actions, but why not? She had too often felt like the banished princess by her relatives, teachers, and people she had no relationship with, and the last thing she wanted was to relive that experience.

She loved Sebastian, and he loved her. Nothing and no one would stand in their way, and if she couldn't face the enemy with peace, she would try to do it with as little chaos as possible.

"I'm looking forward to you meeting Diana," Seb declared, causing a turmoil inside his girlfriend. "You'll get along well, I'm sure. You're more alike than you think."

"I'm also looking forward to meeting her, especially now that you told me she helped you win in Monza."

Hanna forced a smile, hiding her true feelings about the unknown woman. Sometimes, it was okay to be a little toxic to make your partner see reality, right?

Sebastian got closer to his girlfriend, placed his right hand on her face, caressing it gently, and kissed her on the lips. His eyes were fixed on hers, revealing nothing but sincerity.

"Hanna, you're the most important thing in my life, okay? There's nothing I haven't told you, and if something had happened, you'd know for sure," he clarified again. "You are my world and all I want is to be with you for as long as we allow ourselves to be together."

Hanna felt hurt and even guilty at that moment, regretting everything she had said without thinking, but it was too late to go back and repent. She tried, by all means, to set aside that kind of teenage game she had created consumed by wanting to prove to her boyfriend who she was, but she couldn't.

Now she had to try not to let herself be carried away and, above all, think before speaking and acting.

Without thinking, she pushed Sebastian as hard as she could, who raised himself a little above the surface to see what the blonde was going to do. She planted a rather aggressive kiss on her lips, and she lingered on it for a while before beginning to leave a trail of them from her mouth to her inguinal crease. She wanted to show the pilot many things, but in those moments she wanted to make him see that she was his.

Sebastian watched as Hanna began to take off his boxers and masturbate his member with her hand, taking it to her mouth a few seconds later. No matter how much pleasure he was feeling at that moment when he noticed how his girlfriend's tongue wrapped around his bud while she moved her hand incessantly, he couldn't help but feel bad when he wished, and even imagined, that Diana was the one doing that.

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