Bro Imagine You Decided To Mess Around With A Ouija Board Just To See What Would Happen, Not Expecting

Her Sacrifice

Summary: The assassins had no such luck finding Prince Aemond but what were they to do when they stumbled upon the beloved wife of King Aegon instead? Her belly swollen with his heir.

Warnings: Blood & Cheese/murder/gore & blood/cursing/threats/blades/pregnancy/kidnapping/funeral/incest (reader is helaena's older twin)

Word Count: 2236

"The other lords will be accompanying me for a drink in the Throne Room. Shall you join us, Wife?" Aegon asked, a slightly eager smile on his face, anticipating your agreement.

You sighed as you began to undo the braids in your hair, "The hour is late, Husband. I must rest."

Aegon pouted, "Just a cup! We've attended to our royal duties all day, have we not earned a bit of respite?"

"Respite is what I shall get with a good night's sleep. Not drinking until sunrise with you and your comrades," you teased. You stood from seat at your vanity, walking over and placing Aegon's hand on your growing bump, "Besides, do you not wish for our babe to be born healthy? So that they may grow into formidable dragon riders like their parents."

He smiled softly at your belly before kissing it sweetly, "You make a good point, my dear. Mayhaps I should stay in with you."

You shook your head, smiling down at him, "Do not let me stop your fun. You are right. The King deserves his respite. Besides there may not be many more nights where we get to enjoy ourselves," motioning to your bump.

"You are going to make a wonderful mother," Aegon stood from his seat, "I shall allow you to enjoy your last moments of rest then." He planted a soft kiss on your lips, "I love you, Y/N."

You stroked his hair, "I love you, Aegon."

Aegon kissed you once more before giving your belly a playful squeeze and disappearing from your chambers. You summoned one of your ladies to help you finish getting ready for bed. Thanking her as you got yourself comfortable between the silk sheets of you and Aegon's bed. Finally bidding her good night as she blew out most of the candles, leaving a few on for Aegon's drunken return.

You could not be sure of the hour when you heard your chamber doors creak open followed by the shuffling of feet. You did not even bother opening your eyes, assuming you'd feel the bed indent as Aegon stumbled towards it.

"Back so soon?" you teased, "I was only being half serious about the sunset-"

Suddenly, a large hand clamped over your mouth. Your eyes shot open as two men loomed over you. You screamed and panicked as the larger man used his other arm to keep you pinned to the bed.

"Quiet!" the smaller man pulled a blade out, pressing it to your throat, "Unless you want me to bleed you like a pig."

You nodded, terrified of what these men could do, "W-Who are you? What do you want?"

"Its not our wants you should be concerned with, Your Grace."

"Who sent you? What do y-you want from me?" your voice shook.

"A life is owed. It wasn't supposed to be you. A son for a son we were told," the smaller man shrugged, "But it seems Prince Aemond isn't in the castle tonight."

Of course, you thought. This was about Lucerys. Your younger brother had taken the boy's life and that was a deed that could not go unpunished. You knew how deeply your eldest sister loved all of her children. The loss of one would be devastating. Taking Aemond's life made sense. But taking yours? And the life of your unborn child? That was not in Rhaenyra's nature. This was plotted by someone far more sinister and dark.

"My uncle sent you, didn't he?" you spoke up. They both sent stares to the other, "Daemon Targaryen. He sent you to kill one of us."

The large man scoffed, "Aren't you a smart one?"

"Shame those smarts won't do you any good now, will they?" the smaller one mocked.

"Please," you tried to beg, "Do not do this. No good will-" The large hand came down on your mouth again.

"That's enough," he grunted before turning back to the smaller man, "I'll hold her down and you cut."

Your blood ran cold at his words. Not only were they going to kill you but they were going to tortuously cut out your unborn child. They both yanked you further down the bed until you were flat on your back. You tried to kick, scream, bite, thrash as much as you could but the man proved to have almost inhuman strength. The smaller man raised his blade, that same sadistic grin plastered on his face before he began to dig it into the lower part of your abdomen.

White hot pain seared through your body as he continued to slice into you. Your vision was blurred with tears and you could have sworn your throat was raw from your cries. Though the pain was so intense that you could not process the sounds that might have been leaving you. Warm blood pooled all around you, the once ivory sheets now a deep crimson. One last gasp left you as they pulled your child from your body.

Suddenly you had remembered your mother telling you about the pains of childbirth when you first married Aegon and all anyone could talk about was you producing his heirs. She had a rather negative approach that utterly terrified you. So, you decided to find comfort in Rhaenyra's advice instead.

"I will not withhold the truth from you, it truly is the most excruciating pain a woman must go through."

You groaned, "That is not what I had wished to hear, Sister."

"You did not let me finish. The process is hard, yes. And you will feel the urge to curse the Gods or even your husband and swear to never bear anymore children," you both laughed, "But the moment you hear those sweet cries and your babe is placed upon your chest, the pain is forgotten. And nothing has ever seemed so worth it. Then you will know, right then and there, that you would do it all over again if it meant you could finally find that purest form of love."

And yet, you would never discover that beautiful feeling your sister had painted so clearly. The room was almost eerily silent besides the dripping of blood onto the stone floor.

"What do you know?" the man panted as he held your lifeless infant, "A son. Congratulations, my Queen."

You could not speak as you felt your body numb itself. Tears falling with no cries as they stuffed your son's body into a sack. It was as if you could feel your heart shatter. The men finished their sinister act before fleeing through a secret passageway. You tried little to fight the heaviness in your eyes. Perhaps this was all a horrible dream and if you shut your eyes, you'd open them to find yourself in bed with Aegon's arms wrapped securely around your belly. The last thing you could muster was a small smile at the sentimental image as your vision faded out completely.

"Sister?" Helaena called out into your bed chamber, "I did not wish to wake you but Aegon is being so loud and I cannot sleep with him-" Her voice caught in her throat at the sight of your mangled body lying on the bed. Your figure lifeless and your eyes vacant as you stared at the canopy. She approached your body, a shaky hand reaching out to touch your face to be met with utter stillness. Helaena backed out of the room slowly, tears flowing down her cheeks before sprinting to find some sort of help. As if anyone could undo what had already been done.

"I-I don't know what happened. I came in and she...she was..." Helaena's voice cracked with sobs as various people filed into the royal bed chamber; the Kingsguard, the Dowager Queen, the Hand, and lastly, your husband.

They all stopped at the sight before them, their eyes welling with tears and their stomachs churning. The Dowager Queen let out a heavy sob as all their attention turned to the King. Aegon approached your body cautiously.

He fell to his knees, his hands cradling your bloodied face as he sobbed, "My wife, my dearest-"

Nobody dared say a word as Aegon mourned over you. His sobs heavy with grief as he called out your name over and over again. The Queen Mother clutching Helaena's arm as they cried with him. The Kingsguard hanging their heads low in shame at their failure to protect their Queen. Otto Hightower, known to be quick with his word, said nothing.

The council meeting that followed was one full of dread and grief. Most of the council mourned, the Hand schemed, and the King could do not but curse the Gods and swear revenge.

"Your Grace, perhaps we should speak of the funeral arrangements for the Queen-"

"No," Aegon was quick to stop the Hand, who raised a brow at his grandson's denial, "I will not have my wife's body dragged through the streets like a dog!"

"Not dragged, honored!" Otto corrected him before lowering his tone as he spoke to the King, "Y/N was my granddaughter and I loved her. She deserves the funeral of a Targaryen princess, a Targaryen queen. The small folk wish to mourn their Queen and the heir she carried. And they need to know who is responsible for this."

Aegon's face twisted in disbelief, "How could they not already know?! Who else would do this save the bitch queen of bastards?!"

"We must know for certain, Your Grace," Lord Jasper suggested, "If it was not your sister, this may prove to be an even bigger threat to the crown, to you, my King."

Aegon scoffed, "I do not care what threatens me. My wife is dead. And my child," he stifled a sob, "That cunt did this, I know it. Her and her kingdom of traitorous bastards will burn for it."

Before anyone could speak, the doors of the council chamber opened as Lord Larys entered. He bowed meekly as all eyes turned to him.

"My lords, Your Grace," he greeted the council.

All stood still, "State your purpose, Lord Larys," the Hand spoke.

"We have apprehended one of the assailants. A gold cloak, known for his brutal nature. The guards caught him fleeing the Gate of Gods. He carried the child's body in a sack."

The King hardly wasted any time, stomping over to the doors, "I shall kill him myself."

"We might retrieve further information about who is to blame for this tragedy after questioning," Ser Criston stopped Aegon from leaving as Otto spoke, "I trust in your skill set, Lord Larys."

The Strong Lord bowed before exiting the room. All eyes turned once again to the King and his Hand.

"We will hold the service for both the child and mother-"

"I said no," Aegon grunted, "My wife and child will not be put on display for the Realm."

"Your Grace, we might use this to our advantage in the war you wish to march into. Your people need to know the depravity that Rhaenyra is capable of. The great houses of Westeros will see that she is not fit to rule given her cruel nature. They will flock to your side and with them, their armies and bannermen."

Aegon continued to shake his head. He could not just let them see you or your child like that. They did not deserve it.

"Mother," he turned to the Dowager Queen for support.

Alicent approached Aegon's chair, "The Hand sets on a difficult path, my darling, but it might be the right one."

The King could not muster anymore fight, "Have the Silent Sisters prepare the Queen and child for their journey. Behind them will be Princess Helaena and the Queen Mother."

"No, I do not wish to be a spectacle," Alicent argued but her father would not hear it.

Your husband visited your body as the Silent Sisters began to prepare it. They had cleaned the mess and dressed you in one of your favorite dresses, the emerald color complimenting your skin and hair.

"Your Grace, it is ill-fated to look upon the face of death," Maester Orwyle warned.

"That is not the face of death, Maester. That is my wife," Aegon spoke, "Leave me with her."

Maester Orwyle and the Silent Sisters bowed before leaving the King with your body. He softly stroked the hair from your face as he broke into sobs once again.

"I am so sorry, my love," he cried, "I-I should have been there to protect you. And our son." Maester Orwyle had informed His Grace that the child you carried was a prince, a perfect heir, "You truly would have been the most wonderful mother. You were already a perfect wife and Queen. Motherhood would have come naturally."

Aegon recounted how well you did with Rhaenyra's last two babies, the ones she had with his uncle Daemon. As much as he did not care for his half-sister, he knew you did. Always quick to defend her, even against your own family. So, he was forced to ask himself, how could she do this to you? To your child?

"They will pay for what they have done," your husband muttered to you, "I will win this war. I will win it for our child. I will win it for you. With fire and blood. Your sacrifice will not be for naught, my Queen."

---

"As long as I'm with you, I've got a smile on my face."

Synopsis: when your little brother jason is upset that you've been busy the whole day. You decide to offer him any early birthday gift he wants. And the gift he asks for is one you'll never forget.

The manor for once was full of life. The halls decorated neatly and brightly. Different then when it was a gala or a party the bruce would host.

Red. The dark color red was all over the manor ,and no it wasn't blood. It was part decor.

Because jason loved the color red. So red would be his party theme.

It was a day before his party and the walls of the manor were full of party planners and specialist because it had to be perfect.

It was Jason's first birthday after being adopted by Bruce so of course this party had to be extreme.

You being the best of sister had already gotten him a gift. A book that you knew he would love ,but sadly you were to busy studying to have been giving him any attention he so desperately wanted from you.

Jason the ever impatient boy he is ,decided that today whether you wanted to or not you would be giving him attention.

Because he just knew tomorrow he'd have to but up with spoiled rude adults aglnd their kids who would all wish him a happy birthday with a fake smile.

"Can I come in?" Jason's voice rings out from the other side of your door.

"Yeah." You say not bothering to look up from your homework. Maybe if you would've looked up. You would've seen his frown.

"Your always doing school.." He says ignoring how his lips pull into a pout.

"Not like I have a choice ,jay." You say still focused on your studies.

"I'm the birthday boy you gotta do what I say!" Jason sashes arms crossed over his chest in a child like way.

"Tomorrow's your birthday. Not today." You say smiling as you finally look up and meet his pleading gaze.

You sigh putting down your pencil deciding that your brother was more important than homework.

"What do you wanna do?" You say now turning to fully face him.

"I don't care....just wanna be with you.." He says and the way his eyes lower to the ground not able to meet you gaze you know he's being sincere.

He misses you that much is clear especially as he continues talking.

"You've been ignoring me all week.."

Being the only smaller kid in the manor was hard on him and dick was usually busy so he stuck with you.

"That's not true Jay...I've just been busy." You say trying to defend yourself but you know he probably feels neglected since you have been studying more for finals.

"Doesn't feel like your busy...feels like ya hate me."

He says his voice quiet and his cute gotham accent slipping through. He still doesn't meet your gaze and his pout is even more visible.

You tilt your head down trying to look him in the eyes. But he looks to the side still avoiding you. Bit you catch a glance at his eyes and you can tell their glossy.

And the ache in your heart increases. It was never easy when he cried and at times it hurt you more then it hurt him.

"What do you want for your birthday?" You ask its a random question and you only have a day to get whatever he asks. Not to mention you already got him a gift ,but you really don't want him to cry so you ask anyway.

His head perks up at that quandary his glossy eyes finally clear to the natural baby blue color and you smile.

"Anything?" He asks already jumping on the balls of his feet excitedly.

You sigh mentally knowing your gonna regret this but your heart speaks before your mind.

"Anything."

He's quick to smile and speak and his words are definitely not what you'd expect.

"A library card ,please!"

Your mind takes a moment to process confused. Because of all a things he could've asked for he chose a library card?

"What kind of thirteen year old are you?" You say giggling at his request.

"Hey! I'm almost fourteen and I really want one! Please?" He protests and you barely hear him over your amused laughs and he huffs embarrassed and annoyed at your giggles.

"I did say whatever you want....come on." You say standing up finally finished laughing.

Grabbing your car keys your out the door telling Alfred where your going.

Once your both out onto the road and into your car jason speaks up from the passengers seat.

"Thanks for taking me....means alot." Jason mutter just loud enough so you can hear him over the radio.

Taking your eyes off the road to look him ,he's already looking at you that grateful look in his eyes.

"It's nothing....and plus why have a driver's license if I don't take my little brother to cool places." You say smiling as you look back at the road.

"But I guess the library isn't that cool of a place ,huh?" You continue with a smile as you drive into the big libraries parking lot.

"The library is the coolest place!" Jason says with his wide cute smile.

"But I like the library best when I'm with you..." Jason whispers under his breath but you still hear it.

You decide not to say anything about it though as you park the car and unbuckle.

Walking to the desk and standing in the small line Jason grabs your hand and you look at him. He only did that when he was scared.

He shot you a nervous glance sqeezing your hand.

"What's wrong?"

"What if they don't let me get a card? I mean before I literally used to still books from here!" He whisper yells as his grip gets tighter in your hand.

And his words are true he did indeed used to still books from here but he always returned them.

"You returned them..it's no big deal. Plus you always come her with me." You say softly trying to ease his nerves. But your words don't help much especially by how his voice begins to get squeaker.

"Yeah but how do they know that?!"

"They probably don't even know you 'borrowed' the books." You whisper back.

And just as those words leave your mouth its your turn next in line. So pulling Jason along with you. You speak up.

"Hi. My brother wants a library card please." You say kindly to the older women behind the desk. And she smiles as she sees Jason hid behind you.

"No need to be afraid baby. It's a big day. You get to get your own book." The kind lady says with a big smile. And you glance at Jason's with a 'I told you kinda look.

Jason just smiles back at the lady and his grip on your hand loosens..

Once you had told the nice lady all jason information and written Jason's name on his new card you both walked off with smiles.

"So...what book are you getting today?" You say and Jason's hands never leave your almost like he's afraid to let go.

"I'm happy just with card today...let's go home." Jason insisted as he led you to the exit.

"Really no book?" You question confused he always wanted a new book. Always.

"No book" He clarifies as you both walk through the door.

Starting your car you drive off and Jason's eyes never leave you like he's contemplating how to say what he wants to say.

"What's wrong? Let me guess you regret not getting a book." You say smiling like you already knew the answer.

"No." He states simply and your surprised because it actually sounds like he's telling the......truth?

"Do you know why I used to steal books from the library?" He says and you never really thought of whys. Even when he told you he used to you never question it. But after all you never questioned why he tried to steal Bruce's tires.

Gotham was a cruel place and everyone did what they had to do to survive. So you never judge nor questioned.

"To sell?" You say your eyes glancing at him before returning to the road.

"No...I'd read them.." but his words are quiet almost ashamed of what he's saying. So you speak asking the million dollar question.

"Then why not get a library card?"

"I couldn't...didn't have an address to put on the card." He says his words hollow and quiet.

Ohhhhh..now that made sense. Everything made perfect sense from his quiet tone to his wavering gaze.

"Didn't have a home either..." he continues finally looking at you.

"Now you do." You say mother missing a beat.

"Now I do..." Jason repeats to himself quietly reassuring himself.

"But you know what's better then an address or home?" Jason says and you smile once you see his big adorable smile across his face ,again.

"What?" You say playing along.

"A sister." Jason says happily as if all that pain he had suffered hadn't deterred him at all.

Because with you he wasn't that poor ally kid he once was. Nor a street rat that people would shew away.

No, with you he was a boy. A kid....

Your brother. And that was more then enough.

With you he felt safe. Like he actually mattered and had an opinion in this world.

In his life.

And as you drove home and the night had slipped into the air you realized something.

Jason could've asked you for anything ,but he didn't.

Because Jason didn't care about a stupid library card.

He just wanted to be with you.

Thanks for reading!!

Likes reblogs and comments are appreciated!

This is not proofread.

WHY MUST I BE PUNISHED!?

I have been scrolling NON STOP FOR THE PAST 40 MIN AND ALL I FIND IS SMUT

All I want to do is read some angst or other wholesome stuff AND NOT SMUT. Can I just for once enjoy crying in heartacke and not see a smut warning.

ARE YOU GUYS REALLY THAT HORNY!?!?😦💀

This One's For Your Girlfriend - MV01

Max Verstappen x Reader

summary: what is the best way to get revenge out of your cheating boyfriend? simple answer. date his favorite driver.

word count: 7k

(this is a smau and story at the same time)

thank you to everyone who motivated me to write this!! i hope you like it!!

tagged: @star73807-blog, @lillacisbored, @fastlikeferrari, @clearlandchild, @canyon-nina, @folkloresreputation, @kasiewrites, @camilahpg03, @luvsforme, @tsnelf7, @littlegrapejuice, @athanasia-day, @themultifanshipper, @ecleticcreatorweaselsalad, @lilasthoughtss

The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream. 

It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich. 

You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.

He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable. 

After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks? 

Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of  pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.

However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.

The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.

You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.

Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.

“Would you like another shot?”

The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.

“Uh… Sure.”

You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.

“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”

You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.

“And how do you know what I like to drink?”

Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.

“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”

“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”

You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar. 

“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”

You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?

It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now. 

He did not look this hot on tv.

“I’m YN.”

He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.

“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.

“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”

Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.

“You are not from around here.”

He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.

“Damn, do I look that poor?”

You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.

“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”

You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.

“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”

He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.

“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”

“Maybe some RedBull merch?”

That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence. 

“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”

“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”

You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.

You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier. 

“Are you here for the race, then?”

“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”

You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.

“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”

Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.

You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.

You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.

Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.

Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.

“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”

He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.

“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.

“Tough breakup?”

“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”

Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”

“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”

“Non taken.”

“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”

Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.

“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”

“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”

Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself. 

“So you flew out here?”

“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”

“And who’s that?”

“You.”

Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”

You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.

“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”

You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.

“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”

You shrugged.

“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”

Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.

“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”

Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.

You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.

“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”

You narrowed your eyes, tempted.

“And what is that?”

“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”

You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.

Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.

Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.

“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”

“So?”

“People will gossip. About me.”

“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”

Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.

“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”

Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.

“I have a condition though.”

“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”

“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”

You smirked.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”

Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.

“To celebrate your win?” You teased.

“To celebrate both our wins.”

Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.

“You better not crash then.”

Max laughed, relaxing his posture.

“I’m too good for crashing.”

You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

yourusername added to their story

"won't you guess where i am?"

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.

You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.

You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty. 

Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.

“Hello there, pretty.”

He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.

“Congratulations!”

“Did you enjoy it?”

You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.

“Way better than from home.”

“Any news?”

Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.

“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”

“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”

You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.

Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one. 

“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.

Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.

Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.

If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.

Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.

You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.

Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.

“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.

“What?”

“That fucking radio message!”

And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident. 

“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”

You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.

“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.

“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”

“Yes, I very much would, Max.”

He kneeled before you, reaching your height.

“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”

You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.

Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.

You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.

“So, what time are you picking me up?”

The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.

“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”

“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”

Max giggled, playfully.

“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

“See you later, champ.”

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened? 

Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.

Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.

“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”

He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.

Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.

“Is this yours?”

You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.

“Yes, welcome.”

Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.

The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.

“This is really nice, Max.”

Your compliment eased his nerves.

“I hope this isn’t too much.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”

And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.

“Are you hungry?”

You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.

“Starving.”

He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.

You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable. 

Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.

Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.

“I made them.”

“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”

“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”

You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.

He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.

“So… How is it?”

“Perfect.”

You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.

The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch. 

As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.

“I really want to keep seeing you.”

Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.

You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.

“How are we going to do that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”

And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break. 

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.

The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.

And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.

˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆

What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.

When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.

Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.

Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather.  You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.

Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.

On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.

That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.

Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.

So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.

You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.

When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.

Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.

“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”

You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”

He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.

“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”

Your breath caught.

“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”

The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.

Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”

And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.

The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.

He saw you. Always you. His greatest win.

liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others

vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.

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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you

user they won best paddock couple 😍😍

user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩

user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏

yourbff my baby is a star 🤩

danielricciardo finally some real journalism!

> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo > danielricciardo you're immediately losing

yourusername what is my life??

> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??

user how's dylan??

❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem

user if they don't get married istg

yourmom my loves 😍

zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.

user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.

florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.

gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅

user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.

user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.

user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.

f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.

user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.

user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.

liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others

maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.

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user this is actually insane

user mad!max is back 🥵🥵

user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏

redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁

user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?

user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is

> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is > user starting a fuck you dylan campaign

user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin

yourusername the best of the best! 💗

> user she is such a queen 😍

lando congratulations mate!! 🍾

charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him

> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎

lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably

user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡

georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄 user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥

user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it

Hey, hope you're having a wonderful day.

Could you maybe write a few fics for Geum Seong-Je from Weak Hero Class 2? Fluff and *soft only for her* trope.

Thank you so much and its okay if you don't wanna.

I totally get it, I'm a writer too.

Love,

Anon

You can't fix me

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader

Cause... I love villains without a sob story, just psycho

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The first day Y/N saw him, he was bleeding from the corner of his lip and sneering like a rabid dog.

Ganghak High School was far from a stable place, but this boy… this Geum Seong-je, he reeked of instability from miles away. Chaos lived within him. He was the type to destroy a room because someone had sneezed too loudly. Y/N was supposed to watch him.

It was one fight too many.

The hallways trembled, the windows exploded. He had his fist in the mouth of another kid already on the ground and he kept going, methodical, his eyebrows furrowed as if hitting helped him breathe. Three supervisors hadn't been able to do anything. So she had entered. Silent at first.

Then:

"Are you done with your circus act, or do I need to train you like a mutt?"

He hadn't even looked at her. Just a hoarse breath, another blow. She had approached. A hand on his shoulder. He had growled. She had reacted: a knee strike, then two. He had thrown a chair. She had teased him.

He had collapsed, his muscles contracted in a brutal spasm.

When he woke up in the principal's office, still groggy, she was waiting for him. Arms crossed, back straight.

"What are you, some genetic waste?"

She had looked at him with an almost chilling calm.

"Did you think you were a hero today? Do you believe that hitting harder erases your shitty life?"

Pause. A silence.

"You're pathetic. Even dogs know when to stop."

He had wanted to smile. But there was this crack in his chest, this short breath he couldn't expel. She wasn't yelling. She was cutting. And it was worse.

She had hit him again, another time, another week. Because he had strangled a student against the lockers. Because he had smashed a cell phone against a wall. Because he had looked at her, her, with that look full of defiance, filth, and darkness.

And yet.

He always came back to her. Sat on the bench near the supervisors' room, his back torn by blows, a poorly stuck bandage, his eyes fixed on her with a morbid intensity. He followed her in the hallways, provoked her in class, insulted her sometimes, coldly, softly, almost tenderly.

"Ms. Y/N."

He murmured her name like a reproach. Like a burn.

"Are you stalking me, or is it the other way around?"

She never answered. She took notes, wrote words in her notebook, read his old files. And sometimes… sometimes, when his back was turned, she looked at his scars. The angle of his jaw, clenched. The tremors in his fingers. The way he would break when he no longer knew how to breathe.

He wasn't crazy. Just fractured. And in his cracks, he had lodged her, her. He stared at her like a mystery he had to dissect, like a living enigma he hated not being able to silence.

He said nothing, but in his eyes, it was obvious:

Y/N lived in his head.

And he had decided that as long as she was there, he wouldn't let anyone else breathe.

---

He always came back.

Sometimes at dawn, eyes red-rimmed, a piece of chewing gum stuck under his tongue, fists bandaged. Other times at the last hour, dragging his feet, but his gaze sharp. He didn't miss any of her rounds. He waited for the click of her heels in the deserted hallways, the rustle of her files against her hip, that clinical way she had of ignoring him.

And it drove him crazy.

"Sleeping in your office now, ma'am?" He had sat on the table, head tilted.

"Don't you have a life? Or are you waiting for me to give you one?"

She hadn't looked up.

"Do you want me to take away your right to speak, or do you want your jaw to last until tomorrow?"

He had laughed. A real laugh, hoarse, short. No provocation, just… a release. As if, with her, the mask fell without him realizing it.

But he hated her for it. For that way of seeing through him. Of walking through his shattered pieces without ever getting cut.

So, he tested her.

He wrote stupid things on the walls: "Madam is a cold witch. She punishes without heart."

He sat in her chair when she wasn't there. Rummaged through her papers. Watched her from afar.

And when she entered a room, he spoke loudly, always too loudly, so she would hear his name amidst the laughter.

But never, never did he touch her.

There was a line. He didn't know why. Maybe because she had already put him on the ground. Maybe because she was the only one who had never backed down from him. No fear, no false respect. Just… contempt. Pure and precise.

And that obsessed him.

He had started dreaming about her. Not in a gentle way, no. Suffocating, sweaty dreams, where she held him down with her foot, where she slapped him silently while he laughed. He would wake up, heart pounding, unable to understand if he loved her, hated her, or both.

He bought drinks that he left on her desk without a word. She threw them away. He started again. Out of habit. Out of defiance. Out of need.

One day, she had called him into her office. He sat down, provocative.

"Another punishment, ma'am?"

"Do you think I enjoy seeing you all the time?"

She had stepped forward, thrown a file onto his lap. His file.

"Do you think I haven't read it? You're pathetic, Geum Seong-je. You cling to violence like a kid to his teddy bear. It's your only way to exist. But you don't impress me. You just waste my time."

She had said that without raising her voice. He had smiled. Slowly.

"It's crazy how much you like to talk about me. Haven't you noticed? It's always me in your mouth."

She had almost slapped him. But she hadn't. And he had known: that, that was the real trap.

That day, he had gone home. He hadn't slept. He had punched the walls. He had clenched his teeth until they bled. And he had sworn, not out loud, just to himself:

Y/N would look at him. Even if it meant burning everything he touched.

---

It was hot that day. A sticky, stifling heat that the school walls couldn't contain. The air reeked of teenage sweat, cheap deodorants, and something electric—a premonition, perhaps. As if something was about to break.

Geum Seong-je, however, seemed unusually calm. Too calm.

He loitered in the courtyard, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-empty water bottle. He had the kind of look that you couldn't hold: empty but sharp, like a polished abyss. That day, no one dared approach him. Even his own guys kept their distance. He had beaten up a kid that morning for asking him for a cigarette. Just that. One sentence too many, and he had seen red.

But when he saw Y/N, her straight back, her determined walk, the way she seemed to cut through the air around her, he straightened up. Something within him readjusted, like a broken compass suddenly finding north again.

She was coming out of a meeting with a student. She looked tired. No makeup. A few strands of hair stuck to her forehead. And above all, she seemed elsewhere.

He followed her, silently.

When she entered her office, she felt it. A sensation at the nape of her neck, almost animalistic. She turned around.

He was there. Leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her, not mocking for once. Almost… attentive.

"You look dead."

He moved closer. Slowly.

"Didn't you sleep?"

She groaned, irritated, and threw her file onto the desk.

"What's it to you?"

He smiled. Not his usual smile. Not the one that preceded blows. Another one, rarer. Soft. And dangerous.

"I'm meddling in what belongs to me."

She raised her head, eyes dark, ready to strike him. But he was already there, very close, hands in his pockets, his chest almost touching hers. And he wasn't looking at her in defiance. He was looking at her as if he were listening. As if he could hear her heart beating.

"Step back."

"No."

A silence. Too long. Too charged. The slightest movement would have shattered everything.

Then she made the mistake. A human error, certainly. Fatigue. Loneliness. A slight crack in the mask.

She didn't hit him.

She didn't run away.

She sighed. Just that. A sigh. A release.

And he saw the flaw.

He sensed the weakness, the whisper of a possible attachment.

And it was worse than pity. Worse than hate.

He raised his hand. Slowly. Gently. And his fingers brushed her cheek. Not roughly. With an awkward, almost sacred tenderness.

"You should sleep, ma'am."

She let him. Just a few seconds. She could have broken his wrist. She didn't.

And that's when he knew. That she was no longer invulnerable. That she had opened, even just a centimeter, the door. And in that gap, he rushed in.

**

Since that day, everything changed.

He no longer just followed her. He waited for her. At the metro exit, sometimes. In front of the teachers' lounge. He left things on her desk: a lighter, an annotated book he had stolen from the library, a peach-flavored chewing gum she liked. He didn't always speak. But he watched. For a long time. Obsessively.

And she… she said nothing.

She should have. She knew it. Every step towards him chipped away at her a little more. She saw his gaze change—more fixed, more serious. He no longer called her just "ma'am." Sometimes, it was Y/N. Pronounced slowly. As if he were chewing each letter. As if it were an incantation.

She should have set boundaries. She should have re-established the distance. But she had found herself waiting for his gaze. Watching for his silhouette. And feeling something bitter when he wasn't there.

One day, she had hurt her hand—a stupid cut with a piece of cardboard. She hadn't noticed him watching her from afar. That evening, he had entered her office without knocking, a first-aid kit in his hand.

"You're incapable of taking care of yourself, huh."

He had taken her hand without waiting. She could have slapped him. She should have. But he was already gently cleaning the wound. Without brutality. His fingers were warm, calloused, but precise.

She said nothing. He wrapped the gauze around her palm. Then, he kept her hand in his for a few seconds too long.

"I can't get you out of my head."

She wanted to answer. He interrupted her.

"I don't want you to be like the others. You're not. And I'm not stupid, Y/N. You think I'm just a wild animal, but I see what you're trying to hide. You furrow your brow when you're worried. You're afraid of getting attached, and you always look at me like I'm a time bomb. Maybe I am one, yeah. But you activated me. And now, it's too late."

She stepped back, finally. But gently. He didn't try to hold her.

She closed her eyes. For a second. Just one. And he saw her breathe faster. He saw that what she was holding back wasn't anger. It was something else. Something more painful.

"You'd better leave."

"Not until you understand what you've unleashed."

He left the room. Slowly. He didn't need to kiss her. Not yet. Not right away. He had seen what he wanted to see: the mistake.

She had looked at him differently. She had trembled, even slightly.

And that crack, he would never let it close again.

---

The rain had fallen all night. It hammered against the windows of Y/N's car, punctuating the tension that tightened her throat. She hadn't stopped staring at the police station door, her eyes fixed in a blur, her jaw clenched. She knew these kinds of calls. Too well. Violent kids, repeat offenders, desperate cases left to drift in a soulless system. But tonight, it wasn't a "case," it wasn't a student.

It was him.

Geum Seong-je.

When she had walked through the doors, the smell of disinfectant mixed with stale coffee and dampness had hit her. A familiar smell. Too familiar. And the police officers had greeted her with a vague air, as if it were just another detail in their night.

"He can leave," one of them said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.

"Orders from above."

"Meaning?"

He shrugged, offering no further explanation.

"Release him to the supervisor. That's what we were told."

Y/N felt her temples throb. She wasn't stupid. "Orders from above" didn't exist without a reason. Even less so when it involved a teenager implicated in a violent fight with another school. There had been serious injuries. One of the boys had a fractured jaw. And Seong-je? He was going to walk out, as if nothing had happened.

It smelled like bullshit. Real bullshit.

And not a single answer. Nothing.

When she entered the small back room, she saw him. Sitting on a metal chair, slumped against the wall, legs spread apart, face turned to the floor. He looked… drained. Arms crossed over his chest, forehead pressed against the wall. Disarmed.

A dirty bandage covered his right foot, which he held half-raised, without even paying attention to it. Dried blood stained his temple. His knuckles were split open, scraped down to the bone.

But it wasn't the sight of his injuries that struck her. It was the absence of fire in his eyes. The absence of that fierce rage he wore like a second skin.

"Seong-je?"

He slowly raised his head. He blinked. Then a small, painful grimace stretched across his split lips.

"Ma'am..."

His voice was hoarse. Slowly, he straightened up, swayed, but remained standing.

But this time, there was nothing provocative about that "ma'am."

There was no more irony. No more game.

He had said it like an oath. Like a sacred whisper.

"Let's go home." She took his arm. He didn't protest. But she felt his whole body stiffen when she put an arm around his waist to help him walk.

**

She settled him in her home. Not out of weakness. Not out of pity. But because she knew. Instinctively.

He didn't want to go back. He had no one.

He hadn't said it. He hadn't even tried to make excuses. He had just let himself be guided, silent.

In her small living room, she sat him down on the sofa. She got what she needed: first-aid kit, compresses, hydrogen peroxide. He watched her, his dark gaze fixed on her every move as if he never wanted to lose sight of her again.

And when she laid her hands on him…

When she gently cleaned the blood from his temple, when she brushed her fingertips over his swollen cheek, when she bandaged his ribs without even raising her voice…

He broke.

Not in sobs. Not in screams. Inwardly. Silently. Devastated.

Because no one had ever touched him like that.

No one had ever cared for him without making him feel like a beast, a problem, a mistake. She, she placed her hands with an almost… frightening delicacy. As if he had value. As if he were fragile.

And the more she touched him, the more something inside him melted.

The more his obsession with her became visceral, devouring, uncontrollable.

He looked at her like one looks at a vision. Like a miracle in a world of filth.

Y/N, for her part, focused on her actions. But she felt it. She felt his eyes following her, scrutinizing her. As if he wanted to engrave her into his flesh.

She tried to remain upright. Hard. But it was too late.

In a corner of her mind, she admitted it: she hurt for him.

And she hated that crack within herself.

"You're going to have to stay off that foot for a few days. It's pierced."

"They stomped on me with a metal bar," he replied without emotion.

She froze. He said it as if he were talking about the rain. As if it were normal.

And this time, she couldn't help but look up at him. He was staring at her. Intense. Obsessed.

"Why are you like this with me?" he murmured.

She hesitated. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Because you're still standing despite everything."

"You still think I'm just a kid, huh."

She didn't answer. He licked his lips, painfully. Then, he leaned in slightly. He was still sitting, she kneeling in front of him. And slowly, he placed his hand on her cheek.

"Y/N..."

She felt her throat tighten.

He wasn't trying to provoke her. Or seduce her. Not really.

He was just trying to maintain that contact. That link. That small, invisible thread that now connected them.

And in an almost unreal moment, she closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

She felt his warm palm against her skin. Understood. Accepted.

But as she was about to straighten up, he spoke. His voice was deeper. Slower. Trembling.

"Even if you were to love me one day… you'd refuse. Because I'm still a minor. Because you have too many principles. Because you're strong. And me… I'm everything you've learned to run from."

She opened her eyes. Their gazes met.

Brutally.

And she understood. That this boy, this damn broken, unstable, twisted boy… had just realized that he was falling.

That he was falling for her.

And she… she wasn't sure she wanted to stop him anymore.

She placed her hand on his. Withdrew it almost immediately.

But it was too late.

He had felt it.

And in his eyes, in that uncontrollable flame, she read the promise of an obsession with no way out.

"I'm going to disappear for a while," he finally said.

She raised her head.

"Where?"

"You don't want to know."

She wanted to protest. He shook his head.

"Not now. But I'll be back."

He stood up with difficulty. She helped him. He rested his forehead against hers. Just for a second.

"You see… you left a crack, ma'am. And me? I'm going to make it open until you belong to me."

**

And she let him go.

Not because she wanted to.

But because she knew that when he returned, nothing would ever be the same.

---

I’ve kept a low profile.

No more fighting. No more staring. Nothing. Like a ghost in these damn hallways. Not because I’ve changed. No. I’m the same. I just understood. Baek Jin, that dog, that parasite… he used me. I was a tool. A pit bull he’d unleash when he needed to. Nothing else.

So I backed off. I waited. I watched.

And during that time, I thought about her.

Ms. Y/N.

Fucking hell. Just her name in my head and my nerves ignite.

I remember her fingers on my face that night. It was nothing. An almost professional gesture. Cold. Calculated. But damn it… I got hard as a rock that night. I clenched the sheets between my teeth. I touched myself like a dog in heat. And it was her. It’s always her. It’s always her hand I imagine between my legs.

I’m sick.

I know it. I don’t care.

I want her to touch me again. Not just my face. No. I want her hand everywhere. I want her mouth on my skin. Her nails in my back. Her breath in my ear. Her saliva. Her fucking scent—that mix between clean and fire. Between discipline and hell.

I want to see her crumble. See her lose that mask.

I want to be the one who makes her tremble. Not from fear. From need.

I want her to tell me I’m hers. Even if it’s not true. Even if she’s lying. Even if she hates me.

Because me… I love her.

Not that bullshit love they sing about in dramas.

Me, I love her to the bone.

I love her like you burn.

I dream of her. And in my dreams, she doesn’t scream. She moans.

She tells me no, at first. Always. Because it’s her. Because she’s proud. Fucking upright. But I see her body betray her words. I see her thighs part, slowly. I see her mouth slightly open. I see her breathing quicken.

And I grab her by the nape of the neck. I look at her. I say nothing. And she understands.

And I take her.

I devour her.

I want her to feel that I’m there. Inside her. Everywhere. That even after, when she washes herself, when she tries to forget, I’ll still be there. Under her fingernails. In her nightmares. In her scent.

I’m obsessed.

I could spend hours staring at her without speaking. Just watching her walk. Her swaying hips. Her dark gaze. That contempt she wears like perfume.

Even when she insulted me, I got hard.

Even when she threw me to the ground, tased me like a dog, I would have thanked her.

It was her.

She calmed me down. She hurt me. She looked at me like I was a monster. And damn it… I want her to continue.

I want her to tell me I’m fucked up. That I’m a lost cause.

But I want her to tell me that while moaning. Between two sighs.

I want her to scratch me. Make me bleed. Reject me while I take her. I want her hate, her fear, her confusion. I want her damn mind.

I want to crush her beneath me and whisper in her ear:

“You’re mine now, ma’am.”

And she won’t say anything. Because she’ll know it’s true.

Even if she denies it. Even if she runs.

I’ll always find her.

Because I’m not in love like other people.

I’m not a nice guy. I’m not made for happiness.

I’m made to destroy her softly.

To show her that she never really controlled her heart.

I stole it, little by little.

And one day, she’ll see it.

One day, she’ll feel that she can no longer breathe without thinking of me.

That day… I’ll be there. With my hands around her hips.

With my mouth against her throat.

And she won’t say anything.

Because it will be too late.

---

She’d been warned he was back, in a fearful whisper from a student with a tongue that wagged too freely.

He hadn’t returned to school. Of course not. Too obvious. Too risky. He was hanging around the construction site of the old shopping center, the one no one watched. Walls covered in graffiti, windows blown out, rats making their kingdom out of the debris.

That’s where she found him.

He hadn’t hidden. He was sitting on the cracked steps, one arm bloody beneath his torn sleeve. His eyes were vacant. An expression she’d never seen on him before.

And it drove her mad.

Mad with rage. With pain. With not knowing. With not understanding. With having believed him to be different, perhaps. A dangerous, unstable guy, but not this. Not a fucking rapist.

She approached. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the concrete.

He looked up, slowly.

And without warning, the first slap landed.

A sharp crack in the cold air. Seong-je’s head snapped violently to the side. He didn’t react. He blinked. That was all.

“Tell me it’s not true,” Y/N breathed. Her voice was low. Strangled.

Not a scream. A warning.

He looked at her, silent.

She slapped him a second time, harder, backhanded this time. He swayed slightly but remained seated. Still without a word.

“Tell me it’s not true, damn it!”

He inhaled. Closed his eyes.

“It’s not true,” he said.

But it was too late.

The third slap was brutal. Stinging. He placed a hand on his cheek this time. Not to protect himself. Just… to feel.

As if the pain was the only proof he was still there.

Y/N was trembling. Her whole body. Not with fear. With rage. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up brutally.

“Then why did you hide?! Huh?! Why did you disappear?! What did you think?! That by leaving me in the dark, I’d… forget?! Defend you without knowing?!”

He kept his eyes locked on hers.

“Because I knew you’d do exactly that. Hit me. Judge me. Look at me like them.”

She gritted her teeth. And then, without thinking, the fourth slap came. And this time, she screamed.

“I protected you! I covered for you for months! And you leave me with a fucking accusation like that?! What do you want?! For me to abandon you?!”

He flinched.

He hadn’t said anything.

But his eyes had clouded over. A shadow had passed.

“I didn’t want you to see that. Me, like that.”

She shoved him violently; he fell back onto the steps, his hands scraped by the concrete.

He didn’t get up.

She remained standing, panting. Broken.

“They have photos, Seong-je. Blurry, yes, but usable. Your black hoodie. Your profile. Your scar on your temple.”

He murmured:

“I wasn’t there. I was somewhere else. I was…”

He hesitated.

“I was hiding out at an old acquaintance’s place. I didn’t call you. I… I was scared.”

“Scared of what?! Of me?!”

He finally looked up at her, and this time, she saw it.

She saw the distress. The real kind.

“Scared that you wouldn’t believe me. That you’d look at the evidence and hesitate. That you’d doubt. Even for a second.”

She didn’t answer. She approached slowly. Squatted down in front of him.

And she hit him one last time, not a slap this time, a punch to the chest, with a closed fist.

“Bastard,” she breathed.

But he looked at her as if she were the last beautiful thing he had left.

And maybe she was.

He coughed, a trace of blood on his lips.

“I’m not a good guy, ma’am. But I never touched that girl. I never wanted that. And I never wanted you to see me like this. Weak. Accused. Falsely accused.”

She closed her eyes. For a long time. Then, gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He shivered under her touch.

“Who?”

“Nabaek-jin. Or the guys behind him. They want to take me down. Shut me up. Make me disappear. And there’s no better way than this kind of accusation.”

She nodded.

And for a long moment, they said nothing.

His lips were split. His gaze was lost. He looked worn out. Damaged. Younger than ever. Just a kid. A kid who had been hit too much, dirtied too much.

She stood up.

“You’re coming with me. We’re going to prove you weren’t there that night. We’re going to flip the script. And if you’re lying…”

He nodded.

“I’m not lying.”

She didn’t answer him. She didn’t touch him again.

But as she left, she murmured:

“Don’t run from me again. Because if you do… I’ll hunt you down myself.”

He offered a broken smile.

And in his head, a single thought returned, insistent:

She’s still here. Even after all that. She’s here. She touches him. She hits him. She yells at him. But she’s here.

And that presence was worth all the pain.

Even the pain she inflicted.

---

He was there, leaning against the damp wall of the fire escape behind the school, his gaze fixed on the empty alleyway. He knew she was close. He could feel it. He didn’t need to see her to anticipate her steps – that cold, steady, almost military rhythm. Y/N never did anything halfway.

And she arrived, straight as a knife, her fists clenched in the pockets of her too-thin coat.

She shot him a dark look. He didn’t flinch.

“You have bruises.”

He smiled. An empty smile.

“I don’t fight, Ma’am. I fall.”

She hated that smile. Because it made her want to believe him. And she refused.

“Why do you insist on doing this alone?”

He looked at her for a long time. Too long. And in his eyes, there was that fever she dreaded. That uncontrollable thing, that unhealthy fire that simmered beneath his skin.

“Because it’s my mess. Not yours.”

“And if you get killed? If you fall?”

He approached. Slowly. One step after another. Until he was close enough to feel her breath on his face.

“Then I fall alone. But I refuse to let you dirty your hands for this. I refuse to let them see you, associate you with me, touch you from afar or up close.”

She raised her voice.

“You think I’m some fucking porcelain doll?! You think I—"

He cut her off sharply.

“Let me be a man for once, Y/N.”

She stopped.

He continued, lower. His voice hoarse. And full of that muffled crack he only showed her.

“You want to do everything, carry everything. You’re used to people relying on you. Me, I want… I want to be the one who isn’t saved. I want that at least once in my life, I can say: ‘I handled it. Me.’

He looked up at her. He was burning. Literally.

“You brought me to my knees with your gaze, Y/N. And I don’t want the rats in this city to know you exist. You’re mine. And I’m your dirt to hide.”

She tried to answer. But the words didn’t come. Not right away.

So he left. And this time, she didn’t stop him.

**

Three hours later, in a deserted bowling alley with a broken neon sign, Geum Seong-je retrieved what he had carefully hidden.

An old sports bag, stashed under a false ceiling in the utility room. Inside, papers, hard drives, photos. He had kept it all, just in case. Not because he was careful. Because deep down, he knew that one day, he would have to betray.

He wasn’t afraid of Na Baek-jin.

Not like before.

What he feared was no longer being worthy of Y/N’s gaze. She had slapped him as if she wanted him to become real again. And she had succeeded.

So that night, he walked to the hill where Yeon Si-eun and his two war dogs, baku, gotak and jun-tae. sometimes hung out.

They were there.

He handed the bag to Si-eun, without speaking.

Yeon Si-eun didn’t ask questions. He opened it. Scanned it. Understood. And looked up.

“Why?”

Seong-je ran a hand through his hair, his gaze elsewhere.

“You want to demolish their fucking syndicate? Here’s your bomb. Me, I have something else to protect.”

Si-eun nodded. He didn’t add anything. No need.

**

The next day, Seong-je returned to his hole. He didn’t plan on being a hero. He let others destroy. He just wanted to survive.

But in his head, Y/N.

Always Y/N.

Her voice, her slaps, her silences, her scent.

He thought of her as he went to bed. As he breathed. As he walked. As he washed his hands like a maniac so as not to contaminate what he might one day offer her.

He wanted her. Physically. Yes.

But it wasn’t just that.

He wanted her to see him and think: he’s changed.

He wanted her to offer him a hand one day. Not to save him. Just to touch him.

And every step he took in this fucking rotten world, he took for her.

Not for love. Not for forgiveness.

For the possibility.

The tiny, painful, terribly uncertain possibility… that one day, she would look at him without rage.

Without fear.

Just… with something a little soft.

And for that, he was ready to betray everything he had been.

Even himself.

---

CHAPTER 10 – STORIES ARE WRITTEN TOGETHER

Two months. That’s all it had taken for the dust to settle over the city. Two months of voluntary isolation. Of self-imposed exile.

Geum Seongje hadn’t returned right away. No. He had been a shadow, a figure hidden in the underbelly, where people like him hid, where wounds half-healed, and where time seemed to have forgotten to pass.

The war was over, but he still bore its scars. His name was no longer whispered in the dark alleys with disgust or fear. The syndicate had fallen. The accusations against him had crumbled with the collapse of that underworld. He was cleared, or almost.

But not yet rehabilitated. Not yet returned to who he had been.

The two months had passed. And here he stood before the school, in the middle of the school holidays, in the shade of a tree. He had grown, changed. He was now a man. Of age. And, more importantly, he was there for her.

A cold gaze settled on the entrance of the building. It wasn’t the first time he had returned here. But this time, he had a reason beyond mere rage to reappear in the life of the one who had marked him with fire.

Y/N.

She was there. In the shadow of the gate, talking to a group of students, like a guardian figure. When she turned her head, her eyes met his. A shiver pierced the warm summer air. She recognized him immediately, even after those two months.

She hadn’t changed. But he… He was something else entirely. Harder, more mature, more enigmatic. Far from the teenager she had had to watch, control, sometimes insult. He was no longer the one she had slapped. He was no longer the one she had tried to help, with her icy and closed heart. No, he was a man. A man she knew by heart… and who, yet, was no longer the same at all.

Seongje approached her, his gaze scrutinizing every movement. It wasn't just the desire to possess her. It was deeper. It was a visceral need. A need to connect, to give meaning back to his existence. An obsession, of course, but tinged with that nuance he had never thought possible.

“You know, I can’t call you ‘ma’am’ anymore. I’m no longer under your supervision,” he said with a wry smile, a smile that was both teasing and unhealthy. But his voice was softer, more confident. It was more than a provocation. It was… almost an attempt to get closer.

She stared at him. She was no longer as implacable, but her expression remained distant.

“You’ve changed,” she finally said. Not a question, just a statement.

He didn’t answer immediately, preferring to look her in the eyes. And in that gaze, she could almost feel what he was feeling. The buried pain, the shame, the rage, but also an insatiable need to be seen. To be accepted. To be chosen.

“I’m an adult now, aren’t I?” His voice was tinged with that childish arrogance he had always had, but this time, it wasn’t empty. There was something more in the way he addressed her. A plea for recognition.

She didn’t answer right away, her gaze lost in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. The situation was too unclear for her to embrace with a simple look.

He moved closer slowly, each step heavy with unspoken meanings. Everything he had lived through, everything he had endured… He had gone through it all to be there, in front of her. He was ready for anything. Even that dull ache that resonated in his gut with every movement he made.

“If I follow you… it’s not for school, you know.”

His words were simple, but they struck her heart like a hammer blow.

“You want to follow me away from all this?” she asked, surprised, but also slightly amused. She had remained calm, but he could feel the tension in her gestures.

“Maybe,” he said, a mischievous smile in his eyes. Then he added, lower, almost to himself, “I’ve always had this kind of connection with you. I want more than silences. More than furtive glances.”

She looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, her gaze softened. Perhaps because she understood now. Perhaps because she knew.

“I’m going to another school… I’m getting transferred,” she murmured. “You know, the distance…”

He leaned a little closer to her, and this time, it wasn’t an enraged look, or the look of a badly behaved child. No, it was a conscious look, the look of someone who knew what he wanted.

“Then I’ll call you ‘noona’ now,” he said in a warm, sensual breath. The word slipped from his lips, and he pronounced it in an almost intimate way, a way that made all the difference. Because he had never pronounced that word that way before, not to her, not ever.

She froze for a moment before relaxing slightly. An almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. But he could see it. She saw it too, that small crack in the wall she had built around herself. She felt an electric tension, a dull pulse, as palpable as the air between them.

Their gazes locked.

It wasn’t a kiss yet, no. But there was something even stronger. It was a silent promise, a profound change. He, the child who had tormented her, now ready to be the one who would follow her. She, the woman ready to accept him, but not without her own fears.

Seongje’s fingers slid onto Y/N’s skin, brushing her wrist. The touch was soft, almost fragile, as if he were afraid of breaking what had just been created. And Y/N, this time, didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she leaned in slightly, like an invitation.

“Noona…” he repeated, in a heavier tone, almost a whisper. And this time, it was the beginning of something real, something vulnerable. It was no longer an obsession.

It was hope.

And then, he did it. He crossed that boundary that, until then, had seemed like an insurmountable chasm. He kissed her. Not brutally, not violently. But gently, gently, as if each movement was a revelation, as if he were discovering himself through her. He had no expectations. Just this desire to feel her close, even closer, more real than ever.

She recoiled slightly, her eyes wide open, shocked by the gesture, but he didn’t move away. Not this time. He waited for a reaction. He didn’t want her words. He just wanted… her to see him. To really see him.

And for the first time since he had met her, Seongje felt at peace. Not because the battle was over, not because he had won anything. But because this time, he had taken his future into his own hands. And that future, he wanted to share with her. No matter how twisted, difficult, or uncertain it might be.

She placed her hand on his cheek, caressing it gently. He had never thought that simple gesture could have such an impact. That tenderness… he received it like a precious, fragile gift. And perhaps, deep down, he was beginning to believe that he could build something real with her. Perhaps, finally, he could exist beyond his mistakes.

She leaned slightly towards him.

“Seongje…”

She said nothing more. Words were unnecessary. But in her eyes, there was what he had always sought: a promise. A promise he had waited for. That he would now build with her.

He smiled, without a word.

Things weren’t perfect. They never would be.

But for the first time, there was an “us.” And that was all he had ever wanted.

Their hands trembled. The air between them was saturated with desire and tension, but also with that fragility that now bound them. No further words were needed. No grander gestures. They understood each other. And for the first time, Seongje felt that he wasn’t alone in being obsessed with the other.

Y/N was there, ready to accept who he had become. But the question remained: would they be able to repair what had been broken before? Or would it all consume them even more?

..................................................................................

Never too late (Whitebeard oneshot)

A/N: Just a short angst idea that popped in my head. Everyone cry with me.

Standing outside of the shack on the outskirts of nowhere he felt the cold rain run down his face as he stared in the window. His clothes were soaking wet but he paid them no mind. Thunder and lightning shook the ground beneath his feet, lighting up the night’s sky every so often. Truly anyone would be a damn fool to be out here in this mess and a fool he was, an old fool. 

Seguir leyendo

me: feels unloved *searches x reader tag*

won't lose you again

bakugo x reader

zombie au inspired by @ryoflix sukuna fic -> read here

His memory plagues your thoughts everyday, your younger years getting harder to hold onto as your mind focuses on your last moments with him.

You wish you had stopped him, told him it wasn't worth the risk or even go with him. But you know he wouldn't let you put yourself in danger for something as small as scavenging.

The big strong man he was, he told you he had it handled. He promised he would be back by sunset, you waited and waited but he never came back.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt, trying calming your frantic mind. Maybe he decided to explore further away from home, got stuck in a store with a horde outside, or better yet maybe he found others and they were brainstorming a way to get back to you.

But as days passed and your stockpile got smaller, you knew he wasn't coming back. Your mind refused to think of the worst, pushing back the idea and pretending he had just gone exploring.

As you equipped yourself in protective gear, you looked around the makeshift home you built with the man you've loved for years. Taking in the small table the two of you would share scraps over, and the small mattress in the corner decorated with what you could find in these trying times.

Your mind flashing with memories of the two of you, him holding you close as you listened to the noisy horde outside, how he'd whisper promises of a better future with you when the world got better.

He use to measure your ring finger every night, giving you a small smile as he uttered "I love you."

It's been so long since you heard those words. A nightly tradition gone in the blink of an eye.

You couldn't stay reminiscing about the man you love forever, you had to find food before you starved. So with a soft click of the door, you went out searching. Recalling all the tips and tricks he told you, making sure you were light on your feet as you walked and dodging the areas that were always crowded.

Going past your usual scavenging vicinities, you stumbled upon an empty looking jewelry store. From the looks of it, it's been deserted for a while. The plants overgrown and covering half of the building, the door broken off its hinges as if someone forced their way in.

You didnt hear anything as you carefully crept through the entrance, broken glass and jewels littered the floor as you went deeper inside.

Peering around, you couldn't help but feel like you weren't alone. You couldn't feel eyes on you, but you sensed another figures presence.

The sound of glass breaking under your feet made you flinch, you couldn't help but silently laugh as you thought of Katsuki yelling at you for such a small mistake. His years of teachings going down the drain.

A shuffling sound made you freeze in your steps, your back turned towards the source as you held your breath. The sound slowly getting closer at a staggering pace, your body silently shaking as you prayed it was a survivor. But the low groan had you spinning around, your hand moving to the knife strapped to your thigh, preparing to go into fight or flight.

You couldn't help but gasp as your sights filled with those ruby red eyes you've adored everyday.

He looked like the same boy you've loved since you were young, but also different at the same time.

His domineering and strong stance was now sluggish, his shoulders hunched and head slightly titled as he stared at you. His skin now a sickly pale with blueish purple veins lining his body.

But his eyes, his eyes weren't fogged like the undead usually were, his was the same bright red.

"Katsuki?" You whispered out, hoping to get a reaction out of him. Something that told you he was still in there.

With baited breaths you waited, watching him until he slowly up his hand. The groan leaving his lips sounding like your name.

Your eyes couldn't help but well up with tears, smiling as you walked closer finally reunited with your love.

But as you got closer, his groans turned aggressive as he used his hand to try and grab you. He froze mid swipe, his eyes slightly widening as he stilled his actions. You could tell he was fighting his undead instincts from trying to bite you.

With what little humanity he had left Katsuki held out his other hand, his palm slowly opening to reveal a sparkly engagement ring. The design similar to the one you always described to him in your late night promises.

You tried to bite your lip to silence your sobs, taking the ring from his palm, he watched as you slipped the ring onto your finger. Flexing your hand towards him as you would if this was a normal proposal.

You knew he wanted you to run, leave him here to rot so you could have a chance of survival.

But instead you came closer, closing the distance between the both of you. You could see in his eyes as he fought with him self, slowly losing his rationality the closer you got.

With a tearful smile you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close and titling your head to expose your neck. A silent tear rolling down your cheek as you cradled his head, the pain shooting through your body as his sharp canines sink into your skin.

(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.

The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.

There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”

“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”

John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”

You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.

“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.

“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”

You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.

The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”

He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”

You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”

Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”

He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”

“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.

Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.

Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.

Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.

You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.

The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.

You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”

Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-

John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.

You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”

He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”

You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.

“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”

Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”

John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”

You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.

Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.

A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.

John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”

You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.

A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”

You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”

Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”

He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”

You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”

When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”

“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”

When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.

And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.

As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.