#I don’t know. I’m scared. I’m so scared

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 5)

This one is kind of Jinu orientated! Welcome to the debut chapter of Soda Pop! Please enjoy :3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

‘Okay, what's the big deal? Also, you were eavesdropping on me?’ Y/N pointed an accusing finger at Rae, who annoyingly did not look a single bit guilty.

‘I wanted to make sure you were safe.’ 

‘I was safe. How do you think I’ve been surviving this entire time before you guys came along?’ Y/N threw up her hands in indignation. ‘In fact, the most danger I’ve been in was when you guys tried to take my soul. Remember that?’

The boys collectively winced, knowing she was right.

‘She has a demon voice. She caused damage to the Honmoon, your friend is dangerous.’ Rae walked forward, taking her arm and pulling her toward the kitchen island

‘Rumi didn’t do it on purpose, she was scared and confused. She would never hurt me.’ Y/N sat down to Rae’s ushering. ‘What, what is-?’

‘It’s some sokkoritang. (Ox Bone Soup) You haven’t eaten.’ Jinu scooped up a bowl of rice from Y/N’s barely used rice cooker. She couldn't even remember if she bought it or it came with the penthouse.

‘I made it, so eat up.’

Y/N picked up her spoon, as Jinu placed a bowl of rice in front of her.

‘Thank you…’ She stared down at the bowl, stunned at the unexpected kindness.

‘We need you to be functional so we can steal Huntr/x’s fans.’ Jinu explained hurriedly, his cheeks coloured with a pretty peach colour. Luckily for him, this went unnoticed by Y/N, who was digging into her meal.

The soup was perfectly seasoned, flavourful and balanced.

How long had it been since Y/N actually had homecooked food? At least in this world, it had been months since she was able to have any, being on a world tour with the Huntr/x girls. It was a simple luxury she had since abandoned for convenience.

‘This is… It was amazing. Thank you Jinu.’ Y/N finished, standing to put her bowl in the sink. The rest of the Saja boys were rehearsing their song in the living area.

‘It was nothing.’ Jinu breathed out, as if a weight had been lifted from him. ‘Before things got really bad… I would help my mother cook.’ Jinu took Y/N’s bowl, placing it in the sink as he turned on the tap.

‘But that was four hundred years ago.’ He finished, tone hardening.

‘The food was amazing, you’d make a wonderful house wife Jinu.’ Y/N joked, leaning against the countertop next to Jinu as he washed the bowl. She could feel the unease, radiating off Jinu’s being.

‘Yeah?’ He smirked, shaking off the excess water from his hands. ‘You gonna find me a suitable husband?’ 

‘Hmm, I don’t know anyone willing to marry a maiden with such, attitude. I’m afraid we’re the only people who can put up with it.’ Y/N gestured to herself and the Saja Boys.

‘Is that so?’ Jinu hummed, gazing at Y/N forlornly as she nodded approvingly at the boys who were nailing their choreography.

‘Jinu, I get that you’re worried I might run off or that I’ll stop writing for you. But you can’t send-’

‘They all wanted to.’

‘Jinu…’ Y/N exhaled, turning to face the man, who at least this time, looked slightly guilty. ‘I have your number. You don’t have to send someone to look after me.’

‘Okay…’ He refused to meet her eye, staring at a blank spot on the wall to his left.

‘Although, I don’t mind the tiger. It’s so cute.’ Y/N gave him a forbearing smile. 

‘Yeah?’ Jinu grinned, face lighting up. ‘Did you see it’s-’

‘Tiny hat? Did you make it for the tiger?’ 

‘Yeah, but my bird keeps taking it.’ Jinu summoned the tiger with a flick of his hand, said creature appearing out of her floor.

‘Oh my goodness, hello there sweetheart!’ Y/N cried out, kneeling in front of the curious tiger.

‘Who is she calling sweetheart?’ A voice replied from the living space, sounding irate.

‘Oh, it’s the tiger.’ Another voice answered, footsteps shuffling toward the kitchen.

‘Oh, you precious little thing.’ Y/N splayed her hand, palm side up. The tiger gave a pleasant growl, rumbling as it butted its head against Y/N’s hand.

‘It’s cute but not that cute.’ Beom pouted, crossing his arms.

‘What do you mean?’ Y/N pouted in return. This baby is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, arent’cha?’ Y/N gave the blue tiger scratches underneath its chin.

‘Alright, you’ve got to sleep. Our debut is tomorrow and you need to be there.’ Jinu, waved his hand, causing the tiger to begin to sink back into the ground. The creature let out a downcast rumble in protest.

‘Aw..’ Y/N protested, waving goodbye to the equally disappointed creature. ‘Wait, why do I have to be there?’ 

‘So I have someone to focus on. You don’t want me to get stage fright, do you?’ Rae smirked, leaning toward Y/N’s face.

‘Hey, hey, what did I say about fake flirting.’ Y/N laughed, pushing away Rae’s face with a guiding hand.

‘Who said it was fake.’ Rae grumbled quietly under his breath, retreating toward a spinning chair.

‘Anyways, I will go to sleep. But only because I wanna go grocery shopping tomorrow. There’s this new snack I’ve been wanting to try.’

‘Oh, you mean this one?’ Rae held up a bag of the very snack that Y/N had been craving.

‘What, how?’ She spluttered, reaching towards the packet.

‘I saw you look at it twice when you were buying Kimbap with the demon hunter.’ Rae dangled the packet above her head, keeping it just out of reach.

‘Hey! I thought you bought it for me!’ Y/N jumped, swiping at the bag.

‘I did, but you gotta promise you’ll come to our performance tomorrow.’ Rae smirked, waving around the snack bag teasingly.

‘Ugh, Jinu, make him give it to me.’ Y/N pouted, pointing at Rae angrily.

‘You gotta promise.’ Jinu laughed, a tender heat spreading through his chest as he watched Y/N swipe at Rae. The way his friends got along with their new writer didn’t go unnoticed by him. To be honest, it was actually endearing to some degree. Like he and his friends had gotten a new pet.

‘Fine.. FINE I’ll be there so lemme-’ Y/N leapt, finally snatching the bag out of Rae’s hand, falling back into Mystery’s arms, almost collapsing on the floor.

‘Oops, sorry Mystery.’ Y/N stood, with the purplehaired man’s help.

‘Just Min, is fine.’ The soft spoken man replied, seemingly checking for any injury as he spun her around slowly. 

‘Alrighty, Y/N you go to bed. The rest of us will continue our rehearsal. We’ll be quiet, we promise.’ Abel placed his hands on Y/N’s shoulders, guiding her to her room as the rest of the boys stood up, beginning their stretching routine.

‘Goodnight everyone!’ Y/N called out, looking behind her.

‘Night Y/N!’ ‘Sleep well!’ ‘Sweet dreams Y/N!’ ‘Night.’ The boys chorused, while Abel walked her to her room.

‘Are you guys ready?’ Y/N opened her bedroom door, walking into her room.

‘Yeah, pretty much. We just need to make everything a little sharper. Otherwise, we’re pretty much perfect.

‘Thats great! Y/N smiled, pulling out pajamas from her closet.

‘Here, gimmie that.’ Abel tugged Y/N’s snack bag. ‘What are you gonna do, eat it in your sleep?’

‘Hey, I so could!’ Y/N laughed, releasing her hold on the food. ‘Now turn around or get out. I need to change.’

‘I have a question.’ Abel turned to face the bedroom door, closing his eyes for good measure.

‘Yeah?’

‘Has what happened to me, happened with any of the other boys?’ 

‘You mean that weird light that made your patterns shine?’ Y/N pulled her pants up, letting the elastic snap around her waist. ‘Yeah, actually when you guys went to go get me breakfast this morning, Beom and I had a chat.’

‘And?’

‘Well, I made this pattern shine, I touched his shoulder when we were talking about the deal he made with Gwi-ma.’ Y/N recounted, sliding herself into bed.

‘Huh, y’know he doesn’t really talk about it much?’ Abel twitched, wanting to face Y/N. 

‘You can turn around now. But, no I didn’t. I guess, at that moment I just felt so…’ Y/N trailed off, trying to recount her emotions and convey them into words.

‘I wanted to help. I didn’t want Beom to let Gwi-ma take credit for his talent.’ 

‘So it can just be anywhere.’ Abel hummed, leaning on Y/N’s doorframe. ‘I see.’

‘I mean, I still don’t know how to control it. I touched Rae’s hand today but nothing happened.’ Y/N shook her head, pulling the comforter to her chest.

‘Mm, sounds like there needs to be intent behind those touches.We can talk more about it tomorrow. For now, just sleep.’ Abel nodded, stepping back and beginning to close the bedroom door. ‘Sleep tight.’

‘Night Abel.’ Y/N closed her eyes as the demon switched off the lights, easing the bedroom door shut.

–

‘You’re sure she was part demon?’ Jinu inquired, as Abel walked back into the living space.

‘Positive.’ Rae nodded, the group sitting in a circle formation not unlike a formal meeting. ‘If her patterns weren't enough, she had a demon voice.’

‘That shockwave was caused by her?’ Mystery leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘Yes.’

‘She weakened the Honmoon.’

‘Is Y/N safe hanging around them?’ Beom picked at a loose thread on his sweater. 

‘We’ll keep an eye on her. I’ll send Derpy and Sussie to check on her.’ Jinu finalised, nodding his head.

‘You just had to show her you were following her, didn’t you Rae?’ Abel snickered, nudging the taller man with a playful elbow.

‘She was shivering. What was I meant to do? Let her freeze?’ He rolled his eyes, face slightly flushing a pretty pink.

‘Alright, let’s get back to work. Don’t forget, we’re here to steal Huntr/x’s fans.’ Jinu clapped his hands, breaking up the playful banter. He seemed troubled, his eyes were unfocused. Jinu was stuck between a rock and a hard place and seemingly with no other alternative.

As Y/N slipped into the realm of the unconscious, the Saja Boys continued their practice well into the early morning. They had finished around five am, deciding that they were ready to perform. All the boys made a brisk trip back to their neighboring apartment building to change.

Jinu however, stayed behind.

His reasoning?

‘I need to make breakfast for her so she doesn’t have an excuse not to come see the performance.’ Jinu shrugged, putting on an apron and rummaging through the fridge.

‘We’ll bring back your performance clothes so you can change after.’ Mystery nodded, patting his friend on the back. 

Jinu nodded, pulling out two eggs from the fridge, placing them into a bowl. 

Yeah, that was the reason he was making her breakfast. Why else would he do something like that? 

‘I need her so she can write more songs. So I can get Gwi-ma those souls, so I can forget.’ Jinu muttered, cracking the eggs into the bowl with one hand. He had already taken out a pan and set it on the stove, now pouring some oil into it.

‘That’s all. That's all it is.’ He shook his head, ‘She means nothing. I don’t care.’ Jinu mumbled, sliding the egg mixture into the pan, watching the edges bubble in the hot oil. A protesting groan, from the metal spatula, being dented from Jinu’s grip.

‘Mm, what smells good?’ A drowsy voice filled the incessant whispering in Jinu’s head, effectively drowning out the unwelcomed voices in his head in an instant.

‘Just some eggs. Sit down, I’m almost done.’ Jinu relinquished his hardened grip on the spatula, using it to separate the eggs from the bottom of the pan. ‘Grab a plate and some bread.’ 

Y/N rubbed her eyes, stumbling half blindly to the cupboard containing all her dinnerware. She pulled out a plate before returning to the table, letting the plate clink against the marble top. 

‘I didn’t buy any bread this month.’ Y/N whined, smushing her face into the tabletop.

‘Yeah, I bought some for you yesterday.’ Jinu turned around, pausing to take in Y/N’s groggy appearance. Her hair was unbrushed, eyes still crusted with rheum on the edges. She was still in her pajamas.

And yet…

Jinu’s chest ached, a mellow pang rushing through his chest, radiating through every fiber of his being.

This.

This homeliness. This domestication. It was something he had since long forgotten, left behind when he abandoned his family to live a cushy life in the palace. Even then he had never felt this much…

Joy. 

‘Heh, nice apron Jinu.’ Y/N giggled, using a fork to cut her eggs in half. ‘Pink suits you.’

Jinu glanced down, realising he still had Y/N’s apron on. 

‘All colours suit me.’ He sniffed haughtily, before pointing at Y/N, ‘And you can’t talk! Look at your pajamas!’

‘HEY I bought these because they're cute.’ She protested, taking a bite of her breakfast.

‘Childish.’

‘Nuh uh!’

The pair dissolved into a fit of giggles, as the elevator doors dinged open, revealing the rest of the boys.

‘Wow, my PJ’s and you apron does not compare to Abel’s crappy Hawaiian print shirt.’ Y/N howled with laughter, leaning back in her chair. Luckily for her, Jinu had caught her again, casually with his arm.

‘It was this, or palm trees…’ Abel sighed, looking down at his shirt. ‘Rae said that I couldn’t wear a plaid one.’

‘Plaid is an abomination. We want them to like us, not judge us for our fashion choices.’ Rae crossed his arms, his yellow chiffon top ruffling.

‘Huh, what will you be wearing Jinu?’ Y/N lifted her head to look at the man still holding on to her waist.

‘Hm, not sure, whatever Rae decided to give me.’

‘Yeah, I have your clothes right here. Unless you wanna debut in a pink frilly apron that's fine by me too.’

‘I’d rather not thank you.’ Jinu picked up the clothes from Rae’s hands and wandered off to Y/N’s bathroom.

‘You better not go through my drawers.’ Y/N called out.

‘I’m looking through 'em right now, I’m rummaging!’ Jinu called back, closing the door behind him

‘So, you guys ready? Excited?’ Y/N stood up, walking towards her bedroom. ‘Lemme get changed, I'll be right back.’

The boys nodded, watching Y/N disappear behind her door.

‘Did you see her pajamas?’ Beom sighed, a tiny smile on his face.

‘Is it weird that I think she’s cute?’ Min hummed, staring at Y/N’s closed bedroom door.

‘I’d think you were weird if you didn’t find her cute.’ Rae remarked, his chin resting on his fist.

They each felt an inexplicable pull towards the girl. As if she was anchoring them to the earth. These were feelings they hadn’t felt in centuries, locked away in a box, buried beneath their shame and fears. They had almost forgotten what it felt like to feel happy. Abel and Beom had forgotten what it was like to be able to have their own thoughts, unpolluted by the soiled words of Gwi-ma.

‘Alright, whose idea was it to put me in pink.’ Jinu raised an eyebrow, as the boys all collectively pointed at Beom.

The youngest let out an unholy screech as Jinu chased him around, chuckling darkly. Y/N opened her door, met with the whining of Beom and teasing of Jinu.

‘Say you’re sorry!’ Jinu laughed, giving a particularly painful noogie to the blue harried boy. They were both on the floor, Jinu had wrapped his legs around Beom's waist, holding him snug.

‘I’M SORRY.’ Beom whined, writhing in Jinu’s grip.

‘Will you ever do it again?’ Jinu held fast, driving his knuckles into Beom’s skull.

‘NOOOOOOO.’ Beom complained. ‘HELP ME Y/N!’ 

Y/N giggled, watching the scene unfold in front of her.

‘You guys are like brothers huh?’ Y/N sat down on her gaming chair, pulling her shoes on.

‘Yeah pretty much.’ Min nodded next to her. ‘Jinu brought us all together, years ago when he found beom.’

‘We don’t have to get into that now.’ Jinu brushed himself off, standing and straightening his clothing.

‘Aw, but I wanna hear the story.’ Y/N slumped down in her chair in protest.

‘Yeah but we have a debut to get to. Here, if our debut goes well, I’ll tell you who's the oldest.’

‘Is it not you?’ Y/N blinked, miffed. ‘You’re four hundred. Beom-ie is two hundred.-’ 

‘Give or take.’ Beom interrupted

‘Yeah, Beom is our youngest.’ Jinu gazed at the blue haired boy with pride, ruffling his hair. ‘He’s our pride and joy.’

‘Hey! I’m gonna have to wear a hat to cover this mess up now.’ Beom sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. Rae handed Beom a yellow beret, seemingly materialised out of thin air.

The group continued their conversation as they packed into the elevator. Y/N continued to guess at everyone’s age but none of the men would confirm her guesses. They found it funny that Y/N was unable to guess their age order correctly.

They reached the plaza as Y/N gave up, stalking behind the boys as they chattered to each other, occasionally teasing the pouting girl.

‘Y/N?’ A deep feminine voice called out. 

‘Huh?’ Y/N turned around, spotting a trio of girls walking out of a bathhouse. ‘Mira, Rumi and Zoey?’ 

‘Hey! You didn’t answer your phone.’ Rumi ran over to Y/N, giving her a hug. ‘I called but you didn't pick up, so I left a message asking if you wanted to come to the bathhouse with us!’ Rumi dragged Y/N toward Mira and Zoey. 

Y/N patted her pockets, searching for her phone.

Damn. She had left it at home.

Each of the girls were wearing somewhat of a disguise.  Zoey was wearing a yellow fuzzy bucket hat, obscuring her face, Rumi was wearing her pink hoodie, the hood covering her signature purple hair. Mira was wearing a black baseball cap, her face adorned by golden circular framed glasses. 

‘Yeah, are you free today?’ Mira gave an amused smile, leaning down to look at Y/N’s face closely. ‘Looks like you slept well last night. That’s good.’

‘Yeah! Wanna hang out with us? We’re taking today off!’ Zoey looped her arm around Y/N’s walking towards the plaza.

Y/N blinked, looking behind her, realising that the men had since disappeared.

'Yeah, we hear a new boy band is having a debut stage today and we wanna go judge them. What was their name. It was something stupid, to do with animals.' Mira chuckled, linking her arm around Rumi's.

'The Saja Boys. Honestly, sounds kinda corny.' Rumi laughed, the four walking toward a familiar beat filling the air.

'Huh, must be here. Look, there's pink mist.' Zoey pointed, leading Y/N and the erst of the girls to stand in the forming crowd.

The familiar beat of Soa Pop began to fill the air, as the pink mist revealed the Saja Boys.

'Don't want you, need you Yeah, I need you to fill me up.' Jinu began singing, spotting Y/N immediately, winking at her.

'Ew.' Rumi gagged, 'These guys are so cliché that it hurts.'

'Did he just wink at you?' Mira smirked, glancing between the boys performing and Y/N.

'Uh... maybe?'

'Oh, he was definently winking at her. They're all looking at her.' Zoey squealed, shaking Y/N excitedly.

'Wow, their song is annoyingly catchy though. It matches their vibe really well.' Mira brought her fingers to her chin, tapping her index finger thoughtfully.

'Huh, the writing style reminds me of you Y/N.' Rumi raised an eyebrow, as the boys continued to sing, blowing heart's out of thin air.

'Uh...'

'Wait, look!' Zoey gasped, pointing at the group. 'They have patterns! Look, you can see them.'

'Demons.' Rumi glowered, seeing under their human visage.

'What do we do?' Mira grumbled, looking at the huntr/x girls.

'They're demons, we just do what we always do. We kill them.' Rumi stalked forward, hands itching to grasp her sword. 'Besides, that one winked at our Y/N and I don't share.'

'Wait Rumi, it's too public.' Mira tugged Rumi back quickly, looking at the decent sized crowed.

'But look, they're coming after the fans. That must be why they're posing as this cringey boyband.' Rumi gestured widely to the boys, who were on a rising platform, decorated as a soda can. The Saja Boys had reached the climax of their song.

'I know, but we have to wait. Otherwise we'll have a swarm of fans questioning us. I don't think even Bobby would be able to cover that up for us.' Zoey mused with narrowed eyes, pulling Y/N behind her shielding Y/N with her body.

As the girls contemplated what to do, The Saja Boys finished their performance, sending one last flying kiss in Y/N's direction.

Rumi growled, watching the interaction.

'That's it for now! See you tonight, on everyone's favourite variety show! The Saja Boys love you!' Jinu flashed a charming smile, before giving Y/N a knowing smile.

The boys disappeared in a puff of pink smoke.

'We are so going to kill those dudes.' Rumi snarled, fixing her hoodie as the group walked back to the Huntr/x tower. 'Y/N do you wanna stay in the tower? We gotta get battle ready.'

'Uh, I actually have to go do the demo for What It Sounds Like remember? Y/N rubbed a hand on her neck nervously.

'Right...' Rumi sighed, smoothing back her braid. 'Okay well call us if anything happens. Actually, call us even if nothing happens okay?' Rumi babbled, swiping her key card at the front opening doors.

'She's right. Those boys seemed to be looking at you. They might try something so call us if you feel anything funny okay?' Mira placed a reassuring hand on Y/N's shoulder while Zoey gave her a hug.

'We'll text you when we send those demons back to where they belong! Maybe we can even record the song today!'

'Alright girls! Stay safe!' Y/N smiled, as the Huntr/x girls walked into the elevator.

'Bye Y/N/N!' The girls chorused, as the elevator doors shut.

Y/N released her breath, 'Oh damn. This is not good.'

Y/N hurried back to her apartment, checking her phone repeatedly.

'So, they wanna kill us tonight huh?' Abel smirked as Y/N rushed past the elevator doors.

'Yeah, I think the purple haired one has a crush on you.' Jinu raised an eyebrow, his face plastered with an unamused smile.

'What?' Y/N blinked.

'How come they get to call you Y/N/N.' Beom pointed at Y/N with his pastel yellow beret.

'YOU GUYS WERE FOLLOWING ME AGAIN?'

Part 6

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[no-144444]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.  “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,�� God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

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[barnesonly]

Yearning

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky have been together for a while now, but haven’t had sex yet—he’s insecure, afraid he forgot how. but one night, things finally happen…

word count: 5,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff to smut, insecure!bucky, established relationship, curse words, age difference, dirty talk, praise, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex.

Bucky Barnes is a man out of time, and you’re reminded of it every single day.

Sometimes it’s the obvious things—like how he still squints at his phone as if the apps might leap off the screen and bite him, or how he physically recoils every time you say the word “TikTok.” Sometimes it’s subtler—like the way he insists on walking on the outside of the sidewalk, or how he always opens doors for you without thinking, like muscle memory trained from another era.

And then there are the flowers.

Almost every day, without fail, a small, lovingly picked bouquet appears on your kitchen counter. Sometimes they’re store-bought, sometimes hand-picked from wherever he was that day. Always with a little handwritten note tucked beneath the stems. He never says much about it—just a casual “these made me think of you” and a kiss to your temple. But the habit is so consistent it’s become its own kind of love language.

You’re dating Bucky fucking Barnes and that still feels unreal sometimes.

He’s grumpy. He’s anxious. He has whole decades of trauma stacked inside him like old, worn-out newspapers.

But he also loves you. Deeply. Devotedly. You can see it in the smallest things—the way his hand always finds yours under the table, or how he tenses any time someone looks at you the wrong way. He still doesn’t sleep through the night, but when he does sleep, it’s usually best when you’re wrapped around him.

You’ve been together for a while now. Long enough to fall into a rhythm. Long enough to know what makes him tick, what makes him laugh. Long enough to feel the unspoken ache between you both.

Because there’s one thing you haven’t done yet.

Sex.

You’ve talked about it—briefly, carefully—but Bucky always brushes it off. Not with rejection, but hesitation. You know he wants to… you can feel that he does. But he’s scared. Scared he’s forgotten how. Scared he won’t be good at it anymore. Scared of what might surface, or what might go wrong.

You’d never pressure him. Never.

But god, you want him. Not just the sex—though, yeah, definitely that—but him. His body, his trust, his pleasure. You want him to feel good. You want him to feel wanted.

You’ve started to think he’s almost ready.

You don’t say it aloud. You don’t want to spook him. But there’s a shift in him lately—like maybe he’s starting to believe he deserves this. Deserves you.

Still, you remember the last time you two got close.

It was a quiet night, nothing special. The two of you were curled up on the couch, some half-watched movie playing in the background. You’d ended up in his lap, legs straddling his thighs, your fingers twisted into his hair, your mouths tangled in a kiss that had gone from sweet to hungry in seconds.

He was so warm beneath you, so solid. His hands rested on your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them, like he was afraid of holding on too tightly. You could feel him, hard through his sweats, pressing up against your center—and the way his breath caught every time you shifted your hips only made you want him more.

You kissed him like he was the last good thing in the world. And he kissed you back like he believed it.

But then—just as your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, just as he let out this low, needy sound in the back of his throat—he pulled away.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like it hurt him to stop.

“Babe…” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. His voice was hoarse, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. “I’m… I’m sorry. I can’t. Not yet.”

You didn’t sigh. Didn’t roll your eyes or pull away. You just cupped his cheek and smiled at him—soft and sure and full of love.

“No worries, Bucky,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “You know I love you, right?”

He nodded, and god, the look in his eyes… like he couldn’t understand how someone like you could be so patient. So kind.

You shifted, slowly climbing off his lap, careful not to make it feel like rejection. Just giving him space. You tucked yourself beside him on the couch, your knee still brushing his, your presence still close. You didn’t say anything right away.

He let out a long sigh and dragged a hand down his face. The other stayed loosely resting on his thigh, still balled into a fist like he was holding something back.

“I just…” he started, voice rough. “I’m scared I’ll fuck this up. Or that I’ll hurt you.”

Your heart cracked a little, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak. He rarely did. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I used to be such a charmer in the ’40s, y’know? Smooth talker. Confident. I had moves.”

You huffed a tiny laugh, not mocking—just warm. “I believe it.”

He glanced at you then, barely a flicker, and smiled faintly.

“But now?” he said, the smile dropping. “Now I feel like I’ve forgotten how to even… touch someone the right way. Hell, half the time I’m afraid to want anything too much, ‘cause what if I screw it up? What if I mess you up?”

His jaw tensed. You could see the war in his mind, the echo of every cruel thing that’s ever been drilled into him—by Hydra, by time, by the weight of his own past.

You reached over, took his hand, gently pried open his fingers from that tight fist and laced them with yours.

“Bucky,” you said, soft but sure, “you’re not going to hurt me.”

He swallowed hard, eyes still on your joined hands.

“And you’re not gonna mess anything up. Okay? Wanting something doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you human.”

He didn’t answer right away. You let the silence settle around you both. Not awkward. Just… honest.

“I want to make you feel good,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I want you to feel… Safe. Loved.”

He turned his head toward you. His eyes were glassy, a little overwhelmed, but you could see it—the crack of light breaking through all the fear.

“I do feel loved,” you said quietly. “Every day.”

You squeezed his hand, just once, then let go so you could reach up and cradle his jaw instead—thumb brushing lightly along the edge of his cheekbone.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or needy. It was soft. Steady. Like a quiet promise whispered between two heartbeats. He kissed you back like he was still learning how, but already knew it by heart.

When you pulled back, your foreheads touched, your noses brushing, the air between you thick with unsaid things.

“I love you,” he murmured, like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. “I don’t think I ever really understood what love felt like until you.”

Your breath caught a little, chest tightening.

He kept going, voice rough and low. “You’ve made my life feel like… a life again. Like I’m not just surviving. I didn’t think I’d get to have this. I didn’t think I deserved to. But then you came along and you just—god, sweetheart, you gave me something I never thought I’d have again.”

You felt yourself melting, your heart a puddle in your chest. His hand came up to rest on your thigh, not to start anything, not to take—it just landed there like he needed to touch you, to feel that you were real.

You leaned your head against his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You trying to make me cry?”

A breath of a laugh escaped him.

You tilted your head to grin at him. “You say one more sweet thing and I’m gonna have to marry you and sign up for bridge night at the senior center.”

He huffed a laugh, and that shy little smile of his—god, it destroyed you.

“I mean it,” he said quietly, “even if you joke your way out of it.”

You reached over, cupped his cheek again. “I know you do,” you whispered. “And I love you back, you old fossil.”

He laughed for real that time—head tilted back, the kind of laugh that cracked through all the walls he’d built. And it made you smile so big your cheeks ached.

That memory still sits warm in your chest—etched there like sunlight caught in glass.

You think about it sometimes. The weight of him beneath you, the kiss that lingered on your lips for hours after, the way his voice cracked when he told you what you meant to him. How you called him a fossil to hide the way your heart was splitting open inside your ribcage.

And now?

Now you’re in the kitchen with him, barefoot and sleepy-eyed on a Sunday morning. The radio’s playing something soft and old—something he probably heard first on vinyl. You’re standing at the stove, flipping pancakes while he hovers beside you, clearly pretending not to be watching them like a hawk.

He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s faded to hell and a pair of sweats low on his hips. You’ve got one of his flannels buttoned over your pajamas. The sleeves are way too long. He tried to roll them up for you earlier but got distracted kissing your shoulder halfway through.

Domestic bliss, Barnes-style.

You pass him the next pancake on the stack and bump his hip with yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say. “Because these pancakes are borderline tragic.”

“They’re not tragic,” he replies, grinning as he takes a bite. “They’re… rustic.”

You give him a look.

He shrugs, chewing. “I like ‘em a little burnt. Adds character.”

You snort and turn back to the pan.

There’s a pause—quiet but easy—until his voice breaks it again. Low. Soft.

“I wanna marry you one day, you know?”

The spatula freezes in your hand.

You blink, heart skipping, and glance over your shoulder at him.

He’s looking at you like he’s thinking about saying it again, just to make sure you heard him right. His eyes are clear. Calm. No panic. No second-guessing. Just… love. Simple and steady.

“I mean it,” he says. “I don’t know when. I’m not gonna rush it. But I do. I think about it all the time.”

You stare at him for a second, and then your lips stretch into the stupidest, softest smile.

You turn back to the stove and flip the pancake onto the plate.

“Well, good,” you say. “Because if you didn’t marry me, I’d have to haunt you for eternity. Like, aggressively. I’d knock shit off your shelves.”

He chuckles behind you, then steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. His lips brush your temple.

“You already haunt me,” he murmurs. “Just… in a really nice way.”

His arms stay wrapped around you for a long moment after he says it—forehead resting against the side of your head, his body warm against your back. The scent of syrup and coffee hangs in the air, but all you can feel is him.

„I think I’m ready, doll.” He continues, firmly and with determination in his voice.

You set the spatula down gently, not because you’re finished cooking but because suddenly—this is more important.

You turn in his arms, hands slipping up his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your palms. His eyes meet yours. They’re soft. Honest. A little nervous. But not afraid.

“You know we don’t have to,” you say, voice quiet. “Not today. Not ever, if you’re not ready. I love you exactly like this.”

His hands come up to cradle your face—gentle, almost reverent. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. That old ache, the one that never quite leaves. But it’s softer now. “But I want to.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ve been scared for a long time,” he admits. “Scared that I’d mess this up, or hurt you, or—hell, that I wouldn’t remember how to be with someone like that. But the truth is… I think I just didn’t believe I deserved that kind of love.”

You swallow, eyes stinging.

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now I do,” he says. “Because of you.”

He leans in and kisses you then—slow, deep, tender. No hesitation. No trembling hands. Just Bucky. All of him.

When he pulls back, you’re already smiling, breathless and dazed.

“God,” you murmur, forehead pressed to his, “you say stuff like that and I get why girls in the 40s were all over you.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Yeah, well… guess I’ve still got it.”

“Barely,” you tease. “You made a grunting noise getting off the couch last night.”

He groans. “Why would you bring that up now?”

“Because I love you,” you say sweetly.

He’s laughing when he kisses you again—and this time, his hands wander a little. One settles at your lower back, pulling you closer. The other slides into your hair, gentle but firm.

The kiss deepens, lazy but loaded, and it starts to hum between you—want. Warm and steady and mutual.

His lips trail to your jaw, barely there kisses—soft, unhurried.

But then he pauses, nose brushing your cheek. His voice is low, warm, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Let me take you out tonight, huh?”

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Someplace nice. Fancy. White tablecloths, cloth napkins, the whole deal. I’ll put on that stupid tie you like, even if it’s choking me the whole night.”

Your heart squeezes.

“Bucky…”

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb trailing down your jaw. His gaze is steady now, sure. “I wanna do this right,” he murmurs. “You’re my girl. A lady. You should be treated like one.”

God, you’re melting.

You’re not sure if it’s the way he says it—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s already undressing you in his mind but still wants to kiss your hand first and open every damn door along the way.

“Okay,” you whisper, your smile blooming full and wide. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

His grin is all boyish charm now—relieved, excited, maybe even a little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, looping your arms around his neck. “Only if I get to wear something ridiculous and make you all flustered.”

His brows lift, amused. “Doll, you could show up in a trash bag and I’d still forget how to breathe.”

You laugh, full and bright, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He catches you before you pull away, stealing another kiss—this one slower, deeper. Like he’s already thinking about later. About what this night could be.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You’re gonna spoil me, Bucky Barnes.”

His lips curve as he presses his forehead to yours.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

———

The restaurant is dimly lit and elegant, all low murmurs and soft clinks of silverware. Candlelight dances on the white tablecloth between you, casting gold on Bucky’s jaw—strong, clean-shaven, way too handsome for a man who claims he “doesn’t clean up well.”

He does. He really, really does.

That tie he promised to wear? Yeah, it’s perfectly knotted, navy blue to match his eyes. And the sleeves of his button-up? Rolled just enough to show a hint of his forearms.

And Bucky?

Bucky’s a goner.

He’s been staring at you since you walked into the room. Like, actually speechless. The moment you stepped out of the bedroom tonight in your dress—tight in all the right places, maybe a little backless, maybe with a slit high enough to kill a man—he made a sound. A tiny, quiet, reverent “fuck” that he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’d just smiled and said, “Told you I’d make you flustered.”

Now, over an hour into dinner, he still hasn’t recovered.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, already sliding his hand across the table toward yours.

You shake your head. “Nope. Perfectly warm.”

He nods, but his hand doesn’t go back to his wine glass. It lingers, then slowly drifts down… under the table.

And then you feel it—his palm resting gently on your bare thigh. Not groping. Not demanding. Just there. Warm. Intentional.

Your eyes flick to him, and he’s sipping his drink like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning slightly over your plate, “this is a very respectable restaurant, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just gives you a slow, easy smile. Then leans in slightly, voice a notch lower now—just for you.

„I told you, I used to be a charmer.” He shrugs.

His thumb strokes slow circles against your skin, just above your knee now. It’s not obscene. Not yet. But it’s loaded. And the heat in his eyes tells you everything—he’s ready.

Maybe not to take you home and rip your clothes off (well… maybe that too), but to have you. Finally. Properly. To show you how much he wants you in every possible way.

And god, you’ve never felt so desired. Or so fucking loved.

———

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… charged. The kind of silence that hums under your skin, thick with everything that didn’t need to be said at dinner. Your hand rests on his thigh, his knuckles grazing your knee as he drives, and the whole way back you can feel his gaze flicking to you at every red light.

When he parks in front of your building, he kills the engine and just sits there a second. One hand on the steering wheel. The other finding yours.

He doesn’t say anything—he just looks at you.

And you nod.

Yeah. You’re ready, too.

Inside, everything is soft.

You kick off your shoes. He hangs up his coat. His tie is already loosened, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that’s not from the wine—it’s from you.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid if he rushes, you’ll vanish.

But you don’t. You stay right there.

And when his hands come up to rest gently on your waist, you melt into him without hesitation.

His voice is low, quiet. “You sure?”

You nod again, reaching up to cup his face. “I’m sure.”

He exhales, almost like relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally—finally—he can let go.

Then he kisses you.

God, it’s different now. It’s not frantic or messy. It’s not lust without thought.

It’s slow. Deep. He kisses you like he’s mapping your mouth, relearning how to love someone through touch. His hands stay respectful, still at your waist, not drifting, not rushing. Just there.

You kiss him back, soft and patient, running your fingers through his hair. He shudders when you tug gently—just enough to pull a little sound from him, something low in his chest that makes your knees wobble.

He pulls back, barely, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

His hands finally move then—one gliding up your back, the other brushing along your jaw. His metal fingers are warm from your skin, and when they graze your cheek, you lean into them like instinct.

“I wanna take my time,” he says, voice hoarse now. “Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make sure you know how much I—how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“You do,” you whisper. “You already do.”

But you let him show you anyway.

He leans down, kisses your neck—slow and reverent—and then he starts walking you backward, one step at a time, toward the bedroom.

Your back hits the edge of the bed and Bucky pauses there, standing in front of you, breathing a little harder than he should be for someone who’s only kissed you.

But it’s not nerves anymore. Not fear. It’s want.

“C’mere,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

He steps in closer. Between your knees now. His hands find your thighs again, thumbs brushing along the fabric of your dress as if he’s still memorizing the shape of you.

He eases you back onto the bed like you’re made of glass—slow, steady, never breaking eye contact. His body follows, covering yours without pressing you down, one arm braced beside your head, the other tracing the line of your hip with reverence.

He kisses you again, slower than before. Softer. Less lips, more mouths—open and warm and lingering. You part your legs to cradle him, and the sigh that falls from his lips ghosts across your cheek like a prayer.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close.

His fingers reach up to your shoulder, brushing the strap of your dress aside, and he looks at you like he’s asking for permission without even saying a word.

You nod once.

So he slips the strap down. Then the other. His touch is featherlight—almost hesitant—but his hands don’t tremble this time.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

Your chest rises with the compliment. It’s not the first time he’s said it—but something about this moment… the way his eyes are locked on you, the way he swallows hard like he’s overwhelmed just seeing you… it hits different.

He tugs your dress down slowly, letting it fall to your waist, then lower, until you’re sitting there in nothing but your bra and panties. The air between you shifts—warmer now, heavier.

His hands brush your arms, your waist, your hips—everywhere but the places you want them most. But you let him go at his pace. You want him to feel in control.

“Can I…” he starts, fingers ghosting over your bra strap, “…take this off?”

You nod again. “Yeah. Please.”

So he does. Gently. Carefully. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

When your bra falls away, his breath catches.

“Jesus,” he whispers, eyes roaming your chest like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

When he undresses you fully, he does it slowly, dragging fabric down your legs with both hands, his metal fingers brushing over your skin with a tenderness that almost makes you ache.

You lift your hands to the hem of his shirt. “Your turn, Sergeant.”

He huffs a breath, a little grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You pull his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest, the lines of scars, the metal arm, the years carved into him. You trace your fingers over the dog tags that still hang around his neck.

His skin is hot against yours. Muscle and scar and heat. You run your hands down his back, memorizing every dip, every edge. He shivers at your touch, exhales into your mouth like he’s trying not to fall apart just from being this close. His dog tags clink as they fall between you, cold against your bare skin.

He kisses you again, and this time when he settles between your thighs, you feel him fully—heavy and hard, pressing against you.

He settles there like he belongs there—shoulders broad between your thighs, hands gentle on your hips as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours.

Then he speaks—low, reverent.

“Let me taste you first, sweetheart. Make you feel good.”

And god, you don’t even have the breath to respond. You just nod, breath hitching, thighs already trembling beneath his touch.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. Trails his lips upward, slow, soft, maddening. You can feel the warmth of his breath long before his mouth finds you—feel it ghost over your skin, spreading goosebumps down your spine.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still. But his touch is tender, steady. There’s nothing rushed in the way he moves. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

And when his mouth finally finds you—lips parting, tongue tasting—

You gasp.

Quiet, breathy, uncontrollable. Your fingers twist in the sheets, one hand reaching instinctively for him. He groans against you when you thread your fingers into his hair, and the sound of it vibrates straight through you.

He’s slow at first. Careful. Testing. Tasting.

Learning you.

But he’s good at learning.

He watches you, listens to your breath, the way your body reacts—what makes your hips jerk, what makes your thighs tighten around his shoulders. His tongue strokes long and slow, then soft flicks, and when he hears the change in your breathing—there, that’s what makes your voice break—he stays right there.

He moans again, deeper this time, and the way he grips your hips tightens just slightly. Like he can’t take it. Like he’s the one unraveling just from the way you taste, the way you sound.

The dog tags still hang from his neck, cool against your skin. His hair’s messy from your fingers, jaw flexing as he works, as he buries his face deeper into you like a man starved.

And all you can do is feel.

The rise of pleasure. The way it blooms low and hot and thick in your belly. The burn of it, the ache. Every stroke of his tongue makes it worse. Makes it better.

Your thighs begin to tremble. Your back arches.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

Not greedily. Worshipfully.

Like he’s not just tasting you—he’s loving you with his mouth. Showing you just how deeply he means it.

And when you finally come—soft and shaking, moaning into your hand, thighs trembling around his head—he stays with you. Rides it out. Holds you through it.

He only pulls away when your body begins to relax beneath him, when your hand goes soft in his hair, when your breath evens out in his ears.

Then he rises slowly, kisses your inner thigh once more, then your stomach, your ribs, your chest.

He kisses you like he’s grounding you.

And when he finally reaches your lips again, he just hovers there, noses brushing.

You smile.

He smiles back—soft, flushed, eyes dark with affection and want.

And then, finally, finally, he settles between your legs again—not to taste you this time, but to be with you. To love you. Completely.

His mouth brushes yours—soft, almost shy. But the hand that cups your face? That’s steady. Grounded. He strokes your cheek with his thumb like he’s feeling it all through his fingertips.

Your legs wrap around his hips without thinking.

And when his hips settle against yours, when you feel the hard press of him, your breath hitches all over again.

He groans quietly—deep in his throat. The sound of it is raw. Barely controlled.

You reach between you, fingertips ghosting over his length. He shudders—actually shudders—and buries his face in your neck like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this. Wants you.

You guide him to you.

And he pauses. Just for a second.

His forehead presses to yours and his voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is low and hoarse.

“…You okay?”

You nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

When Bucky sinks into you, it’s slow—but the depth? It knocks the air from your lungs.

He presses in all the way, until you feel him everywhere, and he stays there for a second—deep, thick, pulsing inside you while his breath stutters against your mouth.

Your mouth parts. His name catches in your throat. The stretch is deep and full and perfect, and for a moment, all either of you can do is feel.

He stills at the bottom, buried inside you completely. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched, like he’s trying not to lose it already.

Then he pulls back just a a little.

You moan into his shoulder. Fingers gripping the sheets. He groans, too—but it’s quiet, choked, like it costs him to keep this slow.

You’re soaked. Warm and clenching around him. And he groans when you tighten, like the feel of you is almost too much.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You feel… baby, you feel so good.”

His hips roll—smooth and deliberate—and you arch beneath him with a soft moan. He starts to move then, slow but filthy, every thrust long and deep, like he wants to stay inside you as long as he can.

His hand grips your thigh, pulling it higher around his waist. The shift makes his next thrust hit deeper—you gasp, and Bucky curses low into your neck.

“Shit, that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl. Just like that.”

The sounds between you are quiet but thick—breath and skin and need. The soft slap of his hips against yours. The low whimper you didn’t mean to let out when he hits that spot just right.

Your nails scrape his back, your heels press into him, needing more—more of his heat, his weight, the drag of him pulling out and sliding right back in, making you stretch and flutter and lose your rhythm

He makes you feel it—every thrust, every stroke, every trembling inhale.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, tilt your hips up, chasing the friction, and his rhythm stutters.

He’s panting now, buried in your chest, hips moving in slow, punishing strokes that leave you trembling.

Every sound you make—every whimper, gasp, broken moan—he drinks it in like it’s what keeps him going.

His hand finds yours above your head. He laces your fingers together. Holds you there.

Grounds himself in you.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice all grit and heat, “so tight around me, fuck—feels like I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You can’t even speak.

Just nod. Moan. Cling to him.

Your body is burning, slick and hot and aching for release again, and he knows. He feels the way you tighten, the way you start chasing his thrusts, hips rolling up against him.

His pace stutters. Picks up. Just a little. Just enough.

“Gonna cum for me?” he pants, his lips at your jaw, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “Yeah? Gonna fall apart on my cock, baby?”

You cry out—soft and desperate—and he loves it. Groans low, grinding into you just right, fucking you through it as your walls flutter and clench, dragging him toward the edge with you.

“You’re so perfect,” he rasps, right against your ear, hips snapping a little harder now. “So fuckin’ perfect, holy shit—”

You’re spiraling again, thighs shaking, breath hitching—

And then you break.

Your whole body arches off the bed as you cum around him, gasping his name, your nails digging into his back.

He chokes on a moan and buries himself deep.

And follows you with a shudder that rocks through him—his hips stalling, cock twitching inside you as he spills with a low, broken growl.

“Fuck—oh my god, baby—”

He holds you tight through it. Hand in your hair. Face in your neck. Heart pounding against yours.

You’re still tangled up in each other, the sheets barely covering you, your head tucked beneath Bucky’s chin as you catch your breath.

Everything’s warm. His skin, his breath, the way his arms hold you like you’re something he earned.

You shift a little, snuggle closer. “Seriously, James?” you mutter, voice muffled against his chest. “You’re so fucking good. I can’t believe you were actually insecure you forgot how to have sex.”

He lets out a groan—somewhere between bashful and bashful-aggressive.

“Doll…”

“No, like—seriously.” You sit up just enough to look at him, eyes wide and dramatic now. “That was insane. Like, are you sure you haven’t been practicing with a pillow or something while I wasn’t around?”

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, one hand dragging over his face. His ears are pink. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin. He’s blushing. This gorgeous, 110-year-old supersoldier with arms the size of your thighs and a tongue that just rewired your soul is blushing.

“I mean, the way you—” You gesture vaguely at your lower half. “You knew exactly what to do.”

He looks like he might implode.

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” he mumbles, avoiding your eyes. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“Oh, baby,” you say, all fond and exasperated. You crawl back on top of him, straddling his stomach, hands on his flushed chest. “That wasn’t luck. That was talent.”

He groans again, letting his head fall back on the pillow—but his hands settle instinctively on your hips, keeping you there like he doesn’t actually want you to stop.

“Don’t do this to me,” he pleads, but you can see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m genuinely impressed, Bucky,” you say, mock-serious now. “Like, maybe you should’ve been cocky about it.”

He shoots you a look. “I can’t tell If this is your way of mocking me or you really mean it.”

You giggle—hard. Collapse onto his chest and wrap your arms around his middle while he sighs dramatically.

But he’s smiling.

You nuzzle your face into his neck and soften, voice low now, honest.

“You were amazing,” you whisper. “Like… beyond. You didn’t just make me feel good, Buck. You made me feel loved.”

That gets him quiet.

One hand slips up your back. His metal one curls protectively around your waist. He kisses your temple like he can’t help it.

“Only ever wanted to make you feel that,” he murmurs.

And now you’re blushing.

You both lie there a while—grinning, tangled, all warm limbs and wandering fingers.

“…So, round two?” you say sweetly.

He barks a laugh, grabs you around the waist, and rolls you beneath him.

“Bet.”

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @thatsbucknasty @buckytakethewheel @buckybarneswife125

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ STILL OURS

dad!hwangjunho x mom!reader

based on this request

words: 980

warnings: post season 3 squid game. hurt/comfort. found family. healing. sudden parenthood.

enjoy! :)

at first, it was overwhelming—more than you ever imagined. you never really expected to be a parent, especially not like this, with a tiny baby suddenly in your life, completely unplanned. maybe you had talked about having kids once, maybe far in the future, but this? this was different. raw and unprepared.

fear wrapped itself around your chest like a tight band, and sometimes, anger flickered beneath it. you and junho argued quietly, a few sharp words here and there, mostly because neither of you knew what you were doing. changing diapers was a mystery, decoding those tiny cries a frustrating puzzle. “i don’t know what to do!” you’d cried out one night, voice breaking in the silence of the bathroom, tears welling, ready to spill. it was nearly 3am, exhaustion creeping in like a shadow. “she’s not even… she’s not my baby. i can’t—i don’t—”

junho’s hands found your face, gentle but steady, wiping away the tears as he searched your eyes. “hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured softly. his own eyes were a bit red—lack of sleep, maybe, or perhaps his heart breaking a little too. he pulled you close, resting your head against his chest. “i know it’s hard. i’m scared too.” he kissed your temple, quiet and reassuring. “you’re doing better than you realize,” he whispered, rocking you both slowly, his voice barely more than a breath. it was a small comfort, but enough to keep you going. neither of you had a manual, but somehow you managed—you bought diapers and cribs, filled the nursery with tiny clothes and toys. all the money you had on that card went to her, never to yourselves.

months passed. you learned. between youtube tutorials and parenting classes, you found your rhythm. you figured out how to hold her without flinching, what her cries meant—hunger, tiredness, discomfort. you recognized her smiles, the way she calmed when you hummed.

she fell asleep on junho’s chest more times than you could count, and he never dared to move. just kept his hand on her back, breathing slow and steady. you, on the other hand, ended up with milk stains all over your shirt at odd hours, rocking her gently until she drifted off. junho would watch from the doorway, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “you’re doing great,” he’d whisper, stepping closer to wrap his arms around your waist, his chest against your back as you rocked yoo-ri. “and looking good doing it.” his voice was rough, tired but affectionate, lips brushing your temple. you laughed softly. “seriously? milk stains and messy hair? junho, i haven’t had a full night’s sleep in months.”

“so what?” he grinned, his lips warm against your skin. “can i call you hot mom now?”

you elbowed him playfully. “ow! that hurts.” he chuckled, “okay, okay. you’re a little menace, just like her.” and the baby smiled, as if understanding every word. she grew slowly, steadily. when she started crawling, junho baby-proofed the whole apartment, eyes never leaving her for a second.

“she’s not going anywhere, love. sit down for a minute,” you told him more than once, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“what if she gets into something dangerous?”

“oh, she will,” you said, and he just stared at her all the more carefully. her first steps were magic. you were playing games in the living room, laughter spilling from her lips, when junho came in, keys in hand, slipping off his shoes. crouching near the door, arms open wide, he called softly, “hi, sweet girl.”

and she stood—wobbly and unsteady, feet barely cooperating. “oh my god, junho!” you breathed, excitement shining in your eyes. “come here, yoori, come to appa.” her little legs carried her to him, and when she reached his arms, he lifted her high, planting kisses on her cheeks, never letting go for a full ten seconds. “you did it.”

she didn’t look like either of you—at least, not exactly. but there was something unmistakably hers in her character, a blend of the two of you. maybe a nose like yours, some soft features that could only be from her mom, but her own little spark that made her unique. you loved her fiercely, fiercely enough to call her your own from the moment she was placed in this room. maybe one day she’d understand, maybe she wouldn’t. but when she turned four, playing with junho, building a little fort in the living room, you walked in holding a positive test.

a new beginning.

you knelt down in front of your toddler, showing her the tiny lines on the stick. her eyes lit up, a huge smile spreading across her face. “i’m gonna be the best big sister!” she declared proudly. and she was—your first child, your heart, the one you chose to raise with every ounce of love you had.

masterlist

requests are open!

tag list: @namgyucat @namsgyu @threerxcha

[p1girlfriend]

protective!f1 grid x reader

lando norris a guy touches your waist at an event and Lando sees red you blink and suddenly he’s between you two, arm firm around you

“did you not see her face? she was uncomfortable.” his tone is calm. too calm. you swear his hand doesn’t leave your lower back all night “stay close, yeah? just so I don’t have to commit a crime.”

oscar piastri someone makes a slick comment about you on social media he quotes it with a “say it again and I’ll have your name on legal paperwork :)” in real life? he holds your hand tighter in crowded places, body always angled toward you he doesn’t get loud — he gets scary quiet and later whispers,

“no one touches you. no one talks about you like that.”

charles leclerc you’re flustered during a chaotic media event he steps in front of the cameras like a shield, takes your hand and mutters in French,

“breathe. i’ve got you.” he never raises his voice, but the look in his eyes shuts everyone up if someone’s rude? he stares them down like “say it again. i dare you.” and then walks you away, brushing your hair back like “they don’t matter. you do.”

carlos sainz he hears someone say “you’re just dating him for clout” he stops in his tracks. turns.

“care to repeat that?” one hand around your waist, the other not shaking because he’s holding it together he’s got “don’t mess with what’s mine” energy and later tells you, “you never have to defend yourself. not when I’m here.”

lewis hamilton he sees you uncomfortable across the room and is by your side in three seconds flat

“you okay, love?” says it sweet — but his eyes scan the situation like a bodyguard if someone pushes a boundary, he steps in calm. firm. deadly “respect her, or leave.” and then soft again, thumb on your cheek “you come before everything.”

daniel ricciardo someone makes a crude joke about you he laughs at first — then stops the room goes quiet

“nah, mate. not her. not ever.” later he cups your face and murmurs, “no one talks about my girl like that. i’d burn the room down first.” protective but still smiling still unhinged enough to scare someone into wetting their pants

max verstappen says nothing when someone steps too close just walks up behind you, grabs your hand, and glares at the guy until he backs off deadass pulls you into his lap in front of the entire paddock if needed

“no one gets near you. not without my eyes on them.” he doesn't even realize how territorial he sounds you: “...you good?” him: “i’m perfect. you’re safe. that’s what matters.”

gabriel bortoleto soft but FIRM a man stares too long and Gabi immediately shifts in front of you

“can I help you?” he doesn’t like to cause scenes — but he will if it means protecting your comfort he holds you for a long time after “i saw your face. i know what that felt like. i’m sorry.” kisses your knuckles and mutters in Portuguese about how lucky he is you’re his

franco colapinto protective in a quiet fury kind of way someone bumps you at a party and doesn’t apologize he’s immediately grabbing your hand and pulling you away

“i’ll make sure you don’t have to deal with that again.” later: “i don’t want anyone near you who doesn’t treat you like you’re gold.” and he means it.

lance stroll he doesn’t say much he just appears, silently loops his arm around your shoulders and glares at whoever’s making you feel uncomfortable when you’re safe again, he presses a soft kiss to your temple

“if you ever feel off, you tell me. even if it’s small. especially if it’s small.” would literally throw hands in a designer suit if someone crossed a line

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Clear as Day

Summary: you have the ability to see the worst thing someone’s ever done just by looking at them—and when you join the Avengers, Bucky avoids you like the plague. You finally corner him, you tell him the truth: when you look at him, you don’t see a killer. Because the Soldier wasn’t him, there's no darkness in his eyes.

Bucky Barnes x Reader (slow burn, established tension)Warnings: This is angst but it gets fluffy I promise. There is mention of trauma mentions, survivor's guilt, canon violence alluded to.

A/N: I believe this is gender neutral PLEASE let me know if I missed something and it isn't, and I'll fix the tags!

You’d grown up thinking your power was a curse. Your power made people uncomfortable. That was fine. You were used to it.

It didn’t make you stronger or faster. It didn’t come with flashy lights or impressive combat advantage. Instead, it made people nervous and ashamed. Made them afraid of you. When you looked at someone, like really looked at them, you saw the worst thing they’d ever done. Not hypotheticals or intentions, but actual history. Their worst sin, stamped into their energy like smoke on skin. It didn’t matter if they were sorry. It didn’t matter if it was decades ago. It was there. You saw it. You always saw it.

Some people were easy. Their worst was breaking a heart they shouldn’t have or stealing something as a kid. Some of them were just getting caught lying or cheating. Things that made you frown, sometimes, but didn’t make you sick. But others…some were harder. Some haunted you.

That’s why, when you walked into the Avengers compound for the first time and your gaze accidentally brushed over Bucky Barnes, he flinched like you’d hit him.

***************************************

Bucky Barnes was the only person you didn’t look at by accident. You didn’t dare. The first time you felt his presence in the compound; quiet, heavy, magnetic like a stormcloud you looked away so fast it made your head spin. And you kept doing that. Avoiding his gaze like it would burn. Because you figured, if you were scared of what you’d see…He must be terrified, too.

And you weren’t wrong. The first time your eyes passed over him, he flinched. Like you’d hit a nerve. After that, he avoided you. Left rooms when you entered. Walked the long way around the common area just to avoid the chance of bumping into you. At first, you didn’t push.

You understood. Really, you did.

But after three months of this; three months filled with polite smiles, skittish exits, and quiet corridors, something inside you couldn’t take it anymore. Because it wasn’t just discomfort. It was the clear grief in his eyes. The way he carried himself like a man who still deserves punishment, even in a world that claimed to have forgiven him.

It hurt to see. Especially when he didn’t deserve it. So when there was one quiet, rainy evening. A rare lull between missions.

You found him alone in the common room, fiddling with a half-repaired watch, his hair half-tied and a crease between his brows. He didn’t hear you come in until you were already standing behind the couch. He didn’t look up until your shadow stretched across the table he’s working on. The moment he registered it was you, he jolted like you were danger personified and stood up, already taking a step backward.

“Bucky,” you said gently. “No—please,” you said quickly, holding up a hand. “You don’t have to go. I just… I need to tell you something.”

He paused, jaw clenched, fists curling at his sides. He looked at the floor. The exit. Anywhere but you. “I’m just giving you space.”

“I really appreciate it. You’ve been giving me space for months,” you said softly, trying to meet his eyes without pushing. “I think it’s time we actually talk.”

He didn’t sit down. Just stood there, silent, guarded.

“I know what you think I see when I look at you,” you continued. “You think I see everything. The missions. The blood. And I’ll hate you for it.”

He still wouldn’t look at you. “Isn’t that what your power does?”

“Not exactly,” you said, stepping a little closer. “I see the worst you’ve done. Not what’s been done to you. Not what others forced on you. I see the moment someone gave in to their worst self.”

He swallowed, hard.

You kept your voice even. Kind. “Bucky… I’ve never seen the Soldier in you. Not once.”

That threw him.

He blinked, confused. “You’re lying.”

You shake your head like that moment would help calm him. “Bucky, I've seen murder. I’ve seen people who enjoyed it. People who didn’t care. People who still don’t. When I look at you? When I see you? All I see is a teenager who told his mama he loved liver and onions so she wouldn’t feel bad about the dinner she made. That’s it.”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. “What?”

“You hated it. She was so proud, and you didn’t want to hurt her feelings.” You smiled gently. “That’s it. That’s the worst thing I see.”

Finally—finally—his eyes lifted. Shocked. Uncertain. As if he didn’t believe it, didn’t dare to.

He opened his mouth, closed it again. His voice was rough. “That’s not possible.”

“I’m serious,” you said, stepping in front of him now. “The Soldier? He’s not you. He was a mask they forced onto you. The Winter Soldier and you… you’re not the same person.” You stepped closer. “The Soldier didn’t make choices. He was a weapon. You’re a victim. He didn’t choose what he did. You didn’t choose what they made you do. When I look at you… I don’t see a killer. I don’t see a weapon. I see someone who lied to make sure his mom kept feeling happy and proud of the dinner she made. I just see someone who didn’t want to hurt anyone, even with his words.”

His eyes were wet. “But it’s still me.”

He stared at you, stunned. Silent.

His expression broke. Cracked wide open. Like you’d hit a fault line that had been waiting to rupture for decades. “You don’t see the Hydra stuff?” he asked, voice rough, like gravel. “Not even—?”

“No.” You shook your head. “None of it. Not a glimpse.”

Bucky looked away, jaw clenched hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the relief pressing into his chest. His hands trembled faintly. “But I remember it.”

“I know,” you whispered as you reached out, resting a hand over his. “But it wasn’t you. I know what guilt looks like, Bucky. And you carry enough of it for ten lifetimes. But none of it—none of it—belongs to you.”

His eyes snapped to yours, glassy now. His breathing was stuck in his chest, his mind spinning in a way that made him unable to speak. If he breathed would you look at him and tell him you’re joking? That you do see a monster when you see him? He is in the middle of shaking that thought off when you continued talking.

“But that’s why I wanted to tell you. Because you – you keep walking around like you’re radioactive. Like I’m gonna look at you and just fall apart. But Bucky…” You stepped forward and reached for his hand. “There’s nothing toxic in you. Not where it counts.”

His hand hesitated before wrapping around you tightly, clinging to you, metal and flesh. Warm. Human.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it for years. You stayed like that for a while. Just in the silence. Holding each other. He didn’t pull away for a while. Neither did you. And eventually, the tension bled out of his shoulders. He pulled away and sat back down at the table, watch still open beside him, and gave the tiniest nod toward the chair next to him. You took it. He didn’t speak again for several minutes. Just picked up the tiny screwdriver, working quietly. But his posture was softer now. Like your words had peeled away a layer of armor he didn’t know he was still wearing.

After a while, he cleared his throat. “You really never saw anything else?” 

You smiled. “Nope. Well unless you count that time you and Steve tried to flirt with girls using math jokes.”

 He groaned. “Oh God.”

“‘Are you made of copper and tellurium?’” you recited with a grin. “‘Because you are Cu-Te.’”

He buried his face in his hands. “I hate you.”

“You do not,” you teased. “You loved that joke.” He peeked out from between his fingers, eyes crinkling just a little. “Okay…maybe I thought it was clever.” You laughed softly. “See? You’re still in there.”

“Never left,” he said, and then, after a pause: “Just forgot about me for a while.” You nodded. “Well… if you ever need reminding, I’m pretty good at seeing people clearly.” His fingers brushed yours again, this time on purpose. “Yeah. I think you are.”

********************************

From that day on, Bucky didn’t flinch when he saw you. He didn’t avoid the room. And eventually—eventually—he didn’t avoid your touch, either.

Not when he brushed your hand during morning coffee. Not when he passed you a tool in the lab. And definitely not when he reached for you on the couch, late one night a few months after the original conversation, and asked softly:

“Do you still see the kid who hated liver and onions?” 

You smiled, heart full.

 “Every single time.”

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

Tagging:

@luannastylinsonlupin

@rockmelikeahurricaneee

@freakyflora

@nishinoyastoes

@zzz000eee

@nubecita040

@awesompawsum

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER ELEVEN

WARNINGS — Unprotected sex, virginity loss, virginity kink, dirty talk, tears, aftercare, power imbalance, possessive behavior, emotional intensity, 18+ only.

The barracks are quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. The air is thick with the threat of Rafe’s reassignment, your dad’s words still ringing in your ears—“You’ll be on a transport by the end of the week.” You haven’t slept since, haven’t eaten, haven’t been able to think about anything but him. Rafe. Your Rafe. The man who’s unraveled you, piece by piece, until you’re not sure who you are without him.

You’re standing outside his quarters, your sandals scuffing the gravel, your hands twisting the hem of your sundress. It’s late—too late—and you’re breaking every rule just by being here, but you don’t care. Not anymore. Not after the way he looked at you in your dad’s office, broken and desperate, saying he couldn’t let you go. You’ve made up your mind, and it scares you, but it’s the kind of fear that burns hot, that makes you feel alive.

You knock, soft and quick, and the curtain parts almost instantly. Rafe’s there, shirtless, his dog tags glinting in the dim light, his cargo pants slung low on his hips. His eyes are wild, like he hasn’t slept either, like he’s been waiting for you. “Sunshine,” he says, voice rough, low, like he’s afraid to say your name too loud. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You step inside before he can stop you, the curtain falling shut behind you, cutting you off from the world. “I need to talk to you,” you say, your voice trembling but sure. “I need… I need you.”

He freezes, his hands halfway to you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or push you away. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it, just a raw edge, like he’s fighting himself. “Your dad’s already got my ass in a sling. If he catches you—”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, stepping closer, your hands shaking but your eyes locked on his. “I don’t care about him, or the rules, or anything. I want you, Rafe. I want… all of you.”

His breath catches, and for a moment, he just stares, like he’s trying to process what you’re saying. His eyes search yours, dark and intense, and you see it—the shift, the hunger, the reverence. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. “You’re not ready for that.”

“I am,” you say, and it’s the most certain you’ve ever been. “I’m scared, but I’m ready. I want it to be you.”

He steps closer, so close you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence. His hand lifts, cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, and it’s gentle, so gentle it makes your chest ache, but there’s something primal in his eyes, something that says he’s holding back a storm. “You sure, sunshine?” he murmurs, his voice soft but heavy, like he’s giving you one last chance to run. “Cause once we do this, there’s no going back. You’re mine. Completely.”

You nod, tears pricking your eyes, not from fear but from the weight of it, the truth of it. “I’m already yours,” you whisper, and it’s like a dam breaks.

He kisses you, hard and desperate, his hands pulling you against him, his mouth claiming yours like he’s starving. You kiss him back, your hands fisting his dog tags, pulling him closer, because you need him, need this, need to feel him in a way you’ve never felt anyone before. He groans into your mouth, a low, reverent sound, and lifts you, carrying you to his bunk, his lips never leaving yours.

He sets you down, gentle but firm, and you’re trembling, your dress riding up your thighs as you sit on the edge of the mattress. He kneels in front of you, his hands sliding up your legs, pushing the fabric higher, and his eyes are on you, worshipping, like you’re something sacred. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice rough with want, with something deeper. “So perfect. And you’re giving this to me?”

You nod, your throat tight, and he groans, his forehead pressing against your thigh, his breath hot against your skin. “Fuck, sunshine,” he murmurs. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

He stands, pulling you with him, and kisses you again, slower this time, reverent, like he’s savoring every second. His hands slide under your dress, lifting it over your head, and you’re bare except for your panties, your skin prickling under his gaze. He steps back, just for a moment, his eyes raking over you, and you feel exposed, vulnerable, but wanted, so wanted.

“Lie back,” he says, voice low, commanding, and you do, your body moving like it’s his to control. He strips off his pants, his tags clinking as he climbs onto the bunk, his weight settling over you, heavy and warm. You’re trembling, your heart racing, but you’re not scared, not really, because it’s Rafe, and you trust him, even if you shouldn’t.

He kisses you again, soft and slow, his hands roaming—your neck, your breasts, your hips—learning you, claiming you. “Gonna take care of you,” he murmurs against your lips, and it’s a promise, a vow, filthy and sacred all at once. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby. But it’s gonna hurt a little first. You okay with that?”

You nod, tears in your eyes, and he kisses them away, his lips gentle on your cheeks. “Good girl,” he says, and you whimper, because those words, that tone, they’re everything to you now. He pulls your panties down, slow and deliberate, and you’re bare, completely bare, for him.

He spreads your legs, his hands firm but careful, and you feel him, hard and heavy, pressing against you. Your breath catches, and he pauses, his eyes locked on yours. “You tell me to stop, I stop,” he says, voice serious, but you shake your head, because stopping is the last thing you want.

“I want this,” you whisper, your hands gripping his shoulders, his tags cool against your skin. “I want you.”

He groans, low and primal, and pushes into you, slow at first, careful, but it hurts, sharp and burning, and you gasp, your nails digging into his skin. “Shh,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, your jaw, his voice soft but filthy. “Relax, sunshine. Let me in. You’re so fucking tight, so perfect for me.”

You try to breathe, try to relax, but it’s overwhelming, the stretch, the fullness, the way he’s filling you, claiming you. Tears slip down your cheeks, not from pain but from everything—the intensity, the closeness, the way he’s looking at you like you’re his world. He pauses, letting you adjust, his thumb brushing your clit, slow and deliberate, and you whimper, your hips bucking instinctively.

“That’s it,” he says, voice rough, reverent. “You feel that? That’s me, baby. All of me. You’re doing so fucking good.”

He moves then, slow and deep, and the pain starts to fade, replaced by something else—something hot, something electric. You moan, soft and desperate, and he groans, his lips brushing your ear. “Fuck, you sound so pretty,” he says, his voice filthy, dripping with want. “So mine. You’re mine, sunshine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, your hands clutching him, your body arching into his, because it’s true, it’s so true it hurts. He moves faster, deeper, his control slipping, and you feel it—the primal edge, the way he’s taking you, ruining you, just like he promised.

“Gonna make you come,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit, his hips snapping harder now, and it’s too much, too intense, but you want it, need it. “Gonna make you mine forever, baby. You want that? Want me to fuck you until you can’t think about anything else?”

“Yes,” you gasp, tears streaming, your body trembling, on the edge of something you’ve never felt before. “Please, Rafe, please.”

He growls, low and possessive, and pushes deeper, harder, his mouth on your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “Come for me,” he says, voice rough and commanding. “Come on my cock, sunshine. Show me you’re mine.”

You shatter, your body convulsing, your vision blurring, a sob tearing from your throat as you come, hard and overwhelming, his name on your lips. He groans, his movements jerky, and follows you over, spilling inside you, hot and deep, his breath ragged against your skin.

For a moment, you’re both still, your chests heaving, his weight heavy but comforting, grounding you. He doesn’t pull out, just stays there, inside you, his lips brushing your forehead, your cheeks, your tears. “You did so good,” he murmurs, soft now, gentle, his hands stroking your hair, your back. “So fucking perfect, baby. My girl.”

You’re crying, not from pain but from the weight of it, the way he’s looking at you, holding you, like you’re something precious. He shifts, pulling out slowly, and you wince, but he’s there, shushing you, pulling you against his chest. He grabs his blanket, draping it over you, and lies back, holding you close, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“You okay?” he asks, voice soft but still rough, still him. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, nestled against him, your tears slowing. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “It was… it was perfect.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and kisses your temple. “Yeah, it was,” he says, and there’s something in his voice, something reverent, like he’s as wrecked as you are. “You’re mine now, sunshine. All mine.”

You nod, your eyes heavy, your body spent, and you feel safe, wanted, loved, even if it’s a love that’s filthy, possessive, dangerous. You don’t care. You’re his, and he’s yours, and nothing—not your dad, not the military, not the whole fucking world—can take that away.

You fall asleep in his arms, his tags cool against your skin, his breath steady in your ear, and you know, deep down, you’re never going back.

[thehoneybeestings]

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞!𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Word Count: 1k Content/Warnings: nsfw, porn w no/little plot, brothel worker!reader x service top!sev, bottom!reader, fem reader (no anatomy mentioned), masochist!reader, traffic light system A/N: based on this post! credits to @no1jinxer for the idea! it's in the name; sev is high on shimmer fucks the shit out of you. enjoy <3

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Sevika on Shimmer, who usually refuses to set foot into the brothel under the influence of its effects 

୨ৎ But tonight, she’s got a job to do

୨ৎ She’s been tracking a rival chem-baron for a few weeks now, and it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that he frequented the brothel

୨ৎ So, she struck up a deal with Babette; “I’ll pay you and your girls double for the next three months if you’ll give me a ring the next time he shows up.”

୨ৎ “You’d pay me twice to see Y/n, anyway,” Babette scoffs; but ultimately, they shake on it, and the rest is a waiting game

୨ৎ When Babette does give her the call, she’s there in less than 10 minutes, and he’s dead in less than five

୨ৎ She doesn’t typically let work get personal, but when she’d heard from a few of Babette’s girls that this chem-baron tended to get a bit too rough with them, it was hard not to let anger fuel the job more than she typically would

୨ৎ And as soon as he’s been taken care of, she makes her rounds, peeking her head into every open door to ensure that everyone’s okay

୨ৎ When she makes it to you, she releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding upon finding you arranging pillows on the velvet couch, unassuming as ever

୨ৎ “Hey, doll,” she sighs. “You okay in here?”

୨ৎ You’re calling her name in excitement before you can help it, head whipping around to look at her; and when you do, you find her in a state you’ve never seen; only heard of 

୨ৎ Her copper arm hums with energy, working hard to circulate the unmistakable glow of shimmer through its workings and into her bloodstream

୨ৎ Her scar glows with the same hue, glittering like hot coals of magenta

୨ৎ And her eyes; lilac pulses in their irises, her gaze even more alluring now than it usually is

୨ৎ  You don’t realize your own eyes have gone wide until she breaks the silence with a voice raspy from exertion 

୨ৎ “I know,” she begins, almost apologetically, “I don’t normally let folks see me like this unless they’re about to get their shit rocked-”

୨ৎ “It’s okay,” you quickly interrupt, shaking your head. “I mean, I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

୨ৎ She nods tentatively 

୨ৎ “Okay… and you’re alright?”

୨ৎ “I’m just fine, Vika. Come, sit,”

୨ৎ And when you take a step forward, she takes one back

୨ৎ “Listen… I can’t ask you for anything tonight. Not when I’m still riled up.”

୨ৎ You don’t take another step forward, but your eyes stay locked onto hers, your voice steady

୨ৎ “Do you want something?” 

୨ৎ She scoffs, dark lips stretching up into a wicked grin

୨ৎ “Baby, it’s you. Of course I do, but I don’t wanna hurt ya.” 

୨ৎ She doesn’t miss the way your lips quirk up into a smirk of their own

୨ৎ “Three months of comin’ to see me… and you haven't figured out that I like a little pain?”

୨ৎ Her face falls- morphs into something serious, something dangerous- and she raises her brows in a silent inquiry:

୨ৎ ‘You sure you know what you’re asking for?’

୨ৎ The cock of your own brow in return says:

୨ৎ ‘You have no idea.’

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

୨ৎ Sevika on Shimmer, who never would have thought such a sweet thing like you would turn out to be such a masochist

୨ৎ And when you’re begging like that for her to mark you up, throw you around, leave you sore… what kind of service top would she be to deny you?

୨ৎ Eventually, she starts showing up with an extra cartridge of shimmer, loving the way you go dumb for her when she triggers it and fucks you into tomorrow

୨ৎ It takes her a while to get comfortable with being as rough as you want her to be, not because she doesn’t want to, but because the last thing she wants is to hurt you in a way that suddenly isn’t fun anymore

୨ৎ But, just as always, you’re more than patient, and make her feel more than safe to explore this new facet of her time spent with you

୨ৎ She’ll bite down, and you say harder, she’ll pull your hair, and you say rougher, she fucks you deep, and you say deeper; until she knows just how limp you really want to be by the end of the night

୨ৎ And she has to admit; it’s nice

୨ৎ Really nice

୨ৎ She’s usually already pent up from the bullshit of her day’s work when she comes to see you, but when she’s pent up and wired off the purple substance flooding her system?

୨ৎ She can’t deny that blowing off all that steam in the form of ravaging you is quite the gift you've given her

୨ৎ Of course, Sevika still will not sleep with you if she’s too high to rein herself in the moment you need her to, and as much as she checks in with you when she’s not using it, expect twice the requests for your color and triple the orders to remind her of your safeword when she is

୨ৎ But, damn… quite frankly, you give her a run for her money, and that isn’t easy to do

୨ৎ By the time she’s done with you, you’re littered in bite marks and bruises, legs trembling and face tear-stained

୨ৎ She finds that aftercare with you makes the come down off of shimmer so much easier to handle, too; that pressing kisses to every mark she’s made and whispering praises in your ear as she wipes away at your shuddering form helps ground her just as much

୨ৎ And then, she sleeps like a Gods-damned baby

୨ৎ She never falls asleep at the brothel; or so she thought, but here she is, being woken up by an angel in pink lingerie letting her know that it’s closing time

୨ৎ Of course, she flips out when you tell her she’s been asleep for hours, but you refuse to wake her up and kick her out, caring more that she catches up on the sleep you know she’s not getting than the money you could've made in those hours

୨ৎ But, it’s not like the money matters; she pays double for you, now

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

[bruciemilf]

Still very haunted by the idea of a young! Justice League AU.

They come across each other with an intentional, common goal. It feels like coincidence, but it also doesn’t. It’s destiny at work.

When Clark is 18, spoon-fed good manners, tall like a tree who thinks it’s a flower, sunshine laughing in his blood, he gently carries two cows back in the barn when he hears it.

Buildings decomposing. Faint, blaring cars dying. Soft whispers of ‘please please— oh god — I don’t want to die— what is that? What is that?!’

Metropolis cracks open. There’s a wound in the sky the police, the army, cannot heal. He tried calling. No one picked up.

It’s wide and scary and red and bleeds violently and Clark is so scared — but if he can survive being Perry White’s intern, he can survive this.

He grabs his Pa’s red flannel, ties it across his midsection, and flies faster than fear.

Clark learns two things that day.

1) He hits good, but he can’t throw a punch to save his life.

2) The scariest boy in the world has eyes that could make oceans cry.

Dressed in tactical gear, cobalt blue, bat shaped symbol drawn in neon across his chest. Runny eyeliner, smudged, mixed in stale blood running down his temple.

Glare so strong it could bury God.

The Bat carries an injured civilian on his back and two kids under his arms. Looks at Clark like someone seeing a shooting star for the first time.

Clark’s heart caves in on itself. Say something cool.

“I like your — blood.”

Clark hopes the next alien thing leaking from that gaping hole puts him out of his misery.

The boy blinks.

“How hard can you hit?”

Clark gulps. He gets a truck thrown at him and he stops it with one hand. He doesn’t even look at it.

“Pretty hard.”

—-

Barry Allen doesn’t arrive into battle. He trips into it.

Fifteen. Physics homework slams against settling air when he stops. Blur of red and shaking like a live wire. His sneakers light up when he walks.

“Hi! I’m Barry! Does anyone have a granola bar?”

Bruce blinks. He hands him one from the emergency compartment.

“Did everyone see that thing?! I mean — you can’t really miss it, I saw it from my house and thought ‘oh that’s weird I better go check it out’ and — IS THAT BLOOD?!”

Bruce, flat, “Not ours. Entirely.”

“Oh, okay. Coolcoolcoolcoolcool. “

Clark — carefully — moves Barry out of the way so he doesn’t get impaled by a car. Barry screams.

—-

Hal Jordan, 17 and 4 months, is five bad jokes in aviator glasses and holds the world by his teeth.

He sees Metropolis burn from Jupiter.

He inherited a dying wish from a good man, got chosen by a purpose three times bigger than him, and begs the council to go.

They have to debate first.

Hal can’t sit around to decide if this is the day he’s gonna be brave.

He crashes into battle like a green meteor, blasts Britney Spears from his ring (the battle remix), and pretends he’s not rotting with fear.

“Green Lantern, willing and able! No need to panic, people! Coast City represent! Let’s GOOOO— IS THAT A BROKEN LEG?!”

Bruce, half his face shielded by Kevlar, swallows a molar. “Fractured.”

Hal throws up a little. Clark cries. Barry looks a sugar rush away from exploding.

“You call yourself Green Lantern?” Bruce raises a brow, like he’s speaking to the human version of a typo.

“Yeah? What do you call yourself? Nickelback and Trauma?”

“The Bat.”

“…Man? Boy? Customised?”

“I can’t call myself Batman yet. If I do it now, it won’t be chronologically accurate.”

—

Oliver Queen, 17, watches it on the news.

He’s got a meeting at 11, a tan at 1, a court hearing for punching a senator at 3, and a half broken bow from last night’s patrol.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to die if he goes.

He knows he’ll regret it more if he doesn’t.

“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

Clark takes a breath, raises two fists he doesn’t know what to do with, and looks up to a dying sky like he’s begging it to last longer. He doesn’t answer.

He just looks at Bruce, summer blue eyes wide, fear melted over.

“I’m not hitting until you do.”

So Bruce does.

—-

A girl, taller than all of them, older than all of them, grin sharper than her sword, pierces through battle like she has war on a leash.

Diana is 18, — in their years. She kills three aliens in under a minute.

Covered in guts and glory and sunny, walks up to them like nothing.

“We will fight together, yes?”

They all nod, a bit too scared of finding out what happens if they don’t.

[z3phyr23]

My go-to formula is the first few sentences of the fic, (if you’re feeling fancy you can alter which sentences you use to add intrigue. If not, the first few sentences work more than fine) and then I add “or: *quick one sentence summary*”

So it looks like:

“Character A wakes up in a cold sweat, he doesn’t know where he is. All he knows is that he’s not safe.

Or: Character A has a nightmare and Character B comforts them”

The “Or:” part can also just be a list of the most relevant tags.

You can also do it where it’s just the one sentence summary. You can do just the quotes. Whatever works best for you as long as you don’t put “I’m bad at summaries”. I’ve found that this formula works well for me because I want people to see a sample of my writing, but am scared that they won’t know what the story is from just the quotes.

Hope this helps!!

super simple low-effort ao3 summary methods that are 1000% better and 1000% less annoying than just saying you suck at summaries:

copypaste the first few lines of the fic. u already wrote ‘em. let ‘em be their own damn hook

if ur feeling fancy & don’t mind showing ur hand a bit, copypaste the first few lines of the fic that u feel are esp. Important or Interesting - the ones where u first start getting into the real meat of things

state the main tropes! theyre probably already in ur tags - just say them again - maybe as a full sentence if ur feelin fancy. or with a joke if ur feelin Extra fancy

ask a question. pose a hypothetical. eg what happens if u take [character] and put them in [situation]?

make an equation. [character] + [thing] = [outcome]

just write like a one-sentence summary of what the fuck is going down. just one (1) sentence. doesnt matter if it doesn’t cover every important aspect. or if it sounds bland. any summary sentence is gonna be miles better than “idk i suck at summaries”

just…explain the fic like u would to a friend? it doesnt have to be a polished back of the book blurb. it can just be “[pairing] coffee shop au, but like, still with murder, and also i made everyone trans. enjoy”

just stick a meme in there

honestly who cares

just put literally anything but a self deprecating comment in there & ur golden

[nekonaps0]

Heey :3

Could I request Sebek, Silver and Malleus with reader who attracts animals like Silver except it's..the weirdest or most unexpected animals. Like insects, spiders, crocodiles, snakes, anything very unconventional animal and they just let reader pet them.

Is that a spider?!

✦gn!reader

✦characters: Sebek, Silver, Malleus

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek prided himself on being alert, focused, and perpetually on the lookout for threats.

So when he found you outside Ramshackle casually stroking the head of a fully grown crocodile, his first instinct was to scream.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THAT BEAST—IT COULD DEVOUR YOU IN A SINGLE BITE!”

You didn’t even look up. “Oh, this guy? Nah, he likes tummy rubs. Look, he rolls over when I do this.”

THUD.

The crocodile really did roll over. And made a… weird gurgly noise? Was that even real?

Sebek was horrified. And fascinated. And mortified about being fascinated.

“It must be enchanted! Cursed! Vile dark magic!”

The croc licked your arm.

“I think he likes the strawberry lotion I used. Wanna try?”

Sebek looked horrified. “I—NO—I DO NOT REQUIRE REPTILIAN AFFECTION!!"

But when the crocodile blinked at Sebek and then waddled to nuzzle against his leg, even he froze.

“...This is unnatural. You… you must be cursed with the ability to tame monstrosities!”

You only smiled.

“Maybe. But I like monsters. Especially loud, overprotective half-fae ones.”

He went so red he nearly combusted. And never let you walk alone again. Just in case the next crocodile wasn’t as nice.

Silver

Silver didn’t scare easily. He’d seen ghosts, dragons, and his father wearing questionable clothes.

But when he woke up from a nap on your lap and saw a giant tarantula crawling across your shoulder, he jolted.

“Y/N… don’t move. There’s a spider—”

You reached up and scratched behind its fuzzy legs like it was a cat.

“That’s just Mister Tickle-Toes. He’s cozy.”

“...You named it?”

“I think he likes when I hum. Watch.”

You hummed softly and the spider literally snuggled into your hair.

Silver sat there, stunned, not sure if he was hallucinating.

“That’s… actually kind of impressive.”

You grinned. “He only likes me, though. Everyone else he tries to bite.”

At that exact moment, Grim sprinted past the window shrieking, “SPIDER-THING TRIED TO EAT ME—!!!”

Silver blinked slowly, then turned back to you.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus had long considered himself strange, otherworldly, feared and revered, but not often understood.

Then he saw you cuddling with a coil of snakes in the greenhouse.

Not one. Not two. But at least five serpents, lazily draped over your shoulders as you giggled and stroked them like they were fluffy kittens.

He didn’t know whether to be alarmed or enchanted.

“Are those… venomous?”

You looked up cheerfully. “Yup! But I think they like my voice. They get sleepy when I talk.”

One of the snakes literally yawned.

Yawned.

Malleus approached, regal and unbothered, and sat beside you.

“They are beautiful,” he said gently.

You smiled at him with your usual shameless sparkle. “You’re not scared?”

“Of you? Never.”

One of the snakes slithered into his lap, curled into a circle, and fell asleep.

Malleus stared down at it, blinked once, and then chuckled—a soft, genuine sound.

“They accept me… because they love you.”

He leaned in, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“You are chaos incarnate. I find it… deeply endearing.”

You stuck a flower crown on his head (you’d made it earlier while a centipede sat on your wrist like a bracelet)

“I think I’m falling for you, snake prince.”

He smiled like thunder blooming in the night sky.

“Then I shall rule a kingdom of beasts with you at my side.”

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

Bahaha! That’s was peak idea!!!

[thehmn]

Kojima really shot himself in the foot with Quiet because he was always very left leaning with some pretty progressive ideas but unfortunately he’s also very horny and while he sexualize both men and women there are some pretty bad implications of not just having a female character who’s forced to wear as little as possible but also rob her of her ability to speak. I have no idea if he didn’t see how bad that looked or if he was trying to say something that fell completely flat. Either way he fucked up.

Because people got angry at him all the right leaning weirdos decided to adopt him but unlike a lot of left leaning people who get scared and decide to join the right after the left criticized them Kojima doubled down. He doesn’t want right leaning fans.

The first Death Standing had a lot of queer under- and overtones, both gender and sexuality, and it commented on women’s worth being tied to their bodies and ability to give birth and raise children, condemning how women are treated as goods that can be broken and cast aside by men. Fragile was anything but fragile. Her body had been disfigured by Higgs and she didn’t have a desire for children but she was still important. Sam carried his baby Lou on his stomach as if he was pregnant and ended up sharing the parenting with another man, Deadman.

And right out of the gate in Death Standing 2 Kojima lets us know what he thinks of vaccines when Deadman gives Sam three vaccines with instructions on how and when to give them to Lou “because we want her to live a long life” Kojima said vaccinate your fucking kids. And we get a character like Rainy who was an outcast and even declared a witch because people were scared of her powers so she tried to conform to her womanly duties by getting pregnant but people still hated her. It took Fragile to pull her back from the brink and show her that a powerful woman is nothing to be afraid of.

And most depressing of all, the Still Mothers. Braindead women who are kept alive just for their fetuses. Kojima unfortunately proved that he understands America a little too well with that one.

And while people will loudly declare Kojima bisexual we don’t actually know because to my knowledge he has never talked about it. All we’ve got are the things Nicolas Winding Refn, who defines himself as bi-curious/bi depending on the day, has said about their relationship involving sensuality and kink and Kojima hasn’t denied any of it, in fact they seem to have gotten closer over the years. The only reason why I feel comfortable talking about it is because they’re putting it out there and even in their art for all see.

First in Too Old to Die Young where Kojima cuts a man’s finger off while Liv Corfixen (Refn’s wife) watches in a scene reminiscent of kink play (the confusion of sex and violence is a whole thing in Refn’s movies/shows) and then in Death Standing 2 we get two characters “played” by Refn and Corfixen offering to be in polyamorous relationship with Sam who is pretty widely understood to be a symbolic standin for Kojima and his journey LINK They’re not being super subtle about it.

And because of stuff like this the right has now decided DS2 is woke and refuse to play it but unfortunately a lot of people on the left never really expanded their knowledge about Kojima beyond Quiet being a terrible female character so they also refuse to play his games and I’m honestly a bit worried for his future career. I really hope he finds a balance between staying true to his wild and woke self and making money that works for him.

[paucubarsisimp]

Girll poly lewis x max x reader please where they see you being too friendly w another driver pleaseee?

only ours

pairing: poly!lewis hamilton x reader x max verstappen

summary: basically the request

warnings: jealousy jealousy

a/n: i accidentally deleted this and then i had no motivation to write it so this is kinda ass sorry love

you didn’t mean anything by it. really, you didn’t.

lando had always been that easy presence. someone who made you forget the sharp edges around you, the whispers that floated between the teams, the constant pressure that sat heavy on your chest all weekend long. you never thought twice before laughing too loud at one of his jokes, or brushing your hand against his arm when he said something dumb but funny.

it was just a moment, a break from everything. an escape.

you forgot how visible you are. you forgot the way lewis and max always watch you — like you’re something they’re both guarding and claiming all at once. you forgot how much it hurts them when someone else gets even a glimpse of your attention.

and tonight, when you caught them staring from across the paddock, you should’ve known better.

you’re halfway across the paddock when you notice max standing there. he’s leaning against the fence, arms crossed, jaw tight. not angry exactly, but close. behind him, lewis’s posture is rigid. he’s watching you with a look you don’t quite understand.

your heart jumps.

you want to walk past, keep things normal. maybe this is nothing.

but it isn’t.

“hey,” you say softly when you get close enough. “everything okay?”

lewis looks up, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your throat go dry.

“should we be asking you that?” he says.

you blink, confused.

max’s voice cuts in, cold and steady, “you were having a good time with lando.”

you try to brush it off, “it was just a joke.”

“you were laughing like he was the only person in the world,” lewis says.

you want to say you didn’t mean anything. that you didn’t realize how it looked. that it wasn’t like that.

but their eyes pin you down.

“you were glowing,” max says low. “like you forgot who you’re with.”

and suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe.

you’re frozen.

you try to explain. “i wasn’t thinking. i’m sorry.”

lewis steps forward, close enough that you can smell the faint hint of cologne, warm and familiar. “that’s the problem,” he says. “you didn’t think. but you should’ve.”

max’s hand brushes the small of your back and you jump. “we don’t share,” he says softly.

you swallow.

you’re theirs.

and yet, somehow, you forgot to be careful.

the tension between the three of you stretches, taut like a wire pulled too tight.

you’re not angry.

you’re not scared.

you’re embarrassed.

because it wasn’t flirting. it was a moment of letting your guard down. but they don’t see it that way.

lewis steps closer, one hand sliding to cup your jaw. “we protect you,” he whispers. “you belong to us.”

max presses his forehead against the back of your neck, voice almost a growl, “we don’t let anyone else touch you.”

you close your eyes, trying to steady your breath.

“show me,” lewis says. “show us.”

and so you do.

later, on the yacht, the cool night air mixing with the smell of salt and expensive liquor, you’re wrapped between them. their hands are everywhere, claiming, comforting.

lewis’s lips trail over your collarbone while max’s hands trace slow patterns on your thighs.

there’s no rush.

no pressure.

just the weight of belonging and being claimed.

“you’re ours,” max murmurs. “only ours.”

you nod against lewis’s chest, heart finally slowing.

you smile, “i know.”

and you mean it.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, @dessashippr, @freyathehuntress lmk if you want to be added or removed!

[itsnesss]

Hi Ness! Could you possibly do a imagine where Charles leclerc and reader go to the new "f1 the movie" premier (that just happend) and they are having a fun time, maybe a couple of their friends tease them a bit for being to "couple like" tyy

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 | charles leclerc × fem!reader

summary | you and charles attend the f1: the movie premiere, sweet moments, and your friends can’t help teasing you for acting like a totally smitten couple

warnings | fluff, romance, light teasing from friends, public affection

word count | 1.3 k

🖇 more cl16 🖇 f1 masterlist

The red carpet smells like a mix of expensive perfume, freshly unpacked cameras, and barely contained nerves. You're not used to all this glamour. Still, your hand stays firm in Charles’ grasp, as if that’s enough to remind you you're still on Earth.

Although, with that perfectly tailored suit, his charming-boy smile, and the way he looks at you every time you turn his way… you're not so sure.

"Are you okay?" he asks, leaning down a bit so you can hear him over the noise. The cameras keep flashing with every step.

You nod with a nervous smile.

"I'm okay. Just… a little overwhelmed."

Charles gently squeezes your hand and whispers,

"Don’t let the show scare you. At the end of the day, it’s just you and me. And a movie. And… maybe 200 journalists," he jokes with a raised eyebrow.

You can’t help but laugh. Your laughter relaxes him too.

You walk down the carpet together, stopping for a few photos. He never lets go of your hand. Some people definitely notice. You hear a couple of voices shout his name, then yours, and a French journalist throws out a comment:

"Charles, vous êtes adorablement assortis ce soir!"

("Charles, you two are adorably matched tonight!")

You lower your gaze, trying to hide the smile threatening to give you away. Charles just grins wider.

Inside the venue, the lights dim a bit, but not enough to hide a few familiar faces. Lando is there, dressed like it’s an award show, with that “I’m here because I had to be but I’m kinda enjoying it” vibe. He shoots you a knowing look as you and Charles walk past.

"Oh my God," he says dramatically in a low voice. "Could you two be any more cliché couple? What’s next, a kiss under fireworks?"

"Don’t tempt them, Charles might actually do it," Pierre replies from the other side, taking a glass of champagne from a tray like it’s his birthday.

You roll your eyes, laughing, but your cheeks are definitely getting warmer. Charles doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you again with that expression that isn’t quite a smile… but definitely not indifferent. Something else.

"We’re just happy," you reply, raising an eyebrow at Lando.

"Uh-huh. ‘Happy’. Is that what they’re calling it these days?" he retorts, sipping with a teasing grin.

Charles wraps an arm around your shoulders and whispers close to your ear,

"We could be happier if you want. You know. Just to annoy them more."

You don’t even answer. You just rest your head on his shoulder, ignoring the soft chuckles around you.

When the lights go fully out, the chatter in the room quiets immediately, like everyone instinctively knows the world needs to be left outside for the next two hours. The opening credits of F1: The Movie flood the screen with epic music and close-ups of engines roaring over asphalt.

But you barely watch the first few minutes.

Because Charles hasn’t let go of your hand.

You don’t notice at first. At the beginning, it’s just your pinkies brushing, like he’s making sure you’re still there. But now, with the darkness covering any too-intimate gesture, his fingers are fully laced with yours, tracing slow circles on your thumb that make you forget what’s happening on screen.

You turn your head just slightly, enough to glance at him without drawing attention. He seems focused on the movie, but there’s a slight curve to his lips. A silent smile, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

"You’re more into my hand than the cars," you whisper, barely audible.

"Your hand doesn’t need special effects to captivate me," he replies, still not looking your way.

And there it goes again: that warmth rising in your chest, the soft knot in your throat. Sometimes, when Charles talks like that, you feel like you’re not sitting in a theater seat but walking a tightrope of emotions you can’t quite name.

A few seats down, you hear a stifled giggle. Someone, probably Alex or Pierre, mutters a soft "so cute, please" that triggers more quiet laughs from the group. Charles hides his face with one hand, amused, and you sink a little lower in your seat.

"This wouldn’t happen if you weren’t so adorable," he murmurs, finally turning his head to look at you. So close, so calm, so him.

"And you?" you reply, raising an eyebrow. "Who told your smile it could act like that without my permission?"

Charles smiles wider now and lowers his voice even more.

"Believe me, if this were a movie, you would’ve stolen the scene the moment you walked in."

You’re speechless for a moment. You kind of hate him for that. But just a little. Because mostly, you want to hug him for saying it so easily, so naturally.

On screen, engines roar, there’s a tense scene between drivers… but between you two, there’s only this comfortable, shared silence. Like you’ve already lived through many scenes together. Like you’re writing a new one now, unscripted, in this cinema row.

And just when you're about to cuddle into him, not caring what anyone says, Charles leans in a little and whispers:

"After this, you owe me ice cream. Because I officially survived the stares of half the press knowing you're by my side."

You laugh. Because that’s not something you survive.

The movie ends to applause. The kind that lasts a bit too long and feels almost ceremonial… but when you turn and see the proud looks on everyone’s faces, you find yourself clapping with a smile too.

Charles doesn’t stop looking at you.

"What did you think?" he asks once you’re standing, exiting with the group through a more private side door.

"I loved it. Though if it were up to me, I’d have added more Leclerc scenes. Especially without the helmet," you say, crossing your arms in fake seriousness.

He laughs, slightly surprised. Steps a bit closer, lowering his voice.

"That can be arranged. But in private."

You nudge him gently with your shoulder, just as Lando and Pierre jump at the chance.

"Did you see how they walked out holding hands the whole time?" Lando says, like you’re not right behind him.

"They’re not a couple. They’re a Valentine’s Day campaign on legs," Pierre adds, sipping from a water bottle that’s very clearly disguised champagne.

"Enough already!" you say with a laugh you can’t hold back.

But Charles replies with a calmness that catches everyone off guard.

"And what if we are?"

They go silent. Not awkwardly. More like… surprised. Like no one expected him to say it so plainly.

You look at him, raising a brow.

"That casual, huh?"

He shrugs, but his fingers brush against yours again, like he’s searching for more than just contact.

"I’m with the person I want to be with. Why would I hide that?"

You don’t know if it’s the warm hallway lights or the way the night already smells like summer, but that comment leaves you floating a little.

"Well, well… couple confirmed," Lando murmurs like a breaking news headline. "So what’s next, rings or ice cream?"

"Ice cream," you reply without hesitation.

"Definitely ice cream," Charles adds, now holding your hand with zero shame.

Minutes later, you've escaped the flashbulbs and designer suits. You’re walking down a quiet street, far from the theater, with a couple of discreet bodyguards in the background and ice cream in hand. Charles chose vanilla with chocolate chips. You picked something different just to mess with him, though you ended up stealing from his anyway.

"You know what the best part of the movie was?" you ask, sitting on a bench facing an empty park.

"The sound of the Ferrari engine?"

"No. This moment. Right now."

Charles looks at you for a long second. The kind of look that lingers. Full of intention.

"You always make the ‘afters’ worth it," he says softly.

And just when you’re about to say something equally cheesy, someone in the distance yells:

"Kiiiss! Come on, you’re right there!"

You turn. Lando again. With Pierre next to him, raising his ice cream like he’s toasting in your honor.

Charles just sighs. Leans in slowly, brushes your nose with his, and says, against your lips:

"Should we give them what they want?"

"For them or for you?"

"For us."

[thanoskin]

AT THE SAME DAMN TIME

— — —

Pairing: Myung-gi x Nam-gyu x Fem!Reader

Summary: they find you, scared and alone, Nam-gyu pisses Myung-gi off, he takes his anger out on you.

Warnings: minors DNI (18+), quickie, choking, dom! Myung-gi, dom! Nam-gyu, intercourse, unprotected sex, mentions of pregnancy, sudden death (knife), cnc (?), let me know if I’ve missed something.

— — —

The lights buzzed faintly overhead. Shadows clung to the corners like wet fabric. The game had started ten minutes ago, and Nam-gyu and Myung-gi managed to wipe out a good amount of players. Bodies were already piled onto the floors of the haunting hallways, those found too early, too slow, too loud, unable to match the key to the lock in time.

Myung-gi wasn’t here to play nice.

He moved silently through the hallways, knife in hand, eyes focused. Nam-gyu was behind him, humming.

Humming.

“If you don’t shut up,” Myung-gi snapped, “I’ll stuff your throat with that stupid song and leave you as bait.”

Nam-gyu giggled. “Aww. You do care.”

His pupils were blown wide, he looked half-stoned, half-possessed. But he followed, tight at Myung-gi’s back like a dog on a leash. He was surprisingly quiet when he wanted to be, drifting in and out of focus like a ghost. Myung-gi hated how warm his presence felt behind him. Distracting.

“Left,” Nam-gyu chirped, and pointed.

Then — a sound.

A breath.

Myung-gi raised his hand, stopping Nam-gyu with a silent gesture. He turned the corner swiftly, entering a room with a blue door, and there you were.

A girl. Maybe twenty. Skinny, dirt-smudged, your hands shaking as you fiddled with the key. You froze the second you saw them, especially Myung-gi, whose expression was unreadable.

“Found you,” Nam-gyu sing-songed, peeking over Myung-gi’s shoulder.

You scrambled backward, trembling. “Please— please don’t kill me, I haven’t killed anyone on the red team I swear—”

“You don’t have to,” Myung-gi cut in, low and flat. “You just have to lose.” He readied his knife.

Nam-gyu tilted his head. He crouched beside you, elbows resting on his knees like a child watching an ant squirm. “She’s cute,” he said. “Like a mouse. Or a rabbit.”

Your chest heaved. You were silent now — watching him instead of Myung-gi.

“Don’t get soft,” Myung-gi snapped.

“Who’s soft?” Nam-gyu’s eyes glittered. “I’m just admiring the way she shakes. So pretty when they’re scared, am I right?”

There was a pause.

“You’re a psycho…” Myung-gi muttered.

“Takes one to team up with one,” Nam-gyu chirped.

He reached forward. You flinched, but all he did was clean the dried blood on your cheek. His fingers brushed your collarbone. A touch too long.

“What do you think, MG Coin?” Nam-gyu grinned, glancing at Myung-gi. “Do we kill her? Or do we make her beg to survive?”

“You’re wasting time!,” myung-gi shouted. His jaw tensed. His eyes met the yours. You looked pleading, desperate. And then you looked at Nam-gyu, like you could sense the predator behind the grin.

“hurry up,” Myung-gi said.

Nam-gyu stood, stretching with a lazy roll of his shoulders. “I like this part,” he said. “The choosing. You get to feel like a god for a second.”

He looked at you again, then back to Myung-gi.

“Wanna flip for it?” Nam-gyu offered. “Heads, she lives. Tails, she dies.”

Myung-gi stared at him in shock.

“We don’t have time for games,” Myung-gi said. But his voice was nearly shaking.

Nam-gyu took a step closer. His shoulder brushed Myung-gi’s. “We’re in a game.”

Their faces were too close now. Myung-gi’s breath hitched, just a little. Nam-gyu’s grin widened.

You didn’t move.

“Or….”

Nam-gyu trailed off.

“And since we’re in a game,” he murmured, “…shouldn’t we play?”

Myung-gi didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, gaze fixed on you. Your back was still pressed against the wall. Breathing fast. But you weren’t crying. That… intrigued him. You weren’t begging anymore, either. Just frozen, you knew your fate depended on the mood of the two of them.

“Don’t touch me,” you said, trying to sound brave.

Nam-gyu laughed, high and sweet.

“Stop it,” Myung-gi snapped.

His voice cut clean through the tension. Nam-gyu turned his head slowly, grinning like a child who’d just been scolded.

“Jealous?” he teased.

Myung-gi stepped forward. You flinched again, not at Nam-gyu this time, but him. He could see it: your fear wasn’t playful. It was raw. Real.

Good.

He grabbed Nam-gyu’s collar and yanked him upright.

“We’re not here to waste time.”

“She’s still breathing,” Nam-gyu said. “We’re clearly not in a rush.”

“We should be.”

Nam-gyu blinked slowly, then leaned in, whispering in Myung-gi’s ear.

“You keep looking at her like you’re going to plunge that knife into her chest and score us our point. But you haven’t. So what’s really stopping you, hmm?”

His breath was warm. Myung-gi didn’t move. He didn’t like the way his stomach twisted when Nam-gyu got too close, or the way his voice made everything sound like a dare.

“We could make her do something,” Nam-gyu continued. “Not… bad, just… humiliating. Make her crawl. Say something dirty. Cry. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Enough,” Myung-gi growled.

Nam-gyu glanced at him, almost disappointed. “Why? She’s not screaming. Yet.”

Nam-gyu’s grin curled like smoke.

“You’re soft. You’re scared.”

Myung-gi’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t speak.

Nam-gyu wasn’t done.

“You think I didn’t see her? Your girl. Cute, too. Real brave, from what I saw. Kept looking around. Probably searching for you, you lucky guy.”

Myung-gi turned his head sharply, eyes flashing.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” Nam-gyu asked innocently, lips curling. “It’s not like I’m the one who left her hanging.

Myung-gi lunged before he knew what he was doing, slamming Nam-gyu into the wall.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.”

Nam-gyu laughed in his face. “Or what? You’ll hit me? Come on. Let it out. Do something real for once.”

“If you’re so sure I’m afraid,” he growled, voice low, “…then watch me prove you wrong.”

He turned from Nam-gyu, eyes dark, jaw set, and walked straight back towards you. You shrank a little, unsure what was coming.

“Get up,” he said.

You didn’t move.

“Now.”

His voice brooked no argument. You rose, slow, trembling, whether from fear or anticipation, even you didn’t know.

Myung-gi grabbed you by the throat and pinned you to the wall, he felt you tremble beneath him.

He glanced at the clock, 5 minutes. without hesitation, he yanked down your pants and yanked down his own, but before he could slam his cock inside of you, Nam-gyu pushed his hand between your legs, feeling your wetness.

“Look how fucking wet she is,” he sneered, in excitement as he moved his hand away only to massage myung-gi’s shoulders as Myung-gi entered you.

You moaned loudly, he could feel Nam-gyu’s stare on his length but he was too flushed and angry to care.

He pounded you, with haste, his eyes darting between the timer on the wall and the scared, pleading look in your eyes.

Two minutes remaining.

A whimper escaped his throat, earning a chuckle from Nam-gyu whose back was against the wall a few inches away from them, watching.

Myung-gi lifted your legs up with ease and filled your cunt with his load, he tossed his head back and groaned.

You screamed rather loudly.

He slowly lifted his head up to look at you and to his shock, a knife was pressed into your neck.

Nam-gyu laughed again, before yanking the key from your neck, it was a circle, just what they needed to find the exit.

Myung-gi quickly pulled out and tucked his cock away, looked at Nam-gyu in disgust, ashamed and guilty, and utterly shocked.

Nam-gyu shrugged quickly and grabbed Myung-gi’s sweater sleeve, before using all the keys to open the door.

They made it just in time.

— — —

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WARNINGS — Emotional breakdown, begging, soft smut, possessive behavior, power imbalance, intense emotional content, references to previous sexual content, 18+ only.

The summer is dying, and you feel it in the air—cooler nights, shorter days, the faint yellowing of the leaves beyond the base’s concrete walls. Your bags are half-packed in your room, clothes folded in neat stacks, your notebook tucked away with pages you haven’t touched since Rafe claimed you, body and soul. Your dad’s reassignment orders for Rafe sit on his desk, unsigned but looming, a ticking clock you’ve been ignoring. You’re supposed to leave in three days, back to your mom’s house, back to a life that doesn’t include sneaking to bunks or strawberry fields or Rafe’s hands marking you as his.

You’re sitting on your bed, staring at the wall, when you hear it—a knock, sharp and urgent, not the soft tap Rafe usually uses. Your heart lurches, because you know it’s him, know it’s something big, something final. You open the door, and there he is, leaning against the frame, his dog tags glinting under his open jacket, his eyes wild, red-rimmed, like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair’s a mess, his cargo pants wrinkled, and he looks like he’s been running, or fighting, or breaking.

“Sunshine,” he says, voice rough, low, almost a plea, and it’s not his usual smug drawl, not the cocky playboy who kissed you in front of the base or fingered you in a drive-thru. It’s Rafe, raw and unraveling, and it scares you, because you’ve never seen him like this.

“Rafe,” you whisper, stepping back to let him in, your hands shaking. “What’s wrong?”

He shuts the door, locks it, and leans against it, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. His eyes lock on yours, and there’s something desperate in them, something that makes your throat tight, your heart pound. “I can’t do it,” he says, voice cracking, and he steps closer, his hands reaching for you but stopping short, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. “I can’t let you go.”

You freeze, your breath catching, because you’ve been dreading this, knowing it was coming, but hearing it—seeing him like this—makes it real. “Rafe,” you start, but he cuts you off, stepping closer, his hands finding your face, cupping it gently, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.

“No, listen,” he says, voice urgent, shaking. “Summer’s ending, and you’re gonna leave, and I can’t—I can’t fucking breathe thinking about it, sunshine. I’ll leave the military. I’ll walk away from all of it—my rank, my career, everything. Just say the word, and I’m done. I’ll stay with you, wherever you want. Just don’t go.”

You’re crying now, tears slipping down your cheeks, because you’ve never heard him beg, never seen him so broken, so willing to throw it all away for you. His hands are trembling, his eyes searching yours, and you feel it—the weight of his obsession, the depth of his love, the way he’s surrendered everything to you. “Rafe,” you whisper, your voice breaking, your hands gripping his wrists, holding him there. “You can’t… you can’t give that up for me.”

“I can,” he says, fierce and desperate, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “I will. You’re mine, sunshine, and I’m yours, and I don’t give a fuck about anything else. Just tell me to stay. Tell me you want me.”

You’re sobbing now, full, ugly sobs, because you do, you want him, more than anything, more than you ever thought you could want anyone. “I want you,” you say, voice raw, your hands fisting his jacket, pulling him closer. “I love you, Rafe. I don’t want to go.”

He groans, a sound that’s half relief, half pain, and kisses you, soft and desperate, his lips trembling against yours. It’s not like the other kisses, not possessive or rough or claiming—it’s reverent, like he’s worshipping you, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you against him, and you feel his heart pounding, fast and erratic, like he’s still scared.

“I’m here,” you whisper against his lips, your hands in his hair, your body pressed to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his eyes wet, his jaw tight. “You mean that?” he asks, voice hoarse. “You’ll stay? With me?”

You nod, tears streaming, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt, gentle but needy, like he’s trying to memorize you. “I love you,” he says, voice breaking, his lips brushing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “Fuck, I love you so much, sunshine. You’re everything.”

You’re both crying now, clinging to each other, and he lifts you, carrying you to your bed, laying you down like you’re fragile, like you’re sacred. He’s gentle, so gentle it hurts, his hands slow as he pulls your shirt off, your shorts, your panties, leaving you bare under him. He strips too, his tags clinking as he tosses his jacket, his pants, and then he’s over you, his weight warm, grounding, his eyes locked on yours.

“You sure, baby?” he asks, voice soft but heavy, his hand brushing your thigh, his thumb tracing the marks he left last night. “We don’t have to. I just… I need you.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper, your hands pulling him closer, your legs wrapping around his hips. “I need you too.”

He kisses you, slow and deep, and pushes into you, gentle, so gentle it makes you cry harder, because it’s not just sex—it’s love, it’s surrender, it’s everything you’ve been building since that first day. He moves slow, his hands cradling your face, his lips brushing your tears, his breath hitching with every thrust. “You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice soft and filthy, reverent and raw. “So mine, sunshine. Always mine.”

You whimper, your hands gripping his back, your body arching into his, because it’s too much, too perfect, the way he’s loving you like it’s the last time. “I’m yours,” you sob, your voice breaking, your nails digging into his skin. “I love you, Rafe.”

He groans, his movements steady, deep, his lips on your neck, leaving soft kisses, not marks this time, just love. “Say it again,” he whispers, voice shaking, his hand sliding between you, his fingers finding your clit, slow and gentle. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, your body trembling, the pleasure building, soft but overwhelming, like a wave you can’t fight. “I’m yours, I love you, I’m staying.”

He comes with you, both of you breaking together, soft and quiet, your bodies shaking, your breaths mingling, his lips on yours as you fall apart. It’s not rough, not brutal, just love, pure and desperate, and when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away, just stays inside you, his forehead against yours, his hands holding you like you’re his lifeline.

“I’m not letting you go,” he whispers, voice hoarse, his eyes wet, his tags cool against your chest. “Never, sunshine. You’re mine forever.”

You nod, crying, smiling, because you believe him, because you want it, because you’re his. He pulls the blanket over you, holding you close, his lips brushing your temple, your hair, your cheeks, like he can’t stop, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he does.

You fall asleep like that, tangled in him, his arms tight around you, his breath steady in your ear. You don’t dream, because you don’t need to. He’s here, real, yours, and you’re staying.

—

The next morning, you’re woken by a knock, sharp and loud, and you jolt, your heart lurching. Rafe’s arm tightens around you, protective, possessive, but he’s awake too, his eyes narrowing toward the door. “Stay here,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead, pulling on his pants as he stands.

You pull the blanket to your chest, your stomach twisting, because you know who it is before the door even opens. Your dad steps in, his uniform crisp, his face hard, but when he sees you—sees Rafe, shirtless, standing between you and him, sees the way you’re curled in Rafe’s bed, your eyes red from crying—something shifts in his expression. Not anger, not rage, but something softer, something broken.

“Dad,” you start, your voice small, but he raises a hand, silencing you.

He looks at Rafe, his jaw tight, his eyes searching. “You serious about her?” he asks, voice low, rough, like he’s forcing the words out. “You willing to give it all up for her?”

Rafe doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. “Yes, sir,” he says, voice steady, his hand reaching back to find yours, lacing your fingers together. “I’d walk away from everything. But I don’t think you want that. You see her, don’t you? She’s happy. With me.”

Your dad’s eyes flick to you, and you see it—the realization, the pain, the way he’s been fighting this, fighting you, because he thought he was protecting you. But you’re not a little girl anymore, and he sees it now, sees the way you’re holding Rafe’s hand, the way you’re looking at him, like he’s your world.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stands there, his hands on his hips, his eyes wet. Then he nods, sharp and final, and turns to leave. “I’m not signing the orders,” he says, voice low, barely audible. “But you hurt her, Cameron, and I’ll end you.”

The door shuts behind him, and you’re crying again, relief and love and everything crashing over you. Rafe turns, pulling you into his arms, holding you tight, his lips on your hair. “It’s over, sunshine,” he murmurs, voice soft, shaking. “You’re staying. With me.”

You nod, sobbing, smiling, because it’s real, it’s done, and you’re his, forever. You kiss him, soft and desperate, and he kisses you back, like you’re his last mission, his only mission, his everything.