summary: benedict’s been courting you, then one morning call reveals far more about your life than you were hoping ben to know || warnings: mentions of parental abuse, mentions of injuries caused by canes, injury, angst, hurt/comfort, protective benedict, yearning, threatening (not reader) || word count: 1070 || masterlist
Yours and Benedict’s courtship had been perfect, everything you had dreamed of and hoped for your life. You were counting down the days until you could marry him and call his yours forever. There was just one little problem though.
Your father.
Your father who believed that you weren't good enough for anyone and couldn't see any possible reason why he should allow a union between you and one of the most influential families in the Ton. Surely it would come back to haunt him and you would disappoint his once again, make yet another mistake and bring disgrace upon his family name.
Then again, part of him would be glad to finally be rid of you. None of his other children had never caused the amount of problems that you had for him.
In truth, you were never too sure what you were doing wrong, it wasn't obvious to anyone other than your father. Your mother did her best to show you love outside your father's watchful eye and your siblings always let you hide behind them so he wouldn't see you.
"Good morning Miss Y/L/N, Lady Y/L/N."
Benedict appears in the doorframe, two bunches of flowers in his hands, one for you and one for your mother. You smile shyly as he makes his way over to the chaise and a servant gratefully takes the bouquet meant for your mother.
To an unwatchful eye, you almost hide the shaking in your hands as you take your own bouquet from him, taking in the scent of the flowers. "They’re beautiful Benedict, thank you."
"They remind me of you, perfection."
You laugh off his compliment, placing your flowers into a vase and arranging them gently. Your mother hasn’t moved from her seat in the corner, "Yes, thank you Mr Bridgerton." Her voice is drawn, still tired from her illness that claims her strength.
You sit beside him and for a moment, you both sit in silence. Then something breaks and you can't stop talking to him, about anything, about everything.
"There's something I need to ask you before I leave today, something rather important. But I don't want you to feel any pressure to answer a certain way, alright?"
A voice clears from the corner of the room as your mother slowly rises to her feet. Your instinct yells to rush over and help her but she seems relatively stable as she stands. She calls your name softly and you don’t hesitate to leave Ben sitting alone on the chaise.
"I might retire, I believe this day is already taking the strength from me." She takes your arm softly, meeting your gaze with tired eyes. You can see her exhaustion as she tries to hide it, never wanting to give you more worry to carry. "Can you and Mr Bridgerton be trusted alone or shall I send someone to chaperone?"
She knows full well your attraction to the man and vice versa, his devotion to you.
"We'll be just fine Mama, you rest. I can come and see you later, tell you all about it?"
Your mother almost grins. "I would love that. Behave yourself now, keep it quiet, your father’s in his office down the hall. He’s working."
It’s a silent warning, but one you head heavily.
You turn back to Benedict, picking up the conversation where you left it. "Of course Benedict. You can ask me anything."
He reaches around and pulls a small and delicate ring box from within his inner jacket, holding it out to you trepedatiously. "I need to ask your father officially of course but I thought it far more important that I ask you." Benedict rushed out his words. "Will you marry me?"
You pause, eyes fixed on the box as he flips open the lid. There's a beautiful ornate ring sat on the cushion, small and delicate but stunning and shining in the light.
"Ben, of course I'll marry you."
He reaches for your hands, still covered in their gloves and kisses your knuckles gently. He picks uo the ring, intent on slipping it onto your finger even just for the hour he remains here until he can get your father's blessing.
Without even thinking, you almost tear your gloves off your hands, wanting to feel the metal on your skin, to feel Benedict's love on your body.
But Benedict suddenly can’t take his eyes off your hands, no longer covered in your gloves and fully baring the marks of your father’s anger and disappointment. There are angry and pulsing red welts across your palms and the backs of your hands, fingers trembling with the effort of trying to hold them out.
He can see the twitches of pain across your face that you meticulously hide. It’s practised, perfected, rehearsed.
"Who did this to you?"
"Benedict-"
"Just tell me." He cuts across. "Who did this to you?"
"Mr Bridgerton!"
Then he looks. He looks and he sees. You’ve pulled back, hands cradled together and trying to slip the one glove you’re holding back onto your hand.
He stops and crouches in front of you slightly, taking your shaking hands in his. He holds them so tenderly it brings tears to your eyes. His lips brush against the worst of the welts, the ones that stand angry and red, kissing them so softly as though his love could make the pain vanish and the marks fade.
It almost does.
"Who did this to you?"
"My father-" You shudder in your breath, steadying yourself. "I'm sorry Ben. I- If you don't want to marry me, I understand."
"I'm getting you away from this place, away from him." Benedict says it so resolutely that you almost believe it, then you let yourself hope it's true. "You will be my wife as long as I live."
"Ben-"
"If your father ever tries to hurt you again, I swear to you I will hurt him a hundred times worse than he has hurt you."
"Benedict-"
"I'll call on him after this, request his blessing and then we shall be married as soon as we can, yes?"
"Benedict Bridgerton!" You say it loud enough to stop his rambling and his promises and his declerations.
"What?"
You grin in his direction, drying your tears. "I love you."
"I love you too my darling wife."
"Not yet." You chuckle in response.
Benedict smirks, holding you close once more. "Soon enough."
summary: childhood friends, always only a call away. even after a busy race weekend, Max will be there for you at the drop of a hat || warnings: fluff, found family, mentions of toxic workplace relationships (overbearing managers, toxic customers etc.), swearing || word count: 1.3k || masterlist
Max was exhausted, and still somehow sweaty after two different showers and 12 hours of being out of his car. The sticky and oppressive heat had it's way of clinging tighter and tighter the longer you stayed trackside.
Safe to say, he was glad to be getting away and back on his jet to Monaco. Most importantly, he was glad to be getting back to you, to normalcy of crashing on the other's sofa without warning and taking advantage of each other's pantry and alcohol collection.
It was as he landed that his phone pinged with a small notification. A missed call. Nothing major, no voicemail left either. But it was a missed call from you, with no text follow up and nothing else.
Which meant that something was wrong. And you couldn't say it over a voicemail without someone to reply and there wasn't the right words and tone to put it correctly through text.
Max felt his heart drop, even more eager to get back into Monaco and to his apartment. Because guaranteed you would have crashed at his place rather than going back to your own. For one, Max always kept your favourite ice cream stocked in his own freezer and a couple if comfy hoodies set aside in his drawer. For two, he would be coming home there very soon. And he was exactly the cure you needed right now.
As the keys click into the lock, you turn your head to face the door, predictably curled up on the sofa with a pint of ice cream in your hand (spare spoon waiting on the coffee table) and Sassy and Jimmy curled next to you. The cats lift their heads when Max shuffles through the apartment but don't move to greet him, preferring the softness and warmth by your side.
Max preferred that to. Not that he would ever admit it.
He pauses at the first sight of you, just drinking it in. You've taken your makeup off, maybe in an attempt to hide any tear stains from him but he can spot the slight redness in your eyes and the way you're curled just a little tighter today than normal. He knows you that well.
"Hey Maxie."
It's the first words you've spoken in a while, just needing the silence to decompress from everything.
"Hey Y/N/N."
The familiar nickname almost causes the tears to start falling all over again.
"How was your day?" Max slides onto the sofa next to you, lifting Jimmy out of the way. He's already got his spare spoon in hand, ready to reach over and steal just a bite.
The sigh that slips from your lips is heavier than it should be. "You know. Not great." You try and reply all nonchalant, knowing it's all going out of the window soon enough. But you can pretend.
"What happened?" He shuffled even closer, legs pressing against yours, an arm tucked lazily over the back of the sofa, over your shoulders.
"Asshole manager." You say it like it explains, but continue anyway, "Tried to blame all the short-staffing problems recently on me even though he makes all the schedules. One of our clients had a problem with their product but the freelance software engineer we had on retainer was let go by management and so we couldn't fix it for them right away. Anyway, it turned into a whole thing and ended up with me getting yelled at by my manager and the customer because I can't do everything in the world and find the problem right away."
The tears started falling again as you recount your day. You don't know why it had all made you so upset but there was something about doing your best and putting in so many hours at that job, only to be underappreciated and belittled at the first sign of trouble that ribbed you the wrong way. What was worse is that it had been like this before. This wasn't the first time you'd come to Max's after work with dries tear tracks and a story of your shitty manager not knowing how to do his own job and blaming you instead.
"Schatz." Max pulled you closer, arms now tucked around you, ice cream forgotten on the table. "You need to leave that job. It's not good for you."
"I can't." Your voice breaks and you clear your throat in an attempt to sound normal again. "The job market is a nightmare and I can't afford to quit and pay for my apartment in Monaco without a job. This city is expensive Max."
There was already a plan brewing in Max's mind. There had been since the first time you'd cried because of a stupid job.
"You don't need it." He insisted. "You've been the best friend I could ask for, moving to Monaco with me and putting up with me. Besides, you catsit and housesit for me every race weekend for years without any pay or anything. I probably owe you millions. You could retire now and never be short of money."
"Max-"
"I'm serious." He shrugged like it was nothing. Like the offer to support you meant nothing to him.
To him, it was the most logical thing in the world. He loved you through everything except direct words. This was just another thing he wanted to do for you and wouldn't take no for an answer.
You couldn't accept. It was too much. Max made money, yes, but it wasn't fair to ask him to give so much for a friend. You cared for Max so deeply, always had since you were children, but there was not enough care in the world that made this fair. Only love made that.
"Max. You shouldn't."
He wasn't giving up. The ball was rolling and the words kept coming and now they were a torrent that even he couldn't control. "You mean so much to me, I don't ever want to see you sad. If I can do this for you, and I can, why shouldn't I? Don't tell me it's too much and definitely don't tell me you don't deserve it." His voice got lower, face an couple inches from yours, eyes locked. "You deserve it all."
"Why?"
He broke his gaze away, scratching one of the cats behind their ears. "Don't make me say it." He whispered.
You found your courage, your sense that had kept you quiet for so long now pushed aside. "Say what? You care for me. You've looked after me for so long. I- I care about you too, always have. Since you had that dorky haircut that would stick straight up from your karting helmet, you've always had a soft spot in my heart. Now my heart is only yours."
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss into your forehead and wrapping his arms back around you. You felt a shuddered breath against your back as Max processed your words and thought through his own response.
"I love you."
It's murmured into your hair at first, then said louder as he pulls back, then whispered against your lips again in Dutch, an homage to where you both began so long ago.
You can't help but smile, your previous anguish all but forgotten in his arms.
"Thank you for coming today. I tried to call earlier but you were already flying."
"Send up sparks for me and I'll do whatever it takes to get here, alright?" He promised. "I saw your call, knew something was up. I was here as quick as I could be."
summary: Pete sees his daughter for the first time in close to a decade at Top Gun only she’s not here for him || warnings: reunions, parental neglect, cutting parents off, slight angst, || word count: 1242 || masterlist
You were anxiously waiting at the gates to see Bradley the moment the carrier docks. As soon as you had the call that he was alive and alright, the stress coursing through your body finally had the chance to fade as your breathing eased. Your husband was alive and alright. He had survived the suicide mission the Navy had sent him into.
Bradley wouldn’t tell you more than that and you’d been so caught up in work that you hadn’t had the chance to fly over to San Diego to join him until two days before his mission flew. You had met none of his teammates and you highly doubted any of them knew about you, considering how Bradley liked to keep you private.
But as the carrier drew closer and you saw the landed planes on the deck, the San Diego sun sent a warmth through you instead of a jab through your skull. The other families waiting all cheered as they spotted servicemen waving from the side of the ship and you let yourself wave back, unable to spot Bradley but knowing he was there. Knowing was enough.
You watched as the naval officers all walked past you and families were reunited with their loved ones. Then the aviators came out, dressed in their uniforms and obviously cleaned up from the mission. Bradley was at the start, sunglasses glistening in the sun and his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for you.
As soon as he spotted you, he broke from his group and started running, a huge smile breaking onto his face. You step out of the crowd as he reaches you, sweeping you into his arms and holding you to his chest, breathing in your scent.
“Roo!”
“Baby!” He shouted back at you and refused to let you go, squeezing you again.
You finally pull away, fussing as you run your hands through his hair, visually checking him for any injuries he didn’t tell you about. “You’re okay?”
“We’re all okay. Everyone got out.” He hesitated, like he was something he was afraid to say. “Look, there’s something I didn’t tell you.”
“What? What is it?”
“I- I may have had a little detour running after Mav but-“
“A detour going after Mav? Maverick? Bradley.” You hardly used his full name but the situation demanded it. “That Maverick? Maverick Maverick?”
Bradley was suddenly very interested in his shoes as he nervously glanced around, trying to spot the man you were asking about. “Yeah…” He finally spotted Mav staring back at him, mouth wide open as he recognised the woman he was stood with.
In Mav’s mind, thoughts were travelling a mile a minute as he watched Bradley run towards his daughter and greet you with a kiss. It was only then that he spotted the ring on your finger and remembered the chain Bradley wore always tucked beneath his shirt.
You see where Bradley’s looking and see your father’s eyes staring into yours, the same eyes you haven’t seen in person since you graduated college. “Dad…”
He made his way over, eyes wide as he was still processing your presence. “Y/N? You’re with Rooster?”
“Are you okay? Roo said he had to run after you-“ You stop yourself, realising you don’t actually know what happened. “What actually happened?”
“Uh…” Mav rubbed a hand on his neck nervously. “My plane went down and Rooster came after me. He really saved my ass.”
“Right after he saved mine. It’s what my dad would’ve done.”
Silence hangs between you all as you try to process what’s actually happening. You’re married to Rooster. Rooster has been flying with your father. Your father is standing in front of you for the first time since college. Your father is finding out you and Rooster are married.
“You-“ Mav sounds choked up as he speaks. “You’re married.” He’s speaking to you, begging to reach out but afraid you’ll push him away.
He wouldn’t blame you for pushing him away, he deserved it. Throughout you’re whole childhood, you had reluctantly been pushed second to flying and Mav could never forgive himself for that. There was no way to replace the time of had missed and it took you until college to realise what love and affection you’d been missing out on.
You and Bradley had grown up side by side, your Dad having to leave you with Carol more than he’d like. From a young age, you barely spent a day without seeing that boy and he was the only face you wanted to see in the morning.
Through your teenage years, you’d grown past the awkwardness and finally confessed the lifelong love you felt for him and your relationship was bliss. Then, your father ruined the one good thing you had. He pulled Bradley’s papers for the Naval Academy and overnight, everything crumbled. In an instant, your only constant in life was missing and your father could offer no reason behind his actions.
There was a rage bubbling in your chest every time you looked at the man that was supposed to raise you. Instead, he had been too busy with his work, chasing a ghost of a man who’s family still cared about him. He parcelled you off to the Bradshaw’s and then ripped that family from you when you were in the final formative years of your life. You loved your father, yes, he was a good man. But he was the worst father you had ever met because he wasn’t really one in the first place.
After cutting you off, unintentionally, from Bradley, you moved away from college and slowly cut contact with your father and made your own way in the world. But your mind would constantly remind you of the world you used to have.
Then you run into Bradley in a packed bar and started talking. You had begged for his forgiveness, cried about your father in a drunken state and confessed that you never wanted to lose him again. Brad had held you close to him, whispering into your hair the whole night as you realised what you now had in the world.
There was no need for you to cling on to the spectre of your father that you had because you had Bradley and the chance to make more friends and make your own family for the future. You cut your father off, showing him the same care and attention he had showed you and although the guilt wrecked you, you had to pick yourself up and move on, for your own sake. If you had stayed clinging on to childish hopes, you would never be able to grow up.
“Yeah… I got married. It was nice, small. We had a courthouse wedding a week after Roo graduated Top Gun.” You tell him, hoping he won’t take it too personally.
Bradley loops his arm around you, not taking his eyes from you. “I should’ve told you Mav. But then Y/N couldn’t make it out until right before we left and I thought we should’ve told you together. But then I didn’t;t end up telling either of you.”
“It’s alright. I get it, completely.” Mav quickly replied. “I’m glad you’re happy kid.”
Neither of you could figure out who the last sentence was aimed at. But that’s because it was meant for both of you. Only now Bradley was as much his son as you were his daughter.
summary: Feyd’s wife was always branded as a dreamer, content to spend a day in her books. but her husband would always entertain her dreams, especially when they save her life /or/ basically the request || warnings: violence, haters gonna hate, death, blood || word count: 1658 || masterlist
REQUEST: I’ve always wondered how Feyd Rautha would handle having a wife like Helaena who speaks in riddles and flinches at loud noises and violence. Maybe an Atreides daughter they’re supposed to create the Kwisatz Haderach with? In a Universe where Jessica stayed loyal to the bene Gesserit. I’d love to know how someone like Feyd would react to her telling him he’s scared the way Helaena does to Aegon in hotd. Maybe he’d have very little patience for her but I could also see him bonding with someone like that. Also I think that someone with Helaena’s ability to retreat inside her own mind would be able to survive on Giedi Prime.
Your fate had been set in stone since your very conception, meant to mend the relationship between two houses that had been at war for centuries and bring forward the greatest mind the universe had ever seen. Jessica had trained you in the Bene Gesserit way since you were young, always believing that your bloodline would be famed for generations after.
But you didn’t want to be famed or revered or feared. You wanted nothing more than to be loved, completely loved. When you learned of your betrothed, there was a sadness that overtook you, an accepting that your husband may never truly love you. He was famed for his cruelty, his majesty in the arena and his fighting prowess. He was not known for his ventless and his love, no Harkonnen ever had been.
The first time you met eyes with your future husband, there was a silent understanding that passed between you two. He was a young boy, barely older than you and yet he looked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Perhaps there could be a connection between you two, despite your afflictions.
Your father called it dreaming, ignoring whatever technical explanation your mother held. There were things you saw that no sane man could explain and yet they were always true. They came to you in the silent moments of the day, when you read or sketched. You had loved it growing up, seeing glimpses of things yet to come but as you grew, they only ever turned darker.
The diplomatic visit to Geidi Prime was short and yet long enough for you to spend a few hours alone with Feyd. There was an itching under your skin from being on the planet, a discomfort that lingered as you pushed down any dreams that threatened to reveal themselves.
You sat across from Feyd, your hands twisting in your lap.
“What do you like to do?” His voice was soft, always soft when he was with you but the sterness returned the moment someone else entered the room.
You wondered if someone had shared your condition with him. “I read. I draw.” Around him, you didn't feel the necessity to boast of your suitable talents your parents had raised you on. The itching had ceased, even if it was just for a moment. “You?”
“I fight- I'm good at fighting.” He corrected himself. For a moment it seemed like he was done talking, but then he met your gaze and continued. “I don't have much to time to do things I like.”
“Perhaps when we are wed, you will have time to explore things you enjoy.” You meant nothing by it, only that you hoped your husband could find a hobby not controlled or pushed onto him by his Uncle.
Feyd smiled in response and you got the distinct feeling that everything would be alright if you married him. But you could not marry him without guilt unless you told him yourself what you were.
“I dream.” You say, unsure of how to tell him.
Feyd was slightly amused, “You dream? I’m sure many do.”
“No.” You quickly reply. “I see things, visions almost. They are never truly clear, only glimpses of the future.”
“Ah.”
“I didn’t want you to marry me if you didn’t know. I only hope you understand and do not judge me for something beyond my control.”
Feyd’s expression softened as he took stock of the panicked breaking out of your being. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”
The hopefulness in your eyes glistened as you stood, offering Feyd a small bow before leaving the room and returning to your mother and father.
When your day of union arrived, it was a rather happy occasion. Your family smiled as you stayed by Feyd’s side, your hand twisted with his. There was a soft and genuine look of almost-love everytime he looked at you. All that look needed was time to evolve into true love that would pull him under without hesitation. Feyd would let himself be taken by everything you are and he would even beg for it. Your mother and father could see the affection you already shared and knew nothing would come between you.
The Baron, on the other hand, had indifference covering his face all day. This was not a joyous occasion, but a simple ceremony that had to be done in order to end the conflict he wanted to continue. However, this union would bring him more power than war would, and he would just have to accept that.
Feyd reached for two glasses and passed one to you, raising his in a toast. “To the rest of our lives?”
“To the rest of our lives.” You agreed, clinking your glass with his and taking a drink.
Once you had placed your glass back down, Feyd leant forward to capture your lips, letting his heart float like only you could make him. Your marriage was nothing more than picturesque. There was finally peace felt throughout the universe and yet there were some who were still not happy.
The Emperor, despite suggesting the match to weaken the houses and cause friction, watched as they came together in love and only grew stronger. The Atreides were a threat to his reign long before, but with the Harkonnens now as allies, there was nothing that could stop them if they desired his throne.
The final straw came when news of an heir flowed throughout the Imperium. The Atreides and Harkonnens would soon have an heir that would bind them with blood, for eternity.
Your husband had been even more protective of you since the beginning of your pregnancy, barely wanting to leave you alone. The dreams had shown you your daughter, a beautiful girl that was the mix of both you and Feyd. But there was one persistent dream that shook you to your core.
“Feyd?”
“Yes my love?” The nickname had never stopped, ever since the wedding.
“I'm afriad.”
Feyd's face flashed with confusion for a moment as his eyes darted around the room. “What are you afraid of my love? Our families are united, no one would dare stand against Harkonnens and Atreides united. The babe is well, she is growing stronger by the day.”
“There are snakes crawling through the city.” Your voice is a whisper, trembling with every word. You weren’t really aware of what your words meant, only repeating what your mind brought forward.
Feyd smiled at his wife’s words. “There are no snakes on Geidi Prime, my love. They cannot survive here.” He takes a seat next to you, pulling you closer to him as if to protect you.
“They will worm their way to our palace.”
“Then I will double our guard and order lockdown at the slightest threat.” He said it with such conviction that you were almost convinced.
“But-“
“What have I said?” Feyd asked you. “I would never let anything hurt you or our children. There is nothing that can get into our palace unless I will it.”
You let the dream sit in the back of your mind, pushing it away from thought but not forgetting. And it did you well not to forget when you couldn’t sleep one night and a echoing crash startled you. No one else awoke and you took the risk to glance outside your room, where your guards stood to attention.
“Is everything alright Na-Baroness?”
You forced a smile. “All is fine. Just… stay alert.” With nothing else to say, you turn and return to your bed.
Feyd was not disturbed but you found yourself reaching under his pillow to touch the knife he always kept there. It was a reassuring reminder that if your dream came true tonight, there was something Feyd could do. You lay, the blank ceiling taunting you and your ears hearing every footstep and breath people made.
It was only as you had begun drifting back to sleep that a muffled shout came from the hallway and your heart stuttered. You reached over, shaking Feyd awake as he quickly looked around before settling his eyes on your own frantic ones.
“What’s going on?”
Your breath trembled once more. “The snakes are here.”
At your words, Feyd reached for the knife and practically jumped out of bed, directing you to the corner of the room furthest from the door, furthest from harm. The thump of a body was heard and Feyd tightened his grip, activating his shield.
Two men, Imperial soldiers burst through the door and you caught sight of the bodies of two others as well as your guards. Terror gripped you, a hatred of blood instilled in you since you were a young girl. Your hand flew to your mouth as you shrunk into the corner even more, wishing the floor would swallow you up.
Feyd leapt forward, his body practised in fighting people at a moments notice. His knife carved flesh, splattering blood over the room. A small scream escaped your lips as the bodies crashed to the floor and your husband stood in the centre of your room, blood dripping from the knife still in his hand.
He turned to face you, throwing the knife across the room and rushing towards you. You practically threw yourself into his arms and he squeezed you close to his chest and rested his head on yours.
“You’re okay.” He said, letting you feel his steady heartbeat against your rapid one. “The snakes are gone.”
“The snakes-?”
“They’re gone. We’re okay.” He pulled away just enough to take your hand and pull it down to your stomach. “She’s okay, you’re okay. We are all okay. No one can hurt you.”
You let your panic settle and relax into his arms. Everyone’s alive. You can manage whatever comes next, you can let the snakes try but they will never be able to bite you.
summary: hiding an injury from your teammate and then proving yourself beyond his overprotective-ness || warnings: bruises, past injury || word count: 1790 || masterlist
Max was pounding at the bathroom door, his blood rushing hot and fast through his body like he’d just stepped out of the cockpit mid-race. His palm slammed flat against the wood again. “Y/N,” he said, voice tight, bordering on frantic. “Open the door.”
The sound of the shower was still running, steam curling out from the cracks in the doorframe, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise he’d heard, the unmistakable sound of you stifling a scream. “I’m fine!” you called out, your voice thin and shaking as you tried to steady it. “It's just… a spider.” You try to make it sound casual but it comes out confused and as an almost question.
“A spider?” he repeated, disbelieving. “You’re not scared of spiders.”
You paused, eyes trained on your reflection in the fogged-up mirror. “It just surprised me,” you added quickly, the lie tasting stale on your tongue.
But Max wasn’t letting it go. You could hear him draw in a slow breath through his nose, trying to rein in the panic in his chest. “Please just… unlock the door,” he said, softer now. “Let me see you. Are you hurt?” Your words did nothing to calm Max's racing heart, only serving to make him more concerned. His body slumps forward, trying to be closer to you as his forehead rests on the door. "Can you unlock the door? Let me check you're alright?"
You stared at the lock, heart thudding. You didn’t want to lie to him. Not really. But you also didn’t want the storm you knew was waiting on the other side of that door. “You can't come in,” you tried again, voice light, teasing, desperate. “I'm changing.”
“It's nothing I haven't seen before. I’ve seen you change,” he shot back. “You've got to lie better. What's happening?”
There was a moment of silence before you gave in with a small sigh, walking over and unlocking the door with a soft click. Max watches the shadow retract and as soon as the lock is turned, he was already pushing it open.
You stood there, in your underwear, staring into the mirror, eyes flicking to his reflection as he entered. His gaze dropped to your skin instantly, like it always did, but instead of wandering hands and a smile, all that crossed his face was alarm. Your back still had the scars of childhood races etched onto it but it was now a mess of blooming bruises, angry purples and fading yellows. But Max could instantly tell which ones were new.
You hadn’t even made it into your shower and you were frozen in place like a deer caught in the beam of his attention. Max didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.
Then, quietly; “Where did you get those, schat?”
You closed your eyes for a second and reached for your shirt, fumbling with it as you gave up on pretending you were fine. The ache in your muscles was too much tonight, and your stupid scream had ruined the last of your cover. “They’re from the crash last week,” you said softly. “It’s nothing serious. We checked everything- the medical team checked, everything’s okay. I just knocked them weirdly when I was changing.”
Max’s brows furrowed hard. “We checked?” he echoed. “Who’s we? Does Christian know?”
You hesitated. That was enough of an answer.
“Are you kidding me?” he barked. “Everyone knew except me?”
“I didn’t want to hide it from you-”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you would do exactly this,” you said, voice sharp but tired. “You’d panic. You’d hover. You’d worry and forget how to focus. And I couldn’t do that to you.”
Max exhaled harshly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You should’ve told me.”
You looked up at him. “I didn’t want you to stop seeing me as your teammate first. I didn’t want to become a problem to manage.”
His expression twisted at that, something between frustration and heartbreak. He stepped forward, his hand brushing your arm carefully.
“You’re never a problem,” he said. “But you are my-" His mind jumped for something that didn't compeltely give the game away to his feelings. There were the countless nights of binging tv shows with you, culred up on on sofas and slipping away into each other's motorhomes. "You're my person. Do you get that? If you’re hurt, I need to know.”
Your shoulders dropped, the weight of the truth finally settling between you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Max pulled you close, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other ghosting over your bruised skin like he wished he could draw the pain out of it. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he murmured. “Just don’t make me find out like this again. I want to worry with you. Not because you shut me out.”
You nodded against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steadily under your ear.
“Okay,” you said. “I promise.”
The paddock buzzed with its usual pre-race energy, mechanics moving like clockwork, journalists circling like flies, engines humming in the distance. You walked toward the Red Bull garage in your race suit, helmet in hand, eyes focused ahead.
Max, of course, was already there. He spotted you immediately and beelined across the garage like a heat-seeking missile. “Morning,” he said casually, walking beside you. “Sleep okay?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Max. Still fine.”
He nodded once, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Did you take the painkillers Christian gave you?”
You gave him a look. “Max.”
“Just checking.”
He hovered as you moved to your station, watching as you adjusted the strap on your suit and flexed your shoulders, testing the pain quietly, discreetly. It twinged, sure, but nothing that would stop you from racing.
Max narrowed his eyes. “Was that a wince?”
“No,” you lied with the confidence of someone who’d already practiced it twice in the mirror. “Just adjusting.”
He didn’t look convinced. “We can still switch you out for Liam, you know. It’s not too late.”
You scoffed and turned to him fully, jabbing your finger into his chest. “Don’t start with that again. I passed medical. I’m cleared. I'm racing.”
Max lifted his hands in surrender but stepped a little closer. “I know. I know. It’s just… I watched the replay again last night.”
You paused. “Why would you do that to yourself? It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just a racing incident.”
He looked at you like you’d said the dumbest thing imaginable. “Racing incident or not, I nearly lost you.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavier than the sound of pit tools and shouting engineers. You softened, resting your hand on his forearm. “You didn’t. I’m right here.”
He looked down at your hand, then at you again. “Yeah, but I also wasn’t there. I didn’t know. You were hurting and I didn’t see it.”
“And now you do,” you said. “So let me drive, Max. Please. Don’t let this be the thing that makes you forget who I am.”
He stared at you for a moment, searching your face like he could read every inch of emotion you weren’t saying aloud. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
“Fine,” he said. “But if you so much as blink weirdly on the radio, I’m calling it in.”
You rolled your eyes, lips quirking. “Deal.” You're both hiding small laughs as you part.
As you turned to leave, Max called after you, “And don’t worry about carrying your helmet and your pre-race things again. I told the interns to do it.”
You turned over your shoulder, walking backwards with a smirk. “Max, are you trying to seduce me with team orders?”
He smirked right back, eyes gleaming. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
When you cross the line in first place, the throbbing of your back seems to fade away with the joy of the occassion. Max rounds off the podium but when your parked up in parc ferme, his first thought is to crouch by your car, take your helmet in his own hands and his eyes scanning you like he was reading telemetry. He didn't say anything at first, waiting, not with champagne or celebration in mind.
Just walked up, hands hovering until he gently pulled you into his chest. Not a crushing hug, he knew better, but a steady one. Solid. Careful. Like he was trying to hold you together without hurting you.
“You’re walking a little stiff,” he murmured near your ear, voice just for you.
You let out a soft breath, arms around his waist. “It’s fine. I’m just sore.”
Max pulled back to look at you, eyes narrowed, like he could spot every lie beneath your skin. “Sore how?” he asked, tone more measured now. “Like regular ‘I just drove 300 kilometers’ sore, or ‘I haven’t told my teammate my back’s killing me’ sore?”
You sighed, cheeks flushing. “Don’t do that thing where you read my mind.” He didn’t smile. Not this time. He reached out and gently, so gently, brushed his fingers against your side. When you flinched just slightly, his jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t have pushed it that hard,” he said softly, not angry, just concerned.
“I needed to prove-”
“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he interrupted. “I don’t care if you finished first or dead last, I just need to know you’re not hurting worse because of it.”
You looked down at your hands, pulling your gloves off gently. “I never need to prove it to you. But it wasn’t that bad, I paced myself, I didn’t take risks. I just… I needed to feel normal.”
Max exhaled slowly, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “You are normal. Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean weak.” His voice dropped even lower, quieter now with the noise of the crowd fading in the background. “If you’d told me it was too much, I would’ve been proud of you for stepping out. I need you to remember that, okay?”
You nodded slowly, eyes flicking up to his. “I was careful, Max. I promise. I know I’m not back to 100% yet.”
He searched your face for a long second, then finally gave a small nod of his own. “Alright,” he said. “But you’re icing your back the minute we get to the motorhome. And I’m carrying your suitcase. And I’m not negotiating on either.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, Captain Verstappen.”
He smiled this time, just a little. “You can win the race, but I’m still calling the recovery strategy.”
You lean in and almost want to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for watching out for me.”
“Always.” He tilted his head to your waiting team. “Go get 'em.”
summary: while on border patrol for camp, a hourd of monsters does their best to attack. while fighting back, something snaps and luke is the only one to break through and bring you back || warnings: fighting, blood and gore, injuries || word count: 760 || masterlist
The shout comes from a scout late into the evening and you waste no time grabbing your weapons and running to where your campmate spotted the monsters.
It's you and three or four other warriors that made up your border patrol group facing off against a much larger group of cyclops and giants. They stand just outside the magic border, waiting for their chance to strike.
As a daughter of Apollo, your weapon of choice had always been a bow and arrow, with your sheath of arrows gifted by your father to give you true aim and strength in battle. You call for the other archers to aim and fire at the monsters, either aiming to kill or scare off their friends so they don't bother camp.
The fight was already messy, voices overlap as your team did it's best to stick together. The giants threw their fireballs at the border, scorching the surface and sending wafts of smoke through the barrier and into your lungs.
Your head starts to buzz, sounds blurring together as you shoot arrow after arrow against your enemies, holding them back until back-up can arrive to help you.
The fire burns too bright and your own skin glows gently in the evening as you reach through your father's power for help. Your heart pounds like it's trying to escape your chest as you step closer and closer to the barrier, readying the sword at your hip in case you need to use it.
You want to stop, take a breath, take a break and calm yourself down but you grit your teeth and keep moving. You always do.
Then just as more warriors arrive, you take one step too far and almost get a fireball to your face. A scream rings out behind you as you duck to the ground, your arms barely catching you before you hit the ground. Your breathing turns sharp and uneven, hands shaking as you reach back for your bow. Your hand closes around the hilt of your sword instead and you stumble to your feet.
Luke shouts your name from far behind, running towards you, gaining ground with every breath. "Focus!" He calls it out as a warning to the others but you only hear it as a personal slight against you.
"I am focused!" You snap back to him, staggering to your feet and swapping the sword between your hands, getting ready to strike again. Your voice echoes around you, too loud, too fast and Luke notices the way your mood has shifted.
He stays closer, fighting a cyclops of his own but trying to watch you as much as he could. He watches as you lash out, more powerful and reckless than he's ever seen you. You were always careful in camp, never wishing for a fight but always prepared for one.
Every hit is harder than necessary, at the trees, at the giants, at the cyclops. An Ares kid tries to help and covers for you but you yell at him to back off. One of your siblings notices the change, seeing it plainly.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." You yell back, voice cracking. "Leave me be."
When the dust settles and the monsters are either vanquished or banished, you stand apart from everyone, skin still glowing, sweat glistening on your skin and breath heaving with every heart beat.
The others circle you carefully, like a hurt animal they need to catch. Some avoid you completely, checking in with each other and leaving someone else to calm you down, leaving it to Luke.
It wasn't a secret that you and Luke had a friendship that maybe extended a little further than plain friendship, always able to count on one another and have the other's backs at a moment's notice.
Luke chooses a path he's very familiar with. He fights fire with fire. He marches up to you, hands gripping your shoulders and holding you steady facing him. It grounds you slightly, forcing you to focus on him.
"Look at me," he orders it, not harshly, but his voice steady and waiting for you to answer and come back to him.
Your body starts trembling, starts to come down from the anger and adrenaline you've been pumping through your blood for the last half an hour. You're angry, you're tired, overwhelmed.
"I can't breathe." You choke out, it's quiet, only for him to hear. "I can't- It's too much."
"Just breathe." Luke whispers back, pulling you into his arms. "Don't be strong right now. I've got you."
summary: you get hurt and luke doesn't know what to do. what can he do except watch and wait while others are able to help you? || warnings: slight gore, fighting, injury, godly magic medicine time || word count: 1.2k || masterlist
It had already happened when Luke arrived.
He found you surrounded by a couple others campers, still fighting off monsters that just wouldn’t die. There were smatters and stains of blood across everyone’s clothes and armour, revealing injuries that people were hiding and pushing through.
Luke charges forward, blade already slick, breath burning in his chest as he cuts through the last of the monsters surrounding you. Steel meets bone, meets something not quite either, and the thing finally dissolves into dust at his feet.
"Move. Move!" someone shouts, but Luke barely hears them.
All he sees is you.
You’re on the ground, half-propped against a rock, your weapon still clutched weakly in your hand like you don’t trust the fight to be over. There’s blood, too much blood. It streaks down your side, soaking into your shirt, dripping from your fingers where you’ve tried to press the wound closed.
Luke’s stomach drops.
"Hey, hey, I’m here," he says, voice rough, already dropping to his knees beside you. His hands hover uselessly for a second, like he’s afraid to touch you and make it worse. "What happened? Where- where are you hit?"
You try to answer, but it comes out as a broken exhale instead. Your head tips back against the rock, eyes glassy, unfocused.
That’s worse.
That’s so much worse.
"Don’t- don’t do that," Luke mutters, panic creeping sharp and fast into his chest. He presses his hand over yours, over the wound, trying to apply pressure even though the blood immediately soaks through his fingers. "You still with me sweetheart?"
"Mhm." The world is starting to slow, slowly slipping into the foggy depths of your mind as you reply.
Luke's concern turns to panic. "You’re obviously not. Stay awake for me, yeah?"
"‘M trying."
"I know."
Around you, the fight is dying down. The last of the monsters are gone, and now the air fills with different sounds, groans, shouted names, hurried footsteps.
"Medic! Apollo cabin!" someone yells.
Good. Good.
They’ll fix this.
They have to.
Luke swallows hard, his grip tightening. "You’re okay," he insists, even as his voice wavers. "You’ve had worse than this, right? You’re-" He lets out a shaky breath. "You’re not allowed to die on me, you hear that?"
Your lips twitch faintly, like you’re trying to smile.
"Bossy," you manage, barely audible.
Relief hits him in a sharp, painful wave. "Yeah," he says quickly. "Yeah, that’s me. So you better listen."
Your hand shifts weakly under his, fingers curling just enough to catch his wrist.
"Luke…"
The way you say his name, soft, slipping, makes something in his chest seize.
"I’m here," he says immediately, leaning closer. "I’m right here."
"I- can’t-" Your breath hitches, and your grip tightens for a fleeting second before going slack again. "Hurts."
"I know," he says, voice breaking despite himself. He presses harder against the wound, even though it makes you flinch. "I know, I’m sorry, I just- I don’t know what else to do."
And that’s the worst part.
Luke Castellan, trained, capable, always the one with a plan, and he has nothing.
No ambrosia. No nectar. No magic healing hands like the Apollo kids. Just blood-slick fingers and a useless sword at his side.
"Hold on," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "They’re coming. Just- just hold on a little longer."
Your head lolls toward him, eyes barely open now. You’re still conscious, but slipping, he can feel it, like sand running through his hands. Then, slowly, your gaze finds his.
"Luke…" you whisper again, softer this time. "Can you-"
Your voice cuts off in a sharp inhale as pain ripples through you, your body tensing under his hands.
"Easy, easy, don’t try to move," he says quickly. "What do you need? Tell me."
Your fingers twitch again, searching, and this time he gets it. He shifts, letting you grab onto his hand properly, threading your fingers weakly through his.
"Just… stay," you breathe.
It hits him like a punch. Stay. Like he’d go anywhere.
"I’m not going anywhere," he says immediately, squeezing your hand carefully. "I’ve got you. I’ve got you, okay?"
Your grip tightens just a little at that, like you’re anchoring yourself to him.
Finally, finally, the Apollo cabin arrives.
Luke barely registers them at first, too focused on you, on the way your breathing stutters and your eyes keep trying to close.
"Hey- hey, stay awake," he urges, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. "You can sleep later. You hear me? Not now."
"Move," one of the healers says, dropping to your other side. "We need space."
Luke doesn’t move. He can’t. His hand is still wrapped in yours, your fingers clinging even as your strength fades.
"Luke," another voice says, firmer this time. "We’ve got it."
From where he’s kneeling, it doesn’t feel like anyone’s got anything. But then one of them is pouring nectar between your lips, another pressing glowing hands to your wound. Golden light spills over your skin, mixing with the blood, something divine and terrifying and fragile all at once.
You gasp, sharp, pained, and Luke flinches.
"It’s okay," the healer says. "That means it’s working."
Luke forces himself to breathe, even as his heart hammers against his ribs. He watches every movement, every flicker of light, every change in your expression like if he looks away for even a second, something will go wrong.
Your grip loosens.
Just a little.
Panic spikes instantly. "Hey- hey- don’t let go," he says, tightening his hold on your hand.
"I’m not," you murmur, though your voice is faint, drifting.
Your eyes are closing.
"No, no, stay awake," he says quickly. "Stay with me."
"They’re stabilizing," one of the Apollo kids says, not unkindly. "She’s going to pass out. That’s normal."
Normal.
Luke hates that word.
Your fingers slip further, barely holding onto him now.
"Luke…" you whisper one last time, your voice softer than he’s ever heard it.
"I’m here," he says immediately, leaning closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I’m right here. You’re okay. I’ve got you."
Your lips part like you’re going to say something else.
But nothing comes out.
Your hand goes slack in his.
For a moment, everything stops.
"She’s breathing," someone says quickly, as if they can see the exact second Luke’s world threatens to collapse. "She’s okay. Just unconscious."
Okay.
Luke lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his entire body trembling with it. He doesn’t let go of your hand. Even as they work, even as they bandage and heal and murmur to each other, he stays right there, fingers still wrapped around yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady, grounding rhythm.
He can’t help you the way they can. He can’t heal you. He can’t take the pain away. But he can do this. He can stay.
And when your fingers twitch faintly in his again, reflex, maybe, or something deeper, he tightens his grip just a little and leans closer, voice low and unsteady but certain.
"I’ve got you," he murmurs. "I’m not going anywhere."
summary: benedict wakes up to find you getting ready for the day. but your not dressed yet, or more accurately, your dressed in only one of his shirts || warning: suggestive || word count: 601 || masterlist
Ben reaches out in his sleep, still expecting you to be right beside him, where you'd fallen asleep. Instead he's met with the ruffled and cooling sheets of where you were no longer.
He wipes the sleep from his eyes, delighting in the way the sun danced through the window through the small crack in the curtains and onto the wall beside him. He shuffled up in bed, glancing around the room and being very glad to find you staring back at him from your vanity.
"Good morning my love." Your sweet voice floats across the morning air to him, reminding him of how lucky he was to see you every day of his life.
"Good morning my wife."
You were barely awake yourself, hardly dressed. And in fact, not even dressed in your own clothes, but one of Benedict's old painting shirts. It hangs loose on your frame, sleeves just drowning your hands as the hem lands on your upper thigh. It's delightfully riske and perfectly acceptable when Benedict is the only one to ever see you like this.
"Yes, my husband?"
A throaty groan escapes his lips before he can stop it, drawn in by the mere sight of you in his shirt. His.
There was something so deeply unfair in the way you moved, the way you did not seem to realise what you were doing to him in any meaningful way. You smile softly at him, lovesick, and wander back over to the bed, your hips swaying with every movement showing a little more skin than the last.
Benedict thinks he's died in his sleep and woken up in heaven.
"I appear to be missing a shirt." He flirts.
You hum, leaning over him as the collar slips closer to off your shoulder. "Huh. Is this yours? How terribly careless of you."
He swings his legs off the bed, inviting you to stand between as his hands reach up and bunch the shirt around your hips.
"It is." He agrees, lips brushing just below your naval, still sending jolts of electricity through you through the fabric. "Though I cannot say I despise it's current location."
Your breath hitches as he slides one hand underneath the shirt and along the soft skin of your stomach.
He pushed upward, lips ghosting along your shoulder where the collar had slipped. "You know," he continued softly, "I've spent years studying form and composition."
"Oh?" you replied, trying to sound unaffected even as shivers rocked your entire body. Benedict knew very well what he was doing to you.
"Yes." His hands settled at your hips, thumbs tracing idle circles. "And I must confess… this may be my finest work yet."
You laughed, but it wavered when he pulled you gently into his lap, leaning back further onto the bed. The shirt fell open just a fraction more and you swore you could see Ben's pupils dilate. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"You are dangerously distracting," he said quietly. "I had every intention of rising early and being productive today."
"And now?" you ask.
"Now, I find myself entirely devoted to the study of this particular subject."
His hands slip further down, fully pulling you into him until your a mess of tangled limbs and ruffled sheets.
"Benedict," you whispered, though you made no effort to resist.
"Yes, my love?"
"You'll crease the shirt."
He grinned, lazy, wicked and utterly charming.
"Then I suppose," he murmured as he kissed you softly. You relish in the taste of him on your tongue. "I shall simply have to remove it."
