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httpsserene · 5 months

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hey can I request something that’s angsty to fluff and then smut for Oscar where reader gets a ton of hate for dating Oscar so she kind of ghosts him for a bit and they figure things out

𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐰/𝐨𝐩𝟖𝟏

📖𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: oscar really just wants to hear you laugh again. 📖𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 18+ only. angst. fluff. happy ending. reader is exhausted physically and mentally. reader's internal monologue is not not nice. bad eating habits. bad sleeping habit. self-deprecation. don't worry she's back on her bs at the end. reader neglects herself (?) and her relationship. implied self-sabotage. people are mean. don't worry oscar is meaner. oscar piastri is a good boyfriend. emotional hurt/comfort. tenderness. intimacy. baths and pampering. crying (non-sexy). implied sex. implied bath sex. logan and lando as plot devices. no beta we die like my will to live during finals. 📖𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 5.1k words. 📖𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: oscar piastri x fem!reader 📖𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: oneshot w/ blurbs. 📖𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸: best i ever had • drake

𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲: sorry it took me so long, i've changed this fic like multiple times :/ hope it fulfills you request properly :))) this is not my favorite thing in the world, i feel like if i went on a smaller scale i would've enjoyed this more but what can you do. this is also not very black reader coded? idk but feel like it's lacking there. i also apologize for my inability to write an oscar fic without including lando, he's such a willing plot device though even if he's a little ooc. i also couldn't find the mental space to write smut but there's smth for you at the end. dedicated to us women in stem! i hope you have fun reading this because i didn't have fun writing it :)

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oscar is worried. you haven’t responded to his texts for a week, he hasn’t seen your face for two weeks, and he hasn’t heard your voice for three weeks. four weeks ago, you told him you wouldn’t be able to fly out to see him at the austin grand prix, like you promised. you sounded exhausted and incredibly guilty when you explained that your course load this semester is extreme, and finals are rapidly approaching. oscar understood; he won’t ask you to sacrifice your education for one of his races, there will be plenty you can come to in the future. what he doesn’t understand is how you’re still functioning. it’s your senior year of university at an american ivy league school, you're pursuing an engineering degree, and you’re also working nearly five days a week as a barista. oscar thinks the last time he’s seen you relaxed is before your fall semester started, you spent your entire summer break with him, making appearances at the only three races you’ve been to this season (silverstone, hungary, and spa). the last time he recalls seeing your smile and hearing your laugh is in august—it’s the end of october now.

you’ve been ghosting him. oscar wants to believe that it’s unintentional, that it’s just a side effect of the amount of work and pressure on your shoulders—but he can’t accept that. if you were unintentionally missing his calls, facetimes, and texts, you’d spam respond to all of them with a voice message or paragraphs of texts before you went to bed or class. you would send him daily or weekly recap videos of how life is treating you, like you used to do. you would send him stupid videos of you messing around on your shifts during a pause of customers. you would send him thirty reels a day on instagram of brain dead shenanigans with little captions of how you reacted, or if you thought it would make him smile. you would send him fit checks every morning before you went to class, even though your outfit consists of a hoodie and sweatpants. you would send him tiktok edits of himself and tell him that he needs to stop being ‘so hot’ because you almost barked in the middle of class. you would ask him how he’s doing, you would respond to his texts the minute you could even if it's hours late, you would leave him voicemails if he doesn’t pick up, you would make an attempt to communicate.

except, you haven’t. so, he knows that you ignoring him is intentional, and that your lifestyle right now makes it easier for you to disguise your avoidance of him as accidental.

you didn’t say ‘i love you’ back.

“mate, what are you frowning for?” oscar jumps, eyes flying up from the phone screen and meeting lando’s. the brit is staring at him in confusion, the two of them are still in their race suits, tied around their waists. the sprint race ended an hour ago, and they’ve just finished celebrating oscar’s win.

“you’ve won a race, oscar—what could possibly make you sad after that?” lando says teasingly. but, the smile on his face is quick to fade as he must see oscar’s dejected mood.

the australian debates his next move for a moment, before deciding that telling lando isn’t a bad idea; they’ve been getting closer—they’re friends, oscar would say. he sighs, and hands his phone to lando, maybe he’ll tell oscar he’s worrying over nothing.

“oh,” lando says, eyes widening, “i’m sorry, mate.”

oscar brushes off lando’s words, and buries his face in his hands, “she’s pulling away from me. that was five days ago, and she hasn’t answered any of my calls. she’s only responded to my texts since then with one word answers or very dryly. she’s ghosting me.”

oscar feels lando fumbling for words, not needing to look at him to know that the older man has no idea how to go about reassuring oscar.

“look, mate, if it were me i’d go see her anyways.”

oscar huffs, “she literally said she doesn’t have time.”

“oscar,” lando stares at him in disbelief, “she hasn’t seen you in two months. i guarantee she’s probably dying to see you again, fuck whatever time she doesn’t have. she also can’t ghost you, if you see her face to face. you should go and try to fix whatever’s wrong, before you let her slip away.”

“maybe…maybe she’s just burnt out,” oscar suggests shakily, “i’ll go see her after the triple header–i’m probably just overreacting about this. she’ll be back to her usual self in time.”

oscar is enraged. he’s pissed off at his fans for attacking you in a sick twist of ‘defending him,’ ‘protecting him’ and the supposed ‘ownership’ they think they have over him. he’s pissed off at you deciding to ghost him instead of confiding in him about the hate you receive. he’s pissed off that his flight to you has been delayed for four hours. he’s pissed off at his race in brazil, if you can even call what happened a race. he’s pissed off at the fact that you can’t make time to see him before vegas. he’s pissed off that you lied to him about picking up extra shifts at the cafe.

he stalked through your instagram the minute after he was allowed to escape debrief, hunting down your roomates accounts from where you’ve tagged them in an older post. he innocently made a group message to the two girls, figuring it would be kind and proper to inform them of his impending arrival to surprise you. and the two girls you shared an apartment with responded eagerly to his message telling him that you’ve been extremely stressed and almost depressed this semester, and that hopefully his appearance will break through to you in a way they are unable to. oscar asked them if they knew your work schedule for the week, since you never told him when you're working–and learned that you lied. you didn’t accept any extra shifts, matter of fact, you got all of your shifts covered for the next two weeks. apparently, all you have been doing is going to class, working, studying furiously, and crying. when he asks if there’s any reason besides the stress from work and school that has you crying, the girls decline to speak for you, and strongly suggest that he asks you himself when he arrives.

oscar’s no longer pissed at you for lying to him or for ghosting him–he’s hurt, but, he already understands your motive. you don’t want to worry him, so you bottle it up and distance yourself to not make him aware of how you're struggling. he won’t let you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone anymore, he’s going to see you and he’s going to take care of you, and then he’ll sort out the ignorant people on the internet.

when he’s at your apartment, you’ll be coming home from your last shift before your time off. and then, once he has you in his arms, he can make everything right again.

your hands are shaking; a result from the mix of stress and exhaustion that has been plaguing you for a few weeks. it takes you four and a half attempts to unlock the front door to your apartment—this is an improvement, yesterday it took you six times. a trembling sigh of relief exits your lungs as you shut the front door, triple checking that you lock the door properly. you remove all of your outerwear and slip out of your shoes, half-heartedly making an attempt to neatly place them in the organizer you have by the door. (you fail to register how there’s only two pairs of shoes stored away; yours and a pair of shoes that look too big to be one of the girls you live with—the usual sneakers the girls wear are nowhere to be seen.) you grunt as you tenderly put on your backpack and slowly make your way into the kitchen, off-handedly murmuring a “hi,” in the direction of the living room since you can hear the tv playing, but you don’t even spare a glance to see which roommate it is—you can’t stomach anymore human interaction today.

your walk is more of a waddle; your legs and feet are sore from working nine-hour shifts five days in a row, and also from going to class four out of those five days. you place your backpack on the small island, and continue to gently meander towards the fridge. your stomach aches at the thought of food—which is unfortunate, considering you’ve only had one meal today. regardless, you will shove a sandwich down your throat, you need the energy if you’re going to study for three hours before you go to bed.

you pause before you open the fridge, a note is stuck on the door with a magnet. your roommates are gone; the two girls have spontaneously decided to go spend the weekend with their boyfriends—you’re not going to complain, you have the apartment to yourself. a brief wave of loneliness washes over you, you were kind of looking forward to venting about the week you had to the girls in the morning, and also, couldn’t they have texted you this earlier today? who leaves old-fashioned notes on the fridge anymore? you pull out your phone to send a text in your group chat wishing them a nice weekend, and see that they did, in fact, text you that they would be gone—three days ago. and, you never responded, because you never saw it. you shrug, and send the text anyways, you’ve been incredibly busy and you’re bound to miss a few texts (especially the eighteen texts from oscar that remain unopened).

you're just going through a little bit of a slump, and you’ve had a bad day. you accidentally messed up three orders today (out of the hundred you fulfilled, so three isn’t really terrible), your running off of four hours of sleep (you’re more energized when you sleep less, anyways), and a customer accidentally bumped into you as you were walking to bring coffee to a table, causing the hot liquid to spill and burn a little spot on the back of your hand by your thumb. well, you know it wasn’t purely accidental, as the girl giggled to the group of friends she was with after she “bumped” into you. based on the way she was wearing a mclaren hoodie, you can make several guesses as to why she did it—you’re kind of shocked that she noticed you even though you wear a mask at work (you have for about a month, too many fans have noticed who you are), her hate for a relationship that’s not hers should be studied for science.

incidents like these have made your coworkers start to…dislike you. the decrease in tips when you’re assigned to the register causes you to be forced to be hidden behind coffee machines the entire shift, only making drinks the entire nine hours you’re there. it’s better for you though, at least you can have a physical barrier blocking the prying eyes you feel are judging you the entire time. if anything, the recent atmosphere at work made you want to put in your two weeks—but, you have bills to pay. you’re just glad you managed to find a way to get two weeks off so you can focus on school and prepare for your exams—you can’t afford to fail, it’ll cost your scholarship and then you’ll need more than the job you have right now to finish school.

the buzzing of your phone pulls you back to the present—oscar’s calling. you squeeze your eyes shut for a few seconds, before you blink and silence the ringer. if you speak to him, you won’t be able to hide your troubles from him any longer; he reads you as easily as a kid’s picture book. he definitely doesn’t need to deal with your problems after whatever the hell happened in brazil. the noise of your phone startled you into a new thought, however. if the girls aren’t in the apartment, why the fuck is the tv on? who did you greet when you walked past the main room without a glance?

“i was calling to tell you that i’ve got takeout from the asian restaurant you like, if you’re looking for something to eat,” oscar says gently.

it’s a testament to how extremely exhausted you are: you don’t scream, you don’t fight, you don’t run—you just flinch slightly, and turn around slowly to face your boyfriend…the man you’ve been avoiding for nearly a month. at the sight of him (his fluffy hair, his soft sweater, the confused and concerned glint in his eyes) your lip starts quivering, and your eyes start watering. oscar’s gaze softens into something sweet yet empathic, and he says, “i know it’s been a while since we’ve last talked, but i didn’t think you’d cry at the sight of me.”

you burst into tears with a sob, and in a second oscar’s got you wrapped up in his arms, one hand soothingly massaging your back, while the other cradles your head on his shoulder. your borderline hyperventilating, your tears have started to soak his sweater, and you’re sniffling every two seconds to avoid getting snot on him too. oscar doesn’t try to quiet your tears, he doesn’t ask about what’s making you cry, he doesn’t even try to tell you that everything will be fine—he just holds you as you cry it out and presses kisses into your hair. eventually, the flow of tears dries and you focus on pulling in shaky breaths of air to calm down. oscar switches to holding you to his chest with one arm while he uses the free one to reach across the counter and grab a tissue. wordlessly, he wipes the wetness off your cheeks and under-eyes, he even uses another tissue to wipe your nose, clearing away the snot that managed to escape. you almost start crying again at the tender treatment and the matching look in his eyes, but you muster enough strength to keep the happy tears from falling over the waterline.

oscar nods once, deeming his cleanup complete, and clears his throat, “i’m going to heat up the food. then, we’ll eat and you’ll tell me what’s wrong and if that has anything to do with why you’re ignoring me.”

there’s no attempt from you to keep the façade up any longer, all you do is nod and step to the side so he can grab the food from the fridge.

oscar has already cleared his plate and you’re still picking through half of yours. the two of you are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, teen wolf is playing on a low volume, and your eyes are tunneled on the screen even though oscar can see that you’re not paying attention at all. one of the characters is screaming about having to get his arm cut off (stiles, probably) and suddenly you start talking to oscar.

“it’s been a shit semester. if i wasn’t graduating in spring, i honestly think i would’ve dropped out or taken a gap-year. and, i knew what i signed up for as an engineering major, and i knew that working was only going to add more on my plate—but, it’s not like i can quit my job, i have bills to pay. so, juggling school and work is difficult, and i was managing fine. but, i guess i made the mistake of scrolling through twitter—which is truly my fault i think—and everyone on the internet was calling me a ‘terrible girlfriend’,” oscar watches you scoff out a choked laugh, “and, i obviously didn’t believe i was. in the beginning, at least. i mean, it’s like they expected me to be at every race by your side, like i’m not working my way through a hellscape of a degree. i watched every practice session, qualifying, and race—they’re literally the only hours i don’t spend studying or working. i brag about you to everybody who would listen, i missed hours of sleep just to speak to you on the phone for five minutes, i work as hard as i can so i can finish this degree early so i can be with you as early as possible, and they say that you deserve a better girlfriend.”

you pause and rub at your eyes furiously, mouth opening and closing as you take time to find the words to continue. oscar quiets the flare of anger at your distress, and stays silent, not wanting to interrupt your speech, this is the most you’ve said to him in a month.

“the thing is: i-i i let their words get to me. i think it’s because i was being kicked while i was down—or whatever the phrase is. i was already mentally exhausted, and i already believe that i’m not doing my best this year, i’m disappointing everybody who knows me, i’m a shit student—and just seeing everybody agree, even though they’re just randoms on the internet, tore me down. i even deleted all of the apps off my phone,” your voice has shifted into something desperate, “so i couldn’t see what they were saying about me anymore, but it’s like once i saw it, it never left my mind. i feel like everybody is staring at me with condescending eyes, like they all think i’m terrible. and, logically, i know that’s probably not true. but, this semester has pushed me past the point of being able to rationalize properly. so as a result, i have become a ‘terrible girlfriend’ to you; like a twisted self-fulfilling prophecy.

“i avoid your calls, i leave you on delivered for days, i respond with one word, i lie to my friends and say i was up all night talking to you on the phone when i was really crying and studying at the same time, i hold back from bursting into tears in the middle of my shifts when one of your ‘fangirls’ spills their drink over me for the third time. and while doing all of this, i was hoping you’d do the hard part and just break up with me,” your voice rings out sharply and you refuse to look at your boyfriend, afraid to see the look on his face.

“because…” you whimper slightly, tongue flicking out to lick at your lips anxiously, “you do deserve a better girlfriend.”

oscar is lost for words at your conclusion; seeing you, one of the strongest women he knows break down, is a sight he never imagined. a sense of guilt builds within him, knowing that he’s added to the deprecating thoughts in your brain by postponing this intervention for weeks. you may think that he deserves someone better, but he hasn’t been the best to you either recently. if oscar was half the man you think he is, he would’ve never allowed you to avoid him in the first place. oscar stands up, collects your plate and his, and places them on the coffee table. he turns and drops to his knees in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs, and squeezes them gently to grab your attention. it takes a minute, but eventually you allow your eyes to fall to meet his, and oscar breaks further at the lack of light in your eyes.

“i think,” oscar starts quietly, “that you expect me to break up with you and leave—am i guessing correctly?”

you blink down at him and shrug, biting your lip to prevent it from quivering.

“i also think, that if i flew all this way to see you, and that if i listened to your heartbreaking recollection of how this semester and how the world has been incredibly unkind to you, and that if i sat here and still broke up you—it’s not me that deserves a better girlfriend; it’s you that deserves a better boyfriend.”

stunned, you stumble over your disagreement, but oscar steadfastly continues.

“you did the right thing by deleting your socials—and that would explain why all three hundred of the reels i’ve sent you have gone unseen,” he laughs lightly, “and even if their words took root, you prevented yourself from being able to see more of it every time you used your phone; so even if my pride is not needed, i am proud of you for doing that. i’m even more proud that you sat here and told me that you aren’t doing well, that you didn’t make an attempt to lie, and that i didn’t have to force you to tell me,” oscar says seriously, holding steady eye contact with you to make sure you're hearing him.

“i wish that you would have mentioned the hate you’re receiving as soon as it started, and that you would have told me your mental health was suffering too. you know i do everything in my power to avoid reading anything with my name in it unless it’s a credible article—so imagine my surprise, when i learned about what people were saying about you through a twitter thread logan, of all people texted me about,” you snort out a laugh at the feigned disdain in oscar’s voice when he mentions the american driver.

“you know i have no issues embarrassing people on the internet for their incorrect claims—and i’d especially tear them to shreds for trying to drag you down. we’ve been together too long for you not to come to me about things like this, even if it’s something that mildly upsets you—i want to know, because then i can make it better, or i can at least try to. you haven’t complained to me about the grueling lifestyle once, as i worked my way up to f1; if anybody could be perfect, it would be you. so, let me try to be as perfect as you, and support you properly and thoroughly as you finish up this degree, baby.

“we’re soulmates, aren’t we?” it’s a question, but oscar states it like a fact, “and i know i can’t magically make the self-loathing disappear with one conversation, but i'll tell you that you’re the best girlfriend i’ve ever had countless times, until you believe me unquestionably.”

oscar watches your nose scrunch cutely as you sniffle, unable to stop the tears that leak from the corners of your eyes. sweetly, he catches them with his thumb before they fall. he stands up and tugs you to your feet, pulling you into a tight, warm hug.

“i love you, kanga,” oscar coos as he kisses your forehead.

“i love you the most, roo,” you answer back, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“i’ve bought some lavender epsom salt and an embarrassing amount of bath bombs. will you let me take care of you tonight?” oscar asks quietly.

he sees the mix of awed-disbelief and confusion as you stare up at him, like you can’t imagine why he’d want to love you tenderly tonight, and that hurts him more—the words of his ‘fans’ online have done enough damage to cause you to doubt him. maybe he can convince you to come to vegas with him so he can keep you close, but first, he needs to focus on caring for you here and now.

oscar grabs his duffle bag and smiles as you hold his hand to lead him to your room and the attached bathroom (rent is ridiculously expensive, but at least you don’t have to share a bathroom with your roommates.) oscar sends you to grab pajamas while he starts filling the tub, epsom salt already poured in. he fiddles with the temperature for a while before it’s set to the boiling-your-skin-off hot you enjoy. by the time you join him in the bathroom, he’s added the salts and soap in the water and has placed the bath bombs out for you to choose one. oscar can’t help the small smile that rises to his face at the sight of the serious furrow of your brow as you pick out your favorite from the bunch.

oscar hums as you hand him the jade-infused bath bomb, and asks, “can i wash your hair too? or will it mess up your schedule?”

“i actually really need to wash it,” you murmur with a humorless chuckle, “i’ve been so busy that i haven’t been taking care of my hair properly.”

oscar blinks and continues non-judgmentally, “i’ll give you an extra scalp massage to make up for that—you can start getting undressed now, the water’s nearly ready.”

he turns around awkwardly, he’s seen you naked before but he feels like it would be slightly perverse to watch you while you’re clearly in a more sensitive state tonight. he fumbles with the faucet for a few seconds before turning it off, and drops the bath bomb into the water so it can start dispersing. oscar faces you again carefully making sure he avoids staring at your body and locks eyes with you, he beckons you forward with an outstretched hand and holds your hand as you submerge yourself in the water. once you’re settled comfortably, oscar grabs your hair products (he holds up any bottle he thinks you may not want to use tonight, and you give him a thumbs up or down to decide), and then kneels at your side.

he starts to roll up the sleeves of the hoodie but your hand halts his motions, the water splashing loudly at the quickness of your movement, “you’re not getting in with me?”

“uh,” oscar stutters, “i-i wasn’t planning on it. i just wanted to give you a nice bath.”

oscar pinkens as you stare at him wordlessly and when your unimpressed gaze shifts to a slight glare, he finds himself shedding his clothes and sinking in behind you at an impressive speed.

his heart began to race as the two of you shifted into as comfortable of a position you could achieve in a too-small tub, but calmed at your pleased hum as you settled between his legs with your back resting on his chest. this may be the most romantic experience oscar has ever indulged in. sure, it’s not a candlelit dinner at an obnoxiously expensive restaurant but, it’s him detangling your hair, it’s him massaging shampoo into your crown, it’s him scratching softly along your scalp as the deep conditioner sits, it’s you playing with the water innocently, it’s you whispering every detail of your life that he’s missed out on, it’s you gently directing him through braiding your hair, and it’s him pressing kisses to your shoulder when he finishes. there isn’t a single moment where the two of you become unsettled during lapses of silence; the intimacy of his actions is loud enough to fill the gaps. oscar can’t imagine ever being this comfortable with anybody besides you, he hates that he almost allowed you to pull completely away from him. moments like these, where you allow yourself to be thoughtlessly vulnerable with him, are exactly why he’s completely enamored with you.

your body has loosened against him, muscles syrupy and lax from the effects of a toe-curling scalp massage, and oscar gently guides you to sit upright while steadying most of your weight with a single hand splayed against your abdomen. the sound of the cap of your body wash clicking open startles you into the present, and you shift around to straddle his lap. it’s amusing; he inaudibly chuckles at the sight of you struggling to complete your change of position without sending water over the edge. you make a triumphant noise when you’ve managed to turn around to face him, and oscar’s hands cradle your hips when you rest on his lap.

“can i–”

“shouldn’t you–”

oscar bursts into laughter and you into giggles, at the interruption of each other's sentences. it’s definitely not that funny, but oscar’s heart skips a beat at the sound of your laugh–he hasn’t heard that sweet noise in what feels like forever. he motions for you to speak, ever the gentleman, and eagerly awaits for our question with a smile still stretched across his lips.

“shouldn’t you fuck me before we wash up? so we don’t have to clean up twice?”

oscar chokes on his breath, his grip on you tightening in surprise, and he babbles, “what? no-i mean, yes, i mean—wait. i didn’t do all of this just to have sex with you, you know that right? i genuinely just wanted to pamper you–”

“oscar,” you cut him off, intentionally this time around, “after the semester i’ve had, and the less than kind words i’ve heard and thoughts i’ve had describing myself–i really do appreciate the bath, i feel reminded that you love me. however, i really think that having sex would help…solidify your devotion for me.”

oscar blinks up at you, he wasn’t quite expecting you to return to your normal sassy behavior as quickly as you did. but, he is thankful that you’ve opened up to him with no further hesitation–it’s actually incredibly attractive of you, how you’ve resumed complete comfortability in expressing exactly what you want to him. at least, that’s the excuse he’s telling himself to cope with being half-hard already.

“...at least let me take you to bed, then?”

“no,” you whine down at him, your hips sneakily twitching forward, oscar moans lightly at the light grind, “too far! saves time later if we don’t have to come back to shower.”

“you’re right,” oscar hums distractedly, moving his right hand off your waist to slip between your thighs and brush along your cunt, “i’ll fuck you here as long as you let me do all of the work.”

oscar’s blood heats at the sound of your whimpering moan and he takes his other hand off your waist to grab at your chin and he pulls you down for a kiss.

oscar groans when you pause before your lips touch his, and he feels the breath of your giggle ghost over his mouth, “mmm, i’ll never say no to that—and, didn’t i agree to let you take care of me tonight?”

taglist: @saintslewis @cherry2stems @lorarri @inloveallthetime @mindless-rock @biancathecool @barnestatic @my-ylenia @katekipshidze @darleneslane @lovingaphroditesworld @smoothopz

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bbmsxlene · 28 days

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📖 : “HOT MOMS CLUB”

utahime is a model 😭 DO NOT ASK WHERE THE IDEA CAME FROM

y/n is the only one who doesn’t know gojo and geto 😭😭

SHES ALSO THE BIGGEST INTROVERT ON EARTH

are y’all ready for the actual first chapter 😏😏

m.list - next

(20/50) TAGLIST : @conan-hearts-u @mixzimtwo @shotovhs @polarbvnny @h3r-litt1e-w0rld @nahoye @satoryaa @bladesoap @lylovw @legbouk @zoaqttz @reiluvr @raechu11 @arysbruv @rykuunas @tojirin @ich1koko @iamhasuya @r0ckst4rjk @rixo-19 @satanloveseveryone @luvlybeom @strxkbylighting @lavender-hvze @niniclove @ivy-vivii @woahguy278 @rijhi @luvlybeom

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thebeyoncesource · 1 year

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Beyoncé in

#HALLSOFIVY 📖

--- adidas x IVY PARK

#beyonce #ivy park #ivy park adidas #ivy park gif #ivy park gifs #halls of ivy #halls of ivy gif #halls of ivy gifs #ad #photoshoot #lemonade #gif #gifs #beyonce gif #beyonce gifs

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interesting-interludes · 10 months

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stranger than fiction (1)

→ 📖 pairing: assistant!jimin x novelist!reader

→ ☕ genre: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut

→ 🚬 word count: 3k

→ 🍝 summary: you are a reclusive author who wants nothing more than to be left alone so you can write at your own pace. jimin is the youngest executive assistant at Lucky Coin Publishers, and he’s never once been intimidated by a writer or their current project. that is, until he’s assigned to help you complete your latest novel. and you aren’t pleased about it.

→ 🍷 content warnings: profanity, smoking, jimin is very determined, reader is very grumpy, sexual tension.

→ 🖊 a/n: loosely based on a relationship from the movie stranger than fiction and also the tv show black books. thanks for reading :)

series masterlist → next chapter

chapter 1: satan smoking a cigarette

Jimin has worked with many, many authors, but none of them have ever been this elusive.

The publishing executives said you would be a difficult case, that you were a bit of an eccentric. In fact, when Jimin asked one of his supervisors about you and your...colorful reputation at the publishing house, all he had to say on the matter was “that woman is Satan smoking a cigarette.”

Jimin had been told that he was the sixth person to be assigned to you. No one knew why, but apparently you had a vendetta against anyone connected to Lucky Coin Publishers. A category which Jimin unfortunately fell under.

But, being the perfectionist that he was, and never one to back down from a challenge, Jimin accepted the seemingly impossible task. A task that no one else from the company has accomplished so far: getting you to finish your latest novel by the end of the year.

Jimin tried calling 42 times over the course of three days. You had no personal number, even though it was the year 2002 and most people with your level of notoriety and fame owned a cell phone by now, or at least a pager.

The publishers were beginning to get anxious, considering the fact that you hadn’t given them anything to work with in over three months. Not one draft, not one page, not even a clipping of meaningful prose. And, considering the book’s set release date, this was quite the problem.

So, here he was, asking around the quaint yet utterly reclusive community of Hidden Village. The name being as ironic as its residents. For it was a town of starving artists, retired creatives, and obscure literary celebrities who were fiercely protective of their anonymity. It was a place for strange, solitary people to live in peace and blissful privacy.

Something Jimin was about to disrupt.

He’d traced your location as far as your apartment number, given that the publishers were so antsy and had given him clearance to be a little invasive, but no one had answered the buzzer.

Now, if Jimin was any less determined, any less qualified given his history, he might’ve given up after the first few failed attempts. But, of course, he was Park Jimin, the youngest executive assistant in the company’s history. And he wasn’t about to let that title slip away.

So he walked the cobblestoned streets in the fading afternoon sun, searching the street signs for Red Herring Road.

When no one answered the buzzer, Jimin tried a few of the neighbors. One of them was a grumpy-sounding man who told him check the cafe a few blocks away, or the museum, or the bar, or the bookshop. But Jimin figured he’d try the cafe first.

He found it after just a few minutes of walking. An ivy-draped awning in the narrow street, shading a few little tables and chairs. A teapot-shaped sign over the door read:

Jam & Bread: coffee, sandwiches, pastries.

This must be the place, Jimin reassures himself, straightening his sleeves and perfecting the curve of his hair.

As he approaches, he sees that there’s only one person inhabiting the small cafe.

A woman, sitting outside, hunched over the crowded tabletop.

None of your books have an “About the Author” section, let alone a picture of your face on the back cover. But he recognizes you still, from that one interaction four years ago.

You’re dressed in heavily oversized, layered clothing. A sweater here, a scarf there, a wool coat hanging off the back of your chair.

It’s a bright yet chilly afternoon, so you’re dressed warmly with a pair of sunglasses on your nose.

A sea of papers is spread out in front of you. Open books, notepads, a few loose leafs, and sticky notes scattered all throughout. And to your right: a foamy latte in a large mug with a fluffy chocolate croissant.

Jimin prepares himself for the interaction to come. Because, from the looks of it, you clearly don’t want to be disturbed.

But Jimin knows that if he wanted to succeed, he’s going to have to do just that.

You’ve decided, over the course of several run-ins with your editor, that semicolons are bastards that have no place in any of your works. You make a note to exclude them from all future manuscripts.

This particular novel has proven to be more difficult to complete than all the others, you’ll admit that much. Maybe it’s because your most recently published book catapulted into unexpected (and probably undeserved) fame, meaning that the next thing you put out has to be even better or you’ll be a disappointment to everyone.

Now, you’ve never been one to easily cope with high expectations, or anyone expecting anything good out of you at all, so this newfound situation was especially overwhelming.

This book has loomed over your head like a storm cloud, like a deep depression, threatening to destroy your mental state at the drop of a hat.

Then, just as you’re getting into a groove, another damned interruption.

This time, it’s a young man in black dress shoes. The obnoxious squeak from the overly-polished leather is the first thing that grabs your attention.

You look up from the page you’re currently annotating, barely bothering to disguise your irritated expression.

He’s standing there in a tailored green coat that molds to his shoulders and thin waist. Then there’s the rings on his fingers and the ridiculous perfection of his hair: dyed blonde and styled up out of his face.

He’s beautiful, tantalizing. It's slightly infuriating.

“Excuse me,” he begins in a voice much lighter and silkier than you expected. “Are you Miss Nin?”

Nin, it was the pen name you’d chosen so many years ago. From Anaïs Nin, the author famous for her diaries and erotica. Even now, most people you know refer to you by that name. It makes life a little easier, living life through someone else’s name.

You survey the young man, trying to determine what exactly he wants. Nothing good, no doubt.

“No, she lives down the street,” you say, testing the waters. “Just around the corner, you can’t miss it.”

You say it with a pleasant smile, hoping he’ll take the bait. Because once he turns the street corner, you can escape through the alleyway and make it back to your apartment.

But the young man scans you up and down, calculating. After a few moments, he gives you a sly smile.

Authors are such bad liars, he thinks to himself. They spend so much time thinking up fiction in their works that there’s none left for their real lives.

And, of course, he already knows well who you are.

“No, I think you’re sitting right here, Miss Nin.”

Your genial expression drops in an instant. So that’s how it’s going to be.

You look at him over the rim of your sunglasses.

“And you are?” you say, clearly not amused.

Something very small in Jimin’s mind deflates. You don’t remember him.

But he shakes it off in an instant, slipping back into his professional persona.

“Park Jimin, pleased to meet you,” he answers cheerfully, holding out his hand to shake.

You glance at it once.

“A horrible judge of character on your part,” you reply dryly.

“I’m the assistant your publishers hired,” Jimin says, still friendly as ever.

“Oh, the spy,” you spit, beginning to gather your things.

“The assistant,” he corrects gently.

“I don’t need an assistant.”

You snatch all the stray papers and shove them in your tote bag, along with the three books, two journals, three notepads, and the six loose pens that were strewn about.

“I provide a number of services, whatever you need to—”

“Oh, such as watching me like a vulture and nagging me every time I get distracted, those kinds of services?”

By now, you’ve gathered all your belongings and have moved on to donning your scarf and coat.

Jimin watches you curiously. There’s a strange quality about you, the same one he saw when the two of you met the first time.

Maybe it’s the way you look at him with such quiet intrigue, or the way you rush to gather the immense amount of books and papers that you apparently carry in your bag. Whatever it is, it seems that he can’t take his eyes away from you.

“Miss Nin, I’m sure we can find a way that I’d be of use to you,” Jimin says as you shrug your bag onto your shoulder.

“I can help you with any organizational needs you might have, any—” the rest of his sentence trails off.

Jimin watches in fascination as you grab the full mug of coffee, tilt your head back, and down the entire thing in a matter of moments.

Then, you wrap the croissant in a napkin, dig in your wallet for an extremely generous tip (which you tuck under the vase of flowers on the table), give whoever is inside the cafe a friendly wave, and set off marching down the street.

He scrambles after you.

“Listen,” you begin impatiently. “I don’t need the publishers breathing down my neck and I certainly don’t need an “assistant” lurking around my workspace. So, if you would be so kind, please vacate the premises before I commit the stereotypical and turn you into an unlikable character that gets killed off in my next work.”

You pick up the pace as you stalk down the street, bristling at the fact that the publishers felt the need to send yet another spy after you expressed your intense dislike for them.

“Miss Nin, if you would just listen for a moment—” Jimin tries, but you’re quick to interrupt him again.

“Look, I’m sure you’re good at your job and all, but I simply have no need for any kind of assistant. I work best alone, even though the publishers refuse to acknowledge that. I’ve told them time and time again that outside involvement just slows me down. So, thank you for coming all the way out here, but you can tell the publishers that I dismissed you and I’ll take the heat from there.”

You say it all without looking at him, staring straight ahead like you’re hoping it will make him magically disappear.

By now the two of you have reached the mass of apartments, all in shades of old brown and faded cream. A criss-crossing system of fire escapes crawls up the sides of the building. The whole structure looks ancient, with peeling paint and chipped stone.

You approach an ivy-covered wall and stop at the door where Jimin started his search not too long ago. With the hand still holding the napkin-wrapped croissant, you punch a very long sequence of numbers into the keypad next to the buzzer.

A beep. You yank the door open and try to slither inside without him following you. But Jimin jams his foot through the gap before you can slam it shut.

“Miss Nin, please,” he pleads. “I really think I could be of help to you if you would just let me.”

There’s a moment where you stop to look at him, and something in your expression suggests that he might’ve gotten through to you.

Jimin’s breath catches in his throat when he sees how your lips part slightly, how your eyes flick over his with that same silent, enigmatic question.

He has to admit, something in his internal rhythm skips in that moment. Maybe this is the start of something—

“Nah, I’m good,” you say, whipping around and leaving Jimin hurrying after you after a pause of shock.

The room you’ve both entered is not what Jimin thinks of when he imagines the lobby of an apartment building.

There are checkered marble floors, shiny and polished despite the outward state of the building, and a number of large, stylishly modern leather couches scattered all throughout the large room.

But there’s also stacks of boxes lining the walls, countless empty picture frames propped up against each other, and cobwebs hanging like drapes from the ceiling.

You’re rushing up the stairs now, which stretches and spirals far above.

Jimin uses the curling iron railing to help him catch up to you. His professional shoes click against the marble, and the sound only adds to your annoyance.

He’s a persistent one, you’ll give him that.

“Trust me, Mr. Whoever You Are,” you say, somehow walking even faster. “You wouldn’t enjoy working with me. I’d make sure of it.”

Jimin is a little distracted. Not only by the incredible speed that you’re maintaining, but also the interior of your apparent “apartment building.”

Paintings crowd the walls, all in old intricate frames, a thick layer of dust over the landscapes, portraits, and impressions. It looks more like a museum than a place to live.

As Jimin follows you up the great, winding staircase, he can’t help but wonder why you’re so resistant to the idea of an assistant. It instills a small flame of curious determination in him.

He matches your pace, just a few steps behind you, as the two of you pass a massive cracked mirror leaning against the railing.

“Maybe I could come to that conclusion myself?” Jimin says, hopping up a step so he can stand next to you, trying to catch your eye.

But you keep on pretending he’s not there, staring straight ahead with the rigid focus only a writer possesses.

Higher and higher you climb, passing more curious things, like a broken chandelier surrounded by crystal shards, then a pile of rotting wood planks.

The sound of your footsteps remains steady while Jimin’s start to slow from exhaustion.

Either you’re completely unfazed by the incredible number of steps, or you’re very good at hiding it.

Jimin pauses, chest heaving, one hand on the railing as he leans over to catch his breath. He hears your steady footsteps carry on.

He looks up to see you reaching towards a rusty door at the end of a long hallway. Digging around in your bag, you pull out a bundle of jingling keys, almost immediately finding the right one and slipping it inside the lock.

Swinging the door open, you disappear behind it as Jimin springs into action again.

His hand slips between the gap just before the door closes and automatically locks.

What he hopes to see is the inside of your apartment, a refuge from the long stretch of exertion that lays behind him. But what he finds is more stairs.

This stairway is less grand. No marble floors or fancy railing, just a narrow tower of concrete steps and unpainted walls.

He follows you up the stairwell that twists this way and that, until the two of you reach yet another door.

“Go home, kid. I have no use for you,” you say dismissively, sifting through your key ring to unlock the door.

That does it. The last of Jimin’s patience flickers out like a candle flame.

The lock clicks open, and you try to slam the door in his face, but he extends his arm and plants his hand firmly on the wood.

The sound and force of it makes you jump, whipping around to face him.

His face has changed. A moment ago, it was soft and pleasant. Now it’s hardened and dark, his eyes piercing into yours like icicles.

“Miss Nin,” Jimin begins, voice sharp enough to cut. “I’ve been an author’s assistant for three years. I’ve helped eight authors complete more than eleven books, and I’ve never gone back to the publisher to ask for more time.”

He straightens, adjusting his coat while maintaining that same icy eye contact.

“Now, I will available to you whenever you may need me. And you will find that I can be very....persistent.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Here’s my home number, my mobile number, and my pager number. I don’t take calls past eight p.m. and I don’t tolerate the use of narcotics.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, begrudgingly taking the business card he hands you with all his information.

“I believe the novel is set to release early next year,” Jimin says in a fake nonchalant tone. “Which means you have until the end of December to come up with a final draft.”

The mention of a deadline makes you bristle, setting him with a glare.

“So, until you put the last punctuation mark on the very last page, I will be here. Ready to assist you.”

A moment of tense silence. You glaring at him, him staring right back with a slight, smug smile.

You move to retreat into the doorway.

“Oh, and Miss Nin?” Jimin interrupts, sounding pleased with himself. “I get paid whether you like me or not.”

You slam the door.

#jimin x reader #jimin fanfic #enemies to lovers #park jimin #jimin angst #bts enemies to lovers #BTS jimin #bts fanfic #bts fanfction

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a-beautiful-fool · 4 months

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🤍 lou’s moodboard masterlist🤍

*📖 = based off a quote

*💌 = a fan favorite

Aesthetics

❀ love aesthetic 📖

❀ nostalgia aesthetic 📖

❀ platonic breakup aesthetic 📖

❀ art aesthetic 📖

❀ nature aesthetic 📖

❀ rain aesthetic 📖

❀ the moon & stars aesthetic 📖

❀ coffee aesthetic

❀ grieving aesthetic 📖

❀ book aesthetic 📖

❀ vintage aesthetic 📖

❀ floral aesthetic 📖

❀ tan aesthetic 📖

❀ brown aesthetic 📖

❀ green aesthetic 📖

❀ navy aesthetic 📖

Animals

❀ goose moodboard

❀ deer moodboard 📖 💌

Movies / Shows / Books

❀ winnie the pooh moodboard

❀ strawberry shortcake moodboard

❀ 10 things i hate about you moodboard 📖

❀ the princess bride moodboard

❀ rapunzel / tangled moodboard 💌

❀ tiana / princess and the frog moodboard

❀ the outsiders by s.e. hinton moodboard 📖

❀ the seven husbands of evelyn hugo moodboard 📖

Music

❀ guts by olivia rodrigo 💌

❀ think later by tate mcrae

❀ the tortured poets department by taylor swift 💌

❀ midnights by taylor swift

-sweet nothing by taylor swift 💌

❀ evermore by taylor swift

-ivy by taylor swift

-champagne problems by taylor swift

❀ folklore by taylor swift 💌

- august by taylor swift

❀ lover by taylor swift

❀ reputation by taylor swift

❀ 1989 by taylor swift

❀ red by taylor swift

❀ speak now by taylor swift

❀ fearless by taylor swift 💌

❀ debut by taylor swift

❀ you signed up for this by maisie peters

❀ history of man by maisie peters

❀ not another rockstar by maisie peters

-please let me know if any of the links are broken!

-feel free to request moodboards, just head to my ask box! it can be literally any idea you have <3

#lou’s moodboards

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greenplumbboblover · 3 months

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Tag game

Thanks @anamoon63 for the tag! :)

💓Favorite Three Ships

Ohh this one is tough. I guess I can do a Non-sims and sims one actually if that's okay.

Non-sims:

Travelers: Marcy and David

Crash Landing on You: Yoon Se-ri and Ri Jeong-hyeok

X files: Mulder and Scully

Sims:

I know, I'm jumping the bandwagon lol @kimmiessimmies Sadie and James

@nocturnalazure (okay I have 2 :p) Erik and Laurie & Ivy and Nathaniel

Bella and Mortimer (I know, boring lol)

🎧Last Song

🎬Last Movie

I think it was serenity (because if you rewatched Firefly, you gotta watch the movie ;))

📖 Currently Reading

Sims Stories for now! But otherwise I'm all audiobooks these days, last one was Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir

🌶️ Craving

Being on a diet doesn't make this easy lol but it's always salty.

👯‍♀️Relationship status

Happily in a relationship

🪷Last thing I googled

"Custom Tarot cards"

💫Current Obsession

Nothing much actually. Honestly it's a really long while since I felt obsessed about something. Especially lately with my "feeling like a mental husk" these days that I can't get rid of. I guess if we mean interests, it would be bread baking :)

I know this tag thingy is pretty old and everyone I wanted to tag has already done it. So, with that said, whoever wants to! :)

#text post #tag game #Spotify

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mycosylivingroom · 10 months

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Another part of Ivy her story is done. From the book 📖 Ivy and the Inky Butterfly from Johanna Basford

#mycosylivingroom #actually autistic #special interest #sophiatheautisticartist #coloring #colour #coloring book #adult coloring book #colours #colorful #coloriage #coloringbook

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neteyamsilly · 1 year

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: ̗̀➛ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈'𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

・❥・ 𝑰𝑹𝑴𝑨. she/her | 19 requests semi-open and selective primarily avatar (2009) & avatar: the way of water (2022)

MOST RECENT ⇉ i will soften every edge, 6

neteyam’s only daughter

☄. *. ⋆ ꒰ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐌 ꒱

irma mirmirs :: me talking/rambling irmaugh😩 :: me being nsfw on main, block this tag if you want to! irmarecs :: my sfw fic recs! irmarecs 👹 :: my VERY nsfw fic recs, feel free to block this tag if you're uncomfortable! irma mirma ask mask :: general tag for asks i receive irmasks: [blank] :: tag for users who send me asks off anon, you can search for your user with this! irmanons: [blank] :: tag for anons who frequent the blog to talk to me and have claimed a regular name for themselves. ( my anons ♡ !! :: ramble anon, nini, 🫀, 🎷🐝, lunchcryer ) irmanons: unknown :: regular anons irmemes: [series name] :: memes for my series

・❥・ i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best pairing(s) :: sully family x sully! reader dad!jake sully x daughter!reader genre :: angst, hurt/comfort blurb :: As Jake Sully's oldest daughter, you never see eye to eye with him, always challenging him and pushing his buttons to the limit. What happens when things go too far one day? (based on light by sleeping at last) fic tag :: 📖: light status :: ongoing | AO3 LINK main storyline :: one | two | three | four | five | six ࣪ᥫ᭡ wonderful oc portrait the kind @raaanciid has made for the oc they imagine for the series !! ࣪ᥫ᭡ memes and video the awesome @ang-taylorsversion has made !!

・❥・ my house of stone, your ivy grows pairing(s) :: neteyam (20) x anurai!reader genre :: enemies to lovers, angst, AU, based on bridgerton season 2 blurb :: Neteyam's convinced the girl blessed by atokirina upon her family's request for Uturu is specifically sent for him as a mate, worthy and fit for the position of the next Olo'eyktan's companion, she has to be. Or else, why would there be a sign like this? Too bad her older sister is hellbent on getting in his way and under his skin. fic tag :: 📖: ivy status :: work in progress | AO3 LINK main storyline :: introduction

Being Neteyam's Only Daughter, headcanons.

#irmasterlist

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httpsserene · 7 months

Note

i've been looking for weeks and months but can't find a single x male reader fic/au/etc... could u spare sum for the boys too😭🤲

ɪ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴡ/ ᴍᴠ33

📖ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: max is over at daniel’s where they're supposed to be doing whatever best buds do. but somehow, the topic of his father comes up, and it brings max to a…realization of sorts. it also causes the two of you to argue, and for several discoveries to be made in the early morning hours; some of the depressing-kind, and some of the heartwarming-and-life-changing-kind. 📖ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: angst and fluff (hurt/comfort). argument. jos verstappen's a+ parenting. no beta we die like alphatauri's engines. 📖ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 4k words 📖ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: max verstappen x male!reader (race not specified) 📖ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: oneshot 📖ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ: ivy • frank ocean

ᴘʀᴇꜰᴀᴄᴇ: i *usually* don’t write for male readers (as a cis woman idk i think it’s sus? idk, but maybe it’s not since i do support and love mxm ships, so maybe that’s hypocritical?)....but since it is my first request and max’s birthday (when i started writing this) i figured i could spare sum for da boys :)))) i scrolled through the tag and most of it was f1 x platonic!male!reader which is lowkey depressing, the boys deserve to simp wholeheartedly with us girlies ✊🏽 i hope “the boys” enjoy this and it makes the f1 x male!reader life a lil better! (you also didn’t specify who you wanted, so i went with max bc of his birthday) big shout out to the best kitties in the world, jimmy and sassy, for being great sports in this fic ☠️ they were wonderful setting devices! this is not an accurate description of max’s relationship with his father. we all don’t know what’s going on there, but it did become a wonderful plot point. so, it’ll probably be the only thing jos the boss is good for besides being max’s sperm-donor 🙂.

want to be added to my taglist? or my f1 kinktober taglist? send me a message !

prompts from @forestryprompts and @dumplingsjinson

it’s 3:23 AM, and you’re brutally jarred out of your sleep by your phone ringing. you’re disoriented–still in that sleepy “where the fuck am i” stage–and don’t quite catch the first phone call. a few seconds pass by without another call, and you’re convinced you hallucinated. usually, there’s only two reasons for you to be disturbed in the middle of the night. number one, when sassy “accidentally” presses all ten pounds of her body weight into your spleen with one paw; and number two; when max returns from partying, a late flight, or streaming. glancing around, you guess sassy is the bengal curled up on max’s side of the bed, gravitating to where his scent is the strongest as max is over at daniel’s; missing her favorite parent. and you guess that jimmy’s the heat source curled against your feet under the duvet, as that’s his favorite spot to sleep and his favorite place to prey on your toes. you lay straight back, head resting on your pillow and shrug, dismissing it as a problem for the morning.

then another call starts ringing through. now, you’re awake enough to start processing the important information. you always set your phone on dnd when going to bed, and there’s only a few numbers that are set to bypass it during sleep. this ringtone in particular, identifies the caller as max, which is peculiar. max doesn’t disturb your sleep unless absolutely necessary, he already feels guilty enough for doing so when traveling. with that thought, you reach for the phone with a reaction time you’d only relate to your boyfriend’s occupation.

you breathe out, “maxy, baby? are you okay? did something happen?”

a panicked and slightly desperate giggle slips out of the receiver, “heyyyy, it’s daniel, actually–”

“daniel?” you softly exclaim, sitting up in bed, worriedly continuing, “where’s max? did something happen? is he okay–”

“well,” daniel starts, “i wouldn’t say he’s ‘okay’, so to speak–”

“oh my god! what does that mean, daniel? i’m coming over right now give me like, fifteen minutes–” you say rushedly, already leaping out of the bed. jimmy yowls in shock of being disturbed, panically darting out of the duvet, and sassy shoots up–airplane ears activated and all.

daniel cuts you off, “NO! uh, no! i’m actually already on the way back to yours with him right now! he’s like- kinda drunk- tipsy i guess, one would say uh- but–”

“are you driving, daniel? if-if you’ve drank you should’ve let him sleep over, or called me to come get him if he’s being a menace!”

“no, uh-” daniel starts whispering, “we’re in an uber. ma- i mean- your boyfriend is kind of out of it, and not in a drunk way.”

“what the fuck,” you bite out, switching to hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder, as you pull on a pair of sweatpants (max’s) over your boxers, “does that mean, daniel?!”

“so, like,” daniel whispers even quieter, “hypothetically, we started talking about ma- sorry, his- wonderful childhood, and i guess me saying that seeing his father stabbing a mechanic with a fork isn't a normal thing to experience, kind of sent him into a spiral.”

“oh, fuck” you pause, while pulling one of max’s championship hoodies on.

“yeah, that’s pretty much what i’d say,” daniel sighs, “but, then um, he tried to like rationalize it to me? like, he’d bring up different crazy memories, and i’d be like ‘no, mate, that’s not normal either,’ and everytime he’d bring up a positive interaction with his dad, he realized it correlated to how well he performed, and he kind of um-shut down.”

“oh. fuck.” you repeat. sassy, in a rare show of solidarity, winds between your legs and mews gently at you as if she’s letting you know that she’s here. “um, well,” you say, running a stressed hand through your hair, “you should be on max’s list to come up to the apartment, but i’ll call down to give them a heads up. text me when you get here, please?”

“will do,” daniel perks up, “i’m sorry by the way. i should’ve left it alone, or distracted him away from the topic. but you know how he gets, probably better than me.”

now it’s your turn to let a depressing chuckle escape, “probably not, dan. i’ve known him for fourteen years and dated him for five of those, and he hasn’t done more than agree that his dad ‘isn’t perfect’” you wave your hand through the air, brushing the train of thought away, “anyways, i can get the spare room ready for you, so you don’t have to uber back?”

daniel nervously laughs, “forgive me for saying this, but i don’t really want to be present for whatever conversation is going to happen. or have to pretend like i’m unaware of anything. max would do his best to avoid me for as long as he can if he knew i was around, and i don’t want to risk that…after what happened when i left red bull.”

“yeah, you’re right. don’t forget to text me when you get here,” you state.

daniel’s text comes through when you’ve just gathered the ibuprofen and water bottles. you thumbs-up the message, and go to sit in the living room to wait for a knock on the door. you plop down on the couch and your leg bounces anxiously. jimmy gracefully hops up into your lap, and he must be an emotional support cat because he sits down on that leg, and leans into your torso butting his head into your chest asking for pets. you indulge him, a shaky laugh erupting, “thanks, jimmy,” and you lean down to press a few kisses to his cheeks. silence overcomes the room, and then three knocks break the still air in the apartment, and both you and jimmy jump off the couch and race to the entryway. you push jimmy behind you with a foot as you open the door, knowing damn well he’ll sneak into the hallway if given a chance.

max stumbles through the doorway first. his eyes are bloodshot with a cold and unseeing look glazed over them, red-rimmed and looking so distraught at tonight’s realization, that your heart aches for him. you wish you could take his pain away, or at least carry some of it for him. his hair is sticking out in different directions like he was anxiously tugging at it, but the most surprising observation is the tear tracks on his cheeks. max doesn’t cry, like at all.

well, that’s not exactly true. he’s one of the men that says crying is “strong” and not a sign of weakness when you cry and even encourages you to cry it out on his chest. but, when it’s himself, he refuses to cry until everything gets too much. he’ll come up to you and sit or stand pressed right up against you, grabs at and plays with your hand to let you know that he needs comfort, before he looks at you and softly asks with a cracking voice if he can have a hug. you always set aside what you’re doing as quickly as you can, because you’re not going to let an opportunity of caring for max in a rare vulnerable time pass, and pull him into your chest. even though he’s broader than you, he appears to shrink himself within your arms, and presses his face into your shoulder while he cries. his tears are always silent, but his body is loud; he shakes, and his hands grab at whatever you’re wearing in fists like he’s afraid that you’d slip out of his grasp.

anyways, you’ve never known him to really cry with other people. with a soft, “max…” you reach out to him, but he brushes right past your hand and goes straight for the bedroom. jimmy trots after him, and sassy falls into step from whatever pocket she was hiding in. you freeze, shocked at his behavior while also understanding, he’s had a life-changing realization that he’s never allowed himself to address. you feel guilty that you're jealous of the fact that he had it with daniel.

daniel clears his throat, still standing outside the doorway, “...you know he doesn’t mean to ignore you like that, right?”

you nod, “when did he start crying?”

“he held it together until we got into the uber, i think. he was turned towards the window the whole time and refused to look at me. i didn’t notice he cried until we got out.”

“are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? it’s late, dan. or at least let me get you the uber back” you offer again with a questioning look.

daniel refuses both options, “nah, don’t worry about it. i’ll make max take me to lunch one day to pay me back. i’d say good luck but that seems redundant. be gentle with him, alright?”

you sigh, “i’ll be gentle, dan. can’t say the same for him,” daniel’s face saddens more, “get home safe alright, dan? text me when you get there.”

“of, course,” daniel nods, “goodnight.”

you watch him walk into the elevator before closing the door. you turn the lock, and step forward until you can rest your forehead onto the cool wood. eventually, you push off the door and turn around to grab the water and ibuprofen from the settee and make your way to the bedroom. max is sitting at the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees and his head resting in his hands.

pausing, you place the water and meds on the nightstand first, then you sit next to him and lightly place your hand on his upper back, attempting to rub between his shoulder blades to provide comfort. max shrugs your hand off. you pause, blinking a few times trying to discover the best course of action. you decide to ignore the second blatant dismissal of the night, and pull his hand off his face and push him to sit up straight. you forcefully straddle his lap, ignoring his grumbles, and grab his face, thumbs resting on his cheeks and directing him to look straight at you.

“max, you’ve got to communicate with me here. i was terrified, when daniel called me! you refuse to talk about your dad with me, which is fine, okay? but you have to talk to somebody. whether it’s me, daniel, a therapist, christian, or even fucking helmut marko—you need to talk to someone. you’ve repressed this shit your whole life, and when whatever film you had over your eyes when looking at your father slipped away, you shut down completely? that can’t happen again! i don’t want it to happen again…daniel sounded completely fucking terrified—like he was afraid he broke you or something. and if you’re scaring me right now with how-h-how out of it you look, i can’t imagine what it was like for him,” you finish, taking a few deep breaths. max doesn’t say anything, just stares at you blankly.

you make a distressed groan, both hands releasing max’s face to rub at your eyes and drag down your cheeks. doing so, you continue talking, “max. you don’t even have to talk, baby, not to me at least. i don’t care if you journal, if you meditate, if you go goddamn axe throwing; but, you need to see a professional. cause, how your brain is coping, and how you’re rationalizing it isn’t good. you aren’t the problem, nothing you could’ve done differently would have made your dad change; you are not the problem, max, he is. okay? i’ve known you for fourteen years, and not once have i pressured the topic after you said that ‘you’re fine,’ but, you have to at least promise me that you’ll start doing something.”

max parts his lips, thinking about what to say, as you fully sit on his lap. you look at him with wide eyes filled with worry—with care— and you’re anxiously playing with the hairs on the nape of your neck.

“i don’t want to talk about it.”

“that’s not an option,” you state, with a furrowed brow, “can you at least tell me what caused the breakdown?”

and, that’s what gets get’s max going. his cheeks flush, and his eyes darken, and he starts talking with a firmer voice.

“it wasn’t a breakdown, first of all. i was just overwhelmed and overreacting. it’s nothing serious, like you’re pretending it is. i don’t need this—this false worry, showing up all of sudden when you know how the relationship between my father and i has been for all of the time we’ve known each other.”

you pull away, retreating off his lap and stand in front of him with your arms crossed over your chest.

“false worry?? that’s what you think this is,” you start with an exasperated tone, “max, ‘for all the time we’ve known each other’ all you’ve done is deflect from my questions about you two, or tell me that everything is fine when it’s clearly not! and i gave you the space you wanted, because i was afraid that you’d stop talking to me, that you’d stop trusting me. but now, as your boyfriend, i can’t let it go unaddressed anymore!”

“you already did for fourteen years! it shouldn’t be that difficult for you to keep ignoring it.”

“because you asked me to, max! you didn’t want to talk about it then, and you need to talk about it now! i don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to share it with me, but it needs to be with somebody!”

“i already told you I didn’t want to talk about it, yet you keep insisting!”

“that’s because i fucking care about you!”

“well, did i ask for you to care about me?”

you’re stunned silent. the room is filled with heavy breaths from the two of you. this might be the most serious argument you’ve had, in awhile, or ever.

it’s the third blatant dismissal of the night, and you’re calling it quits, daniel did tell you to be gentle, and if you keep going like this you’re word choice will become less gentle.

“you’re right,” you exhale, relaxing your clenched jaw, “you didn’t ask for me to care. and you shouldn’t have to ask for anybody to care. and, for some ‘unbelievable’ reason, i do happen to actually care,” you finish, your words dripping with exhaustion and defeat.

you walk around to the side of the bed, grabbing a pillow off the top and point at the nightstand, “the ibuprofen and water are for you. at least, finish one bottle before you go to bed, please.” you start walking towards the closet.

“wait,” max calls out, finally standing up with a confused look in his eyes, “why’d you grab a pillow?”

you grab a blanket out of the closet, and sigh, “i’m sleeping on the couch.”

“what? no-no you’re not,” max stutters out, disbelieving.

“uh, yes i am.”

“what, no! no, schatje, i’m sorry, please come to bed,” max utters out, looking absolutely heartbroken.

“i’m going to sleep on the couch, max,” you repeat, “if i go to bed, i won’t be able to not talk about it, and we’re clearly going to talk in circles about it. both of us are tired, frustrated, and mad, and we’re going to end up even angrier, so i’m going to sleep on the couch.”

max, crossing the room quickly, grabs at your waist with his large hands, and pleads, “if you’ve made up your mind about it, you can at least take the bed, i’ll sleep on the couch, schat.”

you, grab his hands off your waist, having to fight him a little bit for it (you may be a man, but your man is a professional athlete, you’ll be outmatched any day) and press them into his chest, “you’re still pretty drunk, max. i’ll let you take the bed so you can be comfortable, you seem like you’re going to have a pretty bad hangover, i can smell the alcohol on you still.”

max looks upset, but eventually concedes. you press your lips to his cheek, “i’ll see you in the morning, babe. then, with clearer minds we can talk, ‘kay?”

sassy baps jimmy on the face before nuzzling in between max’s legs, while jimmy makes to follow you out as you shut the door gently.

situating yourself on the couch, you squeeze your eyes shut. usually you’d be hugging max’s arm to your chest but tonight, jimmy is benevolent enough to leave his usual spot at your feet to fill in for max. even with the comfort the bengal’s purring body provides, you know you’re only in for a fitful night of sleep.

you wake up a few hours later, your body not able to keep you under for long you guess, as the early morning sun has barely started lightening the room. you take a minute to get your bearings, not used to waking up on the couch (in the past when you have accidentally fallen asleep on the couch, you magically wake up in bed laying on top of your boyfriend, how weird), and jimmy is no longer laying with you. he’s with max, who’s sitting on his floor below you, with his back facing you.

you rub at your eyes and whisper, “max?” he startles, and turns around to face you. his eyes have fresh bags underneath, his hair is still slightly damp from a shower, and you can tell he hasn’t gotten any sleep. even though you got a couple hours of shut-eye, the matching bags under your eyes prove that your sleep was restless.

“hey,” he whispers back sheepishly, “i know you told me to go to bed, but i couldn’t fall asleep. i only came out here a few minutes ago though, and i was just going to wait until you woke up in the morning.”

you sit up straight, and pull max onto the couch with you, “max, what? you could’ve at least layed down on the other couch, and not sit on the–”

max cuts you off.

“i just…couldn’t go to bed alone tonight, okay? i still feel raw–i think is the word for it. i’m exhausted and cried out, and the only person who can make me feel better is you right now. so i was just going to sit here, and be next to you, without disturbing you like you wanted, because being in your general vicinity already makes me feel better, even if you're mad at me.”

your mouth is left gaping, and you feel guilty now, your chest aches. leaving max at a time where he was vulnerable, even if you were right down the hallway–

“and, don’t feel bad about your decision to sleep out here. you decided that space was the best course of action for you, and you are probably right, because i was ready to argue with you,” max continues rambling, “honestly, you sleeping out here made me realize that i never want you to be angry with me like that, ever again. at first, i was scared that if i opened up about my relationship with my dad you would think i’m weak, or that you'd judge me for it, or that you’d leave me. but when i was in the shower earlier, i got really…scared.”

he pauses, taking a few deep breaths and you don’t make to interrupt him.

“i got scared because i thought you left me right now. that you lied to me about sleeping on the couch, and you were actually planning to leave. and, obviously you did not, you are still here right now but, it made me realize that i do need to talk to you. and that the reason i thought you were leaving was because of how i thought i scared you away with my issues. but i realize now, that the way i’ll scare you away is by not talking about my issues,” he turns to look at you with an earnest expression.

“so, if you are okay with it, i will talk to you. about everything, even though it may take me some time to work up the courage. i am uncomfortable with talking to a…professional, but i will, if you truly think it will help me. but i do not want to risk the chance that my refusal to communicate costs me a lifetime with you,” he ends.”

you stare at him blankly, and max begins to fidget at your silence. you lean forward and pull him into a hug, tears gathering in your eyes. he nestles his head in the crook of your neck, and presses gentle kisses into your skin.

“max, all i want is for you to talk to me about it. i want to share the burden you feel, and understand you better than the back of my hand. most of all, i hope having somebody who understands you to that depth makes you feel lighter, and validates your emotions.”

max says something, but it’s muffled by your body.

“what was that, baby?”

max pulls away to look at you with bashful eyes and pinkened cheeks, “you know i can’t imagine my life without you.”

“likewise,” you respond, just as meek.

“no, really. i've fallen in love with you,” he continues.

“max, you told me you loved me years ago,” you say laughingly.

“no, like, i’ve fallen in love with you again. everytime i think i can’t fall any deeper, you manage to prove me wrong,” he says intensely.

you pout at him, hands coming up to feel at your heated cheeks, “oh, max! stop, you’re going to make me cry. that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. i fall in love with you again, everytime you finish a race, and come home to me. that you chose me as the man you want to see after a tiring race weekend, regardless of the outcome.

max smiles all teeth, “there’s no other person i want to share my highs and lows with. well, hopefully more highs than lows. i have the ring for you already, but i at least need to win eight championships before i retire so you’re able to marry a record-breaking champion. i am proposing to you this year though, i cannot wait any longer.”

you stare at him unseeing for a minute, and he looks awfully confused for a man who just announced his plans to give you his last name.

“max,” you start shakingly, “what do you mean you already have the ring?”

max’s carefree expression drops, and becomes pale, “what are you talking about? i never said anything about a ring–”

“you literally just did?! the part before you said you were proposing to me this year, and before becoming an eight-time world–”

max claps, cutting you off while standing up. he offers you his hand, “alright! we should go to bed now, right? together, yes that’s a great idea.”

taglist: @saintslewis @cherry2stems

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