#and are locked on the outside looking in while the world moves on without you

[syrecjh]

can we see something where katsuki and reader finds out shes pregnant while their in ua? (3rd year/college) and their friends reactions tooo? ty! 🤍

──★ ˙👶 ̟ !! Not Just Heroes Anymore

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, fluff

The sun barely reached past the frost-glazed windows of Heights Alliance that morning. You were staring down at the white plastic stick in your shaking hands, tucked away in the small dormitory bathroom that now felt like a church—solemn, quiet, filled with confession. Your heart had already leapt long before the result bled through, but there it was—solid, undeniable. You hadn't cried at first. You just sat down, palms on your knees, the ghost of your breath catching in your throat.

Two pink lines.

It had started as a joke with Mina a few days earlier. “You’ve been more tired than usual,” she teased, poking your cheek. “And you passed on spicy ramen. You're either heartbroken or hosting a tiny person.”

You’d brushed it off, laughed it into the air like a feather. But then you counted—four weeks late. The night before, you snuck out with a hoodie over your head, face half-hidden, and bought the test from the convenience store near the back of campus, the cashier too deep into his own night shift haze to care.

The bathroom door opened without a knock, because Katsuki Bakugo never knocked. You froze.

He blinked. “Why the hell are you cryin’?” His voice wasn’t angry. Just… concerned. Guarded.

You didn't answer. You simply turned the stick around and held it out like a surrender.

His eyes locked on it. And for a second—a full, holy second—time didn’t move.

“…That what I think it is?” he said quietly.

You nodded.

He sat down. No explosion. No curse. Just silence, and then—

“Fuck.”

He ran a hand down his face, and when he looked up, his eyes weren’t scared. They were serious.

“I’m not leavin’ you alone with this,” he said, voice a rasp. “You hear me?”

Your relationship wasn’t always soft, but it was steady. Started in second year, in-between bruised hands and late-night study sessions. You understood his silences; he understood your sharp words. You never needed to post about each other, but your toothbrushes stayed beside one another. That kind of love.

But the world outside still expected heroes, not seventeen-year-olds with children. And now, a child was growing in the space between all your plans.

It was Mina who cornered you first.

“You’ve been weird.” She squinted. “Like, Deku-level stressed.”

You looked at Bakugo across the common room, who gave you a tiny nod like, it’s your call.

So you sighed and whispered, “I’m pregnant.”

Mina froze. “You—what?”

“Two months along, maybe. We’re still figuring it out.”

Kirishima dropped his protein bar. “Wait. Like… pregnant-pregnant?!”

“Seriously?” Denki blinked. “Wait—wait. Are we being pranked?

You stepped forward. Your hands were shaking a little, but your voice wasn’t. “No prank. I’m really really pregnant.”

Mina’s eyes filled before her mouth even moved. “Oh my god, you two made a baby baby?? Like—actual baby? In UA?? How??”

Sero stood slack-jawed, eyes wide “WITH KATSUKI’S GREMLIN?!”

“I’ll fucking end you.”

Kirishima was the first to react—really react. He stepped forward and gave Katsuki a shove, then pulled him into a crushing bro-hug. “Man, I’m gonna be the best uncle-slash-bodyguard ever.”

Denki blinked like he was buffering. “Wait, are you guys like… okay? I mean—holy shit.”

Mina broke the silence by grabbing your hands. “You’re gonna be amazing. Both of you. And that baby is gonna have the most emotionally constipated dad and the fiercest mom ever.”

Bakugo scoffed. “I’m right here.”

(Later That Night)

You sat in Bakugo’s room, legs tangled, your head on his chest. The silence was heavier than usual.

“You scared?” you asked softly.

He kissed the top of your head. “Shitless,” he muttered. “But I’ve fought villains bigger than this. And you—” he paused, fingers brushing your stomach. “—you’re the only person I’d do this with.”

You turned to him, eyes glassy.

“Promise me we won’t lose who we are,” you said.

He tucked a hand under your chin and kissed you, slow and certain.

“I ain’t lettin’ go of you. Not now. Not ever.”

[http-sinfully]

Dormitory Glances & Silent Worships—F.M.

Paring: Megumi Fushiguro x reader

Part one(here), Part two(here)

Synopsis: Part Three (18+)—Jujutsu High — First Year Dormitories, Training Grounds, Megumi’s (Soft yearning, silent protection, possessive tension) for the reader. (longing gazes, unaware beauty, dirty thoughts in a soft setting)

Megum Fushiguro’s POV

Life around Jujutsu High moved in rhythms. Training. Missions. Recovery. Repeat. But somehow, her presence wove warmth into the cold stone halls—like her footsteps softened even the ancient wood underfoot.

She made everything feel like after the storm.

She would hum while watering plants outside the dormitory window boxes—a simple habit she’d picked up, saying the green helped the students relax. No one noticed the way she leaned into the sunlight, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied messily. No one but him.

Megumi always found his way to the railing across from her. Silent. Present. Pretending to scroll through mission reports or “wait” for Gojo. But he was never really doing anything.

Just watching her.

There was something disarming about the way she existed. The way she pushed her sleeves up with her knuckles when her hands were wet. The way she tilted her head when she listened. The way her mouth shaped words when she read alone under the common room lights at night.

Panda caught him staring once.

“Bro, you good?”

Megumi didn’t even flinch. “Fine.”

“You’ve been reading the same page for twenty minutes.”

He turned it.

Panda looked toward where she sat, her legs tucked underneath her on the couch, eyes moving along the page of a novel with a faint smile ghosting her lips. She twirled a pen between her fingers, occasionally mouthing lines as if they were spells, too soft to share.

Panda smirked. “You’re so down bad.”

“Shut up.”

⸻

The worst—or maybe best—was when she smiled at him. Just him.

Sometimes after sparring, sweaty and tired, she’d glance up from tying her shoe and catch his gaze—still and watching. Her smile would curve slow, almost like she knew she was disarming him with it.

But she didn’t know.

She never knew.

He kept it all under the surface:

The filthy thoughts that came uninvited when she was sweet.

The quiet need to praise her, filthily, breathlessly, for being gentle in a world that didn’t deserve her.

“You’re so good… too good. No one else gets to ruin that. No one else gets to touch what I crave to protect and destroy in the same breath.”

⸻

He nearly lost it the day she wore that loose off-shoulder shirt in the kitchen. It wasn’t meant to be seductive—just lazy, cozy, clean laundry. But her collarbone glinted faintly in the morning light as she reached up to grab a cup, the hem of her shorts riding high on her thighs.

He was walking past.

He stopped dead.

She turned, cup in hand, smiling sleepily. “Want tea?”

He could barely get the word out. “Sure.”

The image of bending her over that kitchen counter while her voice broke against his mouth, asking “is this what you meant by tea?”—it burned into him like a curse he didn’t want to cleanse.

⸻

Maki started noticing next.

“Do you always lurk around her dorm window when she’s out there doing her little plant thing?”

“I don’t lurk.”

“You’re standing so still, birds think you’re a damn statue.”

He didn’t reply. But his eyes—dark, focused—never left her frame. She was crouched down, talking softly to a stray cat that had made the courtyard its territory. Her hand gently brushed the fur behind its ears.

Megumi’s jaw clenched.

“You pet strays with more tenderness than anyone’s ever given me. If I could crawl into your lap and be forgiven for the thoughts I have—filthy, broken, worshiping thoughts—I would.”

⸻

And every night, he locked his door.

And every night, she haunted him

Her laugh.

Her hair sticking to her neck after training.

The curve of her back in the cursed energy uniform.

The way she still said thank you like no one ever gave her anything without strings.

He’d wake up hard, aching, her name burning behind his teeth, never letting it out.

Because she still looked at him like he was safe.

And he didn’t know how long he could be.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

It was the color that caught his eye first—muted charcoal, soft cotton—familiar. Too familiar.

She stepped out onto the balcony near the dorms, just as the sun was folding itself into the horizon, painting her skin gold and peach. Hair loosely tied. No makeup. Bare legs. And his shirt.

His.

Oversized, swallowing her in the best way. One shoulder had slipped down, revealing the strap of her bra. The hem brushed high on her thighs, dangerously close to indecent if she so much as stretched.

She stood with a cup of tea in her hands, completely unaware.

And Megumi, halfway through sipping water at the dorm railing across from her, nearly dropped the bottle.

He knew that shirt. It was one he left in the laundry room a week ago—soft from too many washes, the one he wore under his uniform when training. He hadn’t even realized it was missing

And now it was on her.

She was watching the sunset like it was telling her secrets. Quiet, soft-spoken serenity radiated from her, like the world didn’t make her feel heavy anymore. She looked like the calm he never got to have.

And all Megumi could think was:

“That shirt should be on my floor. Wrinkled. Smelling like sex.”

⸻

He stayed where he was, silent. Watching.

Her fingers curled around the mug. Her legs shifted slightly, weight settling to one side. That tiny stretch of movement—so harmless—sent heat crawling beneath his skin.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how it looks. How that fabric clings to her hips, how good she looks in my scent, how perfect she’d look gasping under me in nothing but that.

Or maybe she does. Maybe she knows and she’s testing me. Maybe she wants me to break.

He wanted to press her against the glass behind her and make her say his name between each kiss. He wanted her thighs around his waist, that shirt bunched at her ribs.

He wanted to hear her whimper when he whispered, “you walked out in my clothes like I wouldn’t claim you?”

But instead, she glanced across the dorm yard and spotted him.

Her face lit up with a smile—pure, gentle, completely innocent.

“Megumi!” she called softly. “The sky’s pink today. Come look.”

He stood still for half a second too long. Then forced his feet forward, heart hammering like he was walking toward a death sentence he wanted to die.

He stepped onto her balcony, hands in his pockets, face calm as ever.

She turned to face him fully—and god, that shirt—

“Is that mine?” he asked, voice low, even.

Her eyes widened slightly, looking down. “Oh—! I didn’t realize. It was just in my pile after laundry duty. I figured it was mine from training.”

She said it so casually. So sweetly.

She had no idea what she’d just done to him.

No idea that she’d just made it worse.

She sipped her tea. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Megumi swallowed hard. “No. It looks better on you.”

She blinked. “What?”

He looked at the sunset. “Nothing.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

They stood in silence for a while, side by side. The wind moved slowly around them. Her shoulder brushed his lightly every now and then. She smelled like tea and laundry and him.

He let the silence stretch, watched the sky turn from gold to rose to twilight.

He knew she wouldn’t ask why he’d come. She never did. She just let him be there, near her, like his presence was natural, not loaded.

She was still holding the cup when he finally spoke, voice darker than he meant “You should be more careful.”

She glanced up, confused. “With?”

He met her gaze, eyes locked and unreadable. “Wearing things that aren’t yours. Especially mine.”

Her lips parted slightly, something flickering in her expression.

“I—I said I was sorry, I—”

“I’m not mad,” he said, voice dropping further. “Just possessive.”

Her breath caught. She looked at him, then down at the mug again.

“…I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He stepped closer. Not touching her. Just close enough to make her forget the rest of the world.

“I did.”

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

A/N—Next stop is Smut stop. Buckle up.

Plagiarism is not authorized.

🏷️ tags—> @night-sky16

[metallicames]

current papa het putting you in a mating press/pile driver(if yk what that is)…GOD HES SO HOT.

Not me daydreaming about this while I was on lunch break with my colleagues.

Can't Stop, Won't Stop

Warnings: crazy age gap (60y/o James, 20 y/o reader), oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, unprotected sex, crampie, dirty talking.

Your intern badge hangs from your chest as you wander through the dark stadium.

It’s been almost a year that you’ve been living in a kind of dream you never want to wake up from.

The exhaustion is building, the tension among the staff flares up now and then, but working for one of the biggest bands in the world is something beyond words. It’s priceless.

You make your way backstage. The show is over. With it, the frenzy of the backstage fades too.

Voices lower, drift away. One by one, they all leave: technicians, assistants, sound engineers. But you stay.

You pretend to tidy up the cables, to check the lights. In truth, you’re just waiting. Waiting for him to be the last one there.

James.

Sixty years old and still able to own the stage like it’s his very first tour. Tonight, more than ever, he had you under his spell. The black leather suit wrapped around him with a rough, magnetic aura, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

You tried to distract yourself with the lights, the cues, the sound levels. Nothing worked. Every time you looked up, he was there, alive and burning on that stage.

You had promised yourself this would be the last time.

That you wouldn’t lose yourself again in that weathered body, those skilled hands, those eyes that steal your breath every time they meet yours.

It’s wrong. Too much of an age gap. Too many differences.

But the body doesn’t care about promises. It follows instinct.

And so you find yourself outside his dressing room.

The hallway is empty, silent. You knock softly, almost hoping he won’t answer.

But he does.

He’s there, still half-dressed in leather, the veins bulging on his tattooed hands, his chest covered only by a black, sweat-soaked tank top.

He looks at you like he already knows exactly what you came for.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is hoarse, worn out from the show. Sexy enough to make your knees weak.

“We should stop, Y/N. For real this time.”

You nod. You’ve thought the same, you always do.

But you don’t say a word.

You move closer, eyes locked on his.

You kiss him. Your lips move over his with growing urgency as your hand glides down his chest, over his abdomen, and lower, until it finds the heat at his groin. You don’t stop. You press firmly against the obvious bulge straining against his leather pants, feeling the hard, throbbing length beneath your palm.

He stiffens, as if still trying to resist the pull of desire, but his body betrays him. His breath catches, and his hips thrust instinctively into your touch, control slipping.

You stroke him with more intent now, your fingertips tracing the outline of him through the taut leather. He’s hard, pulsing, eager.

“Damn it” he murmurs, his voice rough against your lips. “You’re going to get me in trouble, I know it.”

Then he pushes you back into the dressing room and shuts the door behind you.

You drop to your knees without a word, the cold floor biting at your skin. Your hands go straight to his belt, unfastening it smoothly, then the button, then the zipper. The leather strains beneath your fingers. He’s already fully hard, twitching slightly as you free him, his breath ragged above you.

“Christ…” he whispers, as his length springs free, swollen, hard, fully erect.

You pause for a moment, just looking at him. You like seeing him like this: vulnerable in his arousal, struggling to keep control. You take him in both hands, stroking him slowly, your thumb gliding over the already damp tip. His hips tense, his breathing deepens.

Then, you take him into your mouth.

You sink down slowly, feeling him fill your mouth, then your throat. Your tongue wraps around him, welcomes him, explores every inch. Your hands glide along his length, alternating between pressure and slow, teasing strokes. He moans, head tipped back against the wall, his fingers tangled in your hair like he’s holding on just to stay grounded.

“This is so wrong…” he gasps.

“But feels so fucking good… I don’t know how the hell you do this to me every time…”

You move with purpose now. You can feel the tension rippling through him, his body taut, hips beginning to move on their own, like staying still is no longer an option. Saliva trails from your lips down your chin as you take him in deeper and rise again, the wet, shameless sounds of your rhythm filling the cramped dressing room.

“You drive me crazy… down on your knees for me, like this…” His voice falters. You pause just for a moment, locking eyes with him, your gaze heavy with desire and control.

A thin strand of saliva clings to your lip, and he leans in. He takes your face in his hands, firm and urgent, like he can’t hold back any longer.

“I want to feel you… I want to fuck you right now.”

You lock eyes with him, and it’s like a current of electricity surges between you.

His hands grip your waist and lift you effortlessly. You feel small in his arms yet powerful at the same time.

Moments later, you’re lying back on the worn-out couch in his dressing room, with him above you, overcome by instinct. He kisses you hungrily, almost feral, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, then lower to your collarbone, biting and tasting as if he can’t get enough.

His hands are impatient as he undoes your shorts and slides them down your legs before throwing them to the floor, followed by your underwear. You quickly remove your shirt, leaving it wherever you like, while James undresses completely. When you lower your gaze, you linger on his kneeling figure between your thighs, and sliding your gaze downward, you linger on his cock, moist with your saliva, rock hard. "Do you like what you see?" He murmurs softly as his hand slides from your belly to your pussy.

You bite your lower lip, closing your eyes. James provoke you, teases you, his thumb caressing your clit before moving to your thighs. "James... please" you beg while his fingers slide between your wet folds painfully slow.

"Do you want to get fucked? Do you want to get railled by a man three times your age?"

You nod as he leans over you, spreading your legs and pressing them against your chest. You can smell his scent in your nostrils, a mix of tobacco, sweat, and that unmistakable scent that only he has, igniting all your senses.

With one hand, he guides the swollen, precum-slick head against your pussy, then slowly but surely pushes himself in, letting your heat suck him in, engulfing him every last inch.

"You're so warm... I missed you." His voice is barely a whisper as he speaks.

His weight, his scent, everything about him envelops you.

Every thrust, every breath is heavy with restrained desire. He whispers dirty words in your ear, calling you with that deep tone that makes you lose control.

When he hears your moans grow louder, he quickens the pace, his hands gripping your buttocks, pushing deeper without giving you a moment’s respite. You clutch his back first with your fingertips, then with your nails, as if trying to feel him in every cell of your being, like this could be the last time you fuck.

He’s thrusting into you harder than ever, his fingers gripping the soft flesh of your hips, leaving marks that will darken like tattoos.

Your moans blend with his, his hot breath brushing against your shoulder as he bucks his hips against you, each movement driving deeper than the last.

“Fuck, James…you're.. so deep” you gasp, your voice rising.

“God, yes... I want to feel you all the way. Do you like it? Do you like this big, old cock tearing you apart?”

“Fuck… y-yes, yes” you stammer.

Just as you feel him balls-deep inside you and you’re reaching the peak of pleasure, footsteps echo down the hallway.

“Shit” James mutters, freezing completely inside you. He covers your mouth with his hand, muffling your moans. You feel his tip brush the deepest part of your core.

Your mind and eyes blur with pleasure as James start over to grind slowly inside you without pulling out. Your legs tremble, pressed tightly between your bodies like in a vice.

“Shhhh! Be a good girl... you don’t want the whole crew to know you’re getting fucked by me right? A man who could be your father...” he murmurs softly in your ear.

“Or do you want them to know you’re a naughty, filthy girl? Huh?” Each word punctuated by a deep, ragged breath as he continues to penetrate you slowly.

Your muffled moans are the only response you can give him, as your pleading eyes search for his gaze.

He finally looks into your eyes, and you feel yourself explode.

Your fingers dig into the leather of the couch as the last spasms of your orgasm ripple through your body.

Moments later, silence returns outside the dressing room. James removes his hand from your mouth.

Then he pauses, his eyes shining with something different. An intention.

He slips an arm beneath your back and shifts you, letting you slide down off the couch.

You find yourself lying on the dressing room carpet, your shoulders pressed against the floor, hips lifted up against the couch. He grabs your thighs and pushes them forward, bending them until your knees nearly brush your shoulders. You feel your back arch and your breath quicken. Your pelvis is fully exposed, raised high. You feel vulnerable, but you trust him.

You look up at him from below, his imposing body looming over you as his hard cock slowly penetrating you.

The angle is different. You feel it immediately, the moment he enters.

Deep. Devastating. Every thrust makes you tremble. You feel completely filled, as if he’s reaching deeper than you ever thought possible. The contact is full, direct. Your legs, suspended and pulled tight against your chest, amplify every sensation. Your skin is stretched, hypersensitive, every stroke makes you moan uncontrollably.

“That’s it, good girl… take it all… so beautiful… so… needy” he says in a low, rough voice, sinking slowly but with force.

“Tomorrow, you’re gonna still feel me buried deep inside you.” The way he speaks makes you lose your mind.

His hands glide over you: gripping your ankles, stroking your hips, holding you wide open as he quickens the pace, stealing your breath. Your eyes roll back from the sensation, your hands searching for something to hold onto: the carpet, the couch, his ankles, literally anything.

Each thrust shakes you deep inside. You bite your lip to keep from moaning too loudly. He looks at you and smiles that wicked smile that sets you on fire.

Your pussy trembles, tightens around him, and he groans, his rhythm faltering for a few seconds.

“Fuck, I feel everything…” he growls.

Every thrust pounds through your core like a drumbeat. Each push sends you further over the edge and he knows it. He watches you unravel from that perfect angle, your body bent and open for him like an offering.

Your moans rise, higher, more desperate. “Oh my God… don’t stop… please… I’m coming… again…Fuck I–I can’t…”

“Yes, yes you can.. Come for me.... Come while I rail you like this… I want you to remember this feeling every time you look at me.” he breathe out.

There’s no more right or wrong. Just moans, rhythm, and locked eyes.

When you come, it’s your whole body that explodes, your stomach, your chest, your throat. You can’t even scream, you’re too wrecked and overwhelmed to make a sound. You gasp for air, completely lost.

He keeps thrusting, riding that wave with you, until his own breath catches, his moans turning into curses as he drives into you once, twice more, then comes, hot and deep inside you, his body trembling as he grips your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You stay there, legs still raised and trembling. He looks at you, gently caresses your knees, then lets them fall softly. After that, he pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you.

The silence between you, broken only by your uneven breaths, doesn’t feel heavy. In fact, it’s comforting.

Even though you know you shouldn’t be there with him, that the world would judge you, in that moment it’s as if everything else stayed outside, far away, while the two of you got lost in a connection that defies explanation.

You fall asleep without even realizing it.

When you wake, your cheek rests on his warm chest, rising and falling slowly with each deep breath.

You get up. You dress in silence. When you turn around, he’s watching you. He doesn’t stop you. And neither of you makes any promises.

Because deep down, you already know: the next time your eyes meet, or when you see him on stage, guitar in hand, clad in black leather with that damned look in his eyes, you’ll find each other again.

[sunsetmade]

Hiii could you write something sad about rafe’s mom?

The Quiet of July

Rafe Cameron x Reader

The morning of July twenty-seventh was thick with humidity—the kind that settled in the air like a second skin, clinging to every breath, making the world feel slow and swollen before the sun even had the strength to rise. Outside, a faint sliver of light bled over the treetops, casting a dull, golden haze through the window. The birds hadn’t started their usual chatter yet. Everything was still.

Rafe Cameron laid beside her, eyes wide open, his back rigid against the sheets. He wasn’t sleeping. He hadn’t been sleeping. Not for a while now, if the way his chest barely moved was anything to go by.

She didn’t notice right away.

Still half-lost in her dreams, she stirred and stretched, letting out a small sigh as she turned toward him, her cheek brushing the cool side of the pillow. Usually, he greeted her with a sleepy murmur—something like “Mornin’, baby” or a slow grin as he tugged her closer. Sometimes he buried his face in her neck and stayed that way until she laughed and nudged him off.

But this morning, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink.

“Hey,” she whispered, brows pinching as she blinked sleep from her eyes. “You okay?”

He gave the smallest nod. Just a slight dip of his chin, like it took effort to move. His jaw was locked tight, muscles ticking as he stared up at the ceiling like it was holding answers he didn’t want to say out loud.

“Yeah,” he said, but his voice was flat, scraped raw at the edges.

Then he rolled out of bed in one fluid, practiced motion—shirtless, barefoot, quiet—and walked out of the room without touching her. Without looking back. No kiss to her forehead. No arm flung lazily over her waist. No comment about how cute her morning hair looked or how warm the bed had been with her in it.

Just silence. And the soft click of the bedroom door closing behind him.

She sat up slowly, her heart giving a strange little stutter. The silence didn’t feel like sleepiness anymore. It felt cold. Careful. Off.

They’d only been together for five months—not long enough to know every piece of his past, but long enough to know Rafe had shadows.

She’d seen glimpses of them. On the nights he drank too much and went quiet instead of loud. On the mornings he sat on the porch with his head in his hands, pretending the sun didn’t exist. On the rare occasions he let something slip about growing up in a house full of ghosts and expectations.

She wasn’t blind to his moods. She’d learned the rhythm of them quickly—when he got sharp and defensive, it meant something had gotten under his skin. When he got too still, too quiet, it meant something deeper.

But this? This wasn’t like before.

This felt like acceptance.

Twenty minutes later, she padded out to the kitchen, her feet silent against the hardwood. She hadn’t bothered to fix her hair or put on a sweatshirt. Something about the weight in the air made everything else feel secondary.

Rafe stood by the window, half-turned toward the backyard, a chipped coffee mug hanging from his fingers. The other arm was folded tightly across his chest like he was holding himself in place. His shoulders were hunched, but not in a relaxed, sleepy way. It was tension. Containment. Like if he loosened up even a little, he might break open.

The sunlight caught the curve of his jaw—sharp, clenched, unmoving.

“Want breakfast?” she asked softly, her voice careful not to break whatever thread he was hanging onto.

He didn’t turn around. “No.”

She hovered for a moment, unsure, then tried again. “I can make you something anyway. Eggs? Toast?”

“Nah,” he said again. Flat. Distant. The kind of answer that didn’t invite another question.

Her stomach twisted. But she nodded, though he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll just grab cereal then.”

She crossed to the pantry, pretending not to notice how his shoulders twitched at the sound of the box rustling. Usually, he’d tease her—call her a kid for choosing Lucky Charms or Fruit Loops, swipe a handful from her bowl before she could even get a spoon. But now, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t glance her way. Just stood there, staring at nothing.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable anymore. It was brittle. Like the moment before a storm hits—when the air is too still, too quiet, and even the birds go silent.

She didn’t push. Rafe didn’t always like questions. He opened up when he was ready—usually with a sigh or a half-laughed confession late at night when the world felt far away.

But as the hours dragged on and he barely spoke, barely touched her, that tight feeling in her chest curled tighter. A knot of worry that hadn’t been there when she first woke up.

Something was wrong. Really wrong.

And she didn’t know what it was yet.

But she was starting to think maybe today wasn’t just a bad day. Maybe it was something else—something old. Something heavy. Something he’d carried for a long time.

She just didn’t know what. Not yet.

But she was going to find out.

⸻

By five o’clock, she couldn’t take it anymore.

The silence had stretched too long, turned too heavy. It wasn’t just awkward or moody anymore—it felt like a fog had settled over the house, thick and suffocating, bleeding into every room. Every sound felt louder because of it. The hum of the fridge. The ticking of the kitchen clock. The soft scuff of her feet against the floor as she looked for him again, hoping maybe this time he’d be back to himself.

But he wasn’t.

Rafe hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t slammed doors or driven off in that reckless way he sometimes did when his temper frayed too far. This wasn’t anger.

This was absence. Something hollow and unreachable.

She finally found him outside, sitting on the back porch steps. His shoulders were slouched forward, elbows resting on his thighs, a bottle of beer dangling loosely from his right hand. The sun was low now, casting long shadows across the yard, the trees in the distance glowing orange and gold. He was staring toward them, unmoving, like he wasn’t really seeing anything at all.

She opened the screen door slowly, carefully—trying not to startle him.

“Rafe?” she said softly.

He didn’t look over. Didn’t flinch. Just kept staring out at the woods, his profile etched in the fading light, sharp and quiet and unreadable.

She stepped closer and sank down beside him on the steps, close but not touching, unsure how far he’d let her in. The air was hot and heavy, buzzing with the sound of cicadas and the occasional rustle of leaves. Still, he didn’t speak.

For a long time, neither of them did.

“I know something’s wrong,” she said at last, her voice almost a whisper. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just… I hate seeing you like this. I don’t know how to help when you shut down.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. The bottle made a soft clink as he set it down on the step, the glass catching the last of the light. His hands dropped to his knees, fingers curling into slow, deliberate fists.

“Eight years ago today,” he said, voice low and cracked at the edges. “She died.”

Her head turned sharply toward him. “Your mom?”

He nodded, once. A tight, sharp movement. Then he swallowed hard, like the words burned on the way out. “July twenty-seventh.”

The date hit her like a stone to the chest. Everything made sense now—the way he hadn’t spoken this morning, how he moved like a ghost all day, the empty look in his eyes. It hadn’t been a bad dream or random mood. It had been this. Grief, curling in his chest like smoke he couldn’t breathe through.

“Oh, Rafe…” she breathed. Her hand lifted without thinking, brushing gently against his cheek. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He didn’t lean into her touch, but he didn’t pull away either. His eyes flicked toward her—just for a second—and they shimmered, glassy and raw. Like he was barely holding something in.

“It was sudden,” he said after a moment. “An aneurysm. Just like that. No signs. No warning. She… collapsed. Right there in the kitchen. I was upstairs. Heard my dad yelling.”

Her hand froze against his skin, heart aching. She’d always known his mother had passed when he was younger, but he’d never said how. Never talked about the day. It had felt like a closed door she didn’t want to force open.

Until now.

“I thought she was invincible,” he said, voice fraying more with every word. “You know? Moms are supposed to be. Mine was. Until she wasn’t.”

Slowly, she let her hand fall from his face and reached for his instead. Her fingers slid gently across his knuckles, giving him the chance to pull away if he needed to.

He didn’t.

His hand twitched once, then turned over to grip hers tight. A hard, aching hold like he was trying to anchor himself to something—anything—that didn’t hurt.

“I should’ve gone downstairs faster,” he murmured. “I should’ve done something. Anything.”

“Rafe, no—”

“I just stood there,” he said, voice cracking as he shook his head. “At the top of the stairs. Listening. Frozen. Fuckin’ useless.”

Her throat tightened. She turned toward him fully now, eyes glassy with unshed tears of her own.

“You were what? Sixteen?”

His voice came out smaller this time. “Fifteen.”

“You were a kid,” she said softly. “A scared kid. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t do anything at all,” he rasped, and this time the words broke completely. He dropped his head into his free hand, elbow braced on his knee, shoulders curling inward like the weight of it all was finally caving in.

It shattered something in her.

Not in a dramatic, explosive way. But in the quiet, aching sort of way that leaves you blinking back tears before they even fall—like her heart had caved in just a little at the edges. Watching him sit there, shoulders hunched forward, face hidden in his hand, voice splintering from the weight of words he’d carried alone for years—it undid her.

Without overthinking it, she shifted closer. The old wood of the step creaked beneath her, but she didn’t care. She closed the space between them and wrapped her arms around him from the side, one arm across his back, the other around his front, anchoring him to her. He stiffened immediately—shoulders going rigid, muscles tensing beneath her touch—but she didn’t let go. She didn’t flinch or pull back.

Instead, she pressed her cheek against his bare shoulder, warm and damp from the muggy air. Her fingers moved slowly across his back in gentle, circular motions. Patient. Steady. Not asking for anything in return.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t rush him.

And slowly—so slowly—it worked.

His body, tense and coiled like a live wire, began to soften beneath her hands. His head tipped forward until his forehead rested against her shoulder, hair brushing her collarbone. The exhale that left him was jagged and heavy, like something deep inside him had finally cracked loose.

His grip on her hand tightened—hard, desperate, the kind of hold that left her knuckles aching. But she didn’t pull away. She let him cling to her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

“I miss her every day,” he whispered, the words barely there. “But today… it’s like I can’t fucking breathe.”

Her arms tightened around him instinctively. “I’m so sorry, Rafe.”

He nodded against her shoulder, like he heard her, but the pain didn’t ease.

“She made breakfast every morning,” he murmured after a long pause, voice distant now—like he was seeing something that wasn’t there. “French toast on Sundays. Always with powdered sugar. And she’d sing while she cooked—stupid songs, off-key as hell. But she did it anyway. Like it made the pancakes taste better.”

He let out a short, broken laugh. It didn’t sound like joy—it sounded like heartbreak, thinly disguised.

“I can’t even remember what she sounded like anymore.”

She turned her head and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Her lips lingered there, warm and gentle.

“That’s okay,” she whispered. “You don’t have to remember everything to still love her.”

He was quiet for a beat, then his voice dropped to something raw.

“She was the only one who saw me,” he said. “Like—really saw me. Not just as the screw-up. Not as Sarah’s messed-up brother or Ward’s disappointment. Just… me. She was the only one to believe there was something good out there for me.”

Her throat tightened painfully. She could feel it now—the weight he’d carried all day. Not just grief, but the loneliness that came with it. That sense of being invisible to the people who were supposed to love you most.

“And then she was gone,” he said, barely getting the words out. “And all I had left was this fucking hole. And anger. I didn’t know what else to be, so I was just… mad. All the time. At everyone.”

She tilted her head so she could look at him, her voice soft but steady. “I think you had every right to be angry.”

He exhaled through his nose—half scoff, half surrender.

“Yeah, well… I made everyone’s life hell for a long time.”

He finally lifted his head, and the sight of his face nearly undid her all over again. His eyes were rimmed red, the skin beneath them puffy, glassy with unshed tears he was still trying not to let fall. He looked younger in that moment. Vulnerable. Stripped bare.

“I’m sorry I was quiet today,” he said quietly. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin anything. You didn’t sign up for this.”

She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek without hesitation. Her thumb brushed softly beneath his eye, catching the tear that finally broke free.

“Yes, I did,” she said.

His brows furrowed. He looked at her like he didn’t understand—like he couldn’t believe her.

“Maybe not this exact moment,” she went on with a gentle smile, “but I signed up for you. All of it. The good days. The quiet ones. The hard ones, too.”

His gaze dropped for a second, then slowly lifted back to meet hers. His voice was even quieter now. “I didn’t want to fall apart in front of you. Not yet.”

She leaned in, her forehead brushing his. “You’re allowed to fall apart. I’ve got you.”

He exhaled shakily, his nose brushing hers. For a long moment, he just stayed there—his breath warm against her lips, his hands still holding onto hers like she was the only solid thing in his world.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

She shook her head, brushing her thumb along his jaw, rough with stubble. “I think you’re just not used to someone staying when things get hard.”

His eyes fluttered shut.

And she stayed with him, arms around him, letting the weight of the day settle between them. Letting him rest. There was nothing to fix, no magic words to make it better. Just this. Just being here, steady and real.

The sun disappeared behind the treeline, casting the porch in soft dusk. Crickets began their nightly song, and the fireflies blinked lazily across the yard, flickering like embers in the fading light.

He didn’t speak again for a while. And she didn’t rush him.

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence again. Quiet. Honest.

“I wish you could’ve met her.”

Her heart gave a small, aching squeeze. “Me too.”

He leaned back enough to look at her, his hand finding hers again, fingers lacing through hers with purpose now—not desperation, but something steadier.

“She would’ve loved you,” he said softly.

Her breath caught.

“She would’ve made you cinnamon rolls,” he added with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And asked if I was treating you right.”

She smiled, even though her eyes burned. “And what would you say?”

He looked at her—really looked at her—and something shifted behind his gaze. The storm hadn’t passed, not fully. But some part of it had quieted.

“I’d say I’m trying,” he said, voice steady for the first time all day. “Every day.”

And she believed him.

With everything in her, she believed him.

⸻

That night, she made French toast for dinner.

It wasn’t perfect. The kitchen was a mess—bowls stacked in the sink, cinnamon dusted across the counter, and a splash of egg mixture drying on the stove—but none of it mattered. The soft clatter of dishes and the faint hum of the old ceiling fan filled the room as the golden hour light faded into night.

Rafe sat on the counter just a few feet away, one knee bent, the other leg swinging idly over the edge. He hadn’t said much when she told him what she was making—just nodded once and climbed up with his beer, watching her with unreadable eyes.

At first, he stayed quiet. But this silence felt different. Not distant. Not hollow. Just… calm. Present. He tracked her movements with a quiet kind of attentiveness, like he was memorizing the way she moved through his space—how she hummed under her breath, how her brows furrowed when she measured the cinnamon, how she stuck her tongue out just slightly when she flipped the bread.

Something in his gaze had softened. The weight of the day still sat on his shoulders, but the sharp edges had dulled, like the worst of the grief had finally been spoken aloud and left a little lighter in the telling.

She was halfway through the second batch, the smell of sugar and butter thick in the air, when she felt him move.

His footsteps were quiet, but she sensed him before she saw him.

Then, without a word, Rafe stepped up behind her and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him. His warmth enveloped her. His face pressed into the curve of her neck, breath soft against her skin. She stilled for a second, startled by the sudden closeness, and then melted into him like she’d been waiting for it all day.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice low and sincere, lips brushing just beneath her ear.

She smiled as she flipped the toast. “Anytime.”

They stood like that for a moment—him breathing her in, her hands moving rhythmically as the skillet sizzled. There was something sacred about the silence now. Not empty, but full of understanding.

When the last slice was done, she plated them up and they sat at the small kitchen table, the overhead light casting a warm golden hue over everything. The plates were mismatched, and the syrup was the cheap kind from the store, but none of it mattered.

Rafe cut into the toast slowly, almost hesitantly. He took one bite, chewing carefully, and then stopped. Blinked. Swallowed hard.

She looked up. “Too much cinnamon?”

He shook his head, his voice barely audible. “She used to burn the edges. Just like this.”

Her heart cracked open in the best way. She blinked back the tears and let out a soft laugh, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “It’s called technique, actually.”

That made him smile.

Not a half-smirk. Not a polite twitch of the lips. A real smile—quiet and a little crooked, but warm. And true. It reached all the way to his eyes.

They didn’t say much after that. They didn’t need to. The kitchen filled with the sound of silverware clinking gently against plates, syrup dripping, chairs creaking as they leaned toward each other without meaning to.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla lingered in the air like memory.

And as she watched him eat, watched him breathe a little easier, she realized something deep in her chest—something that settled like an anchor.

She couldn’t fix the hole his mother left behind. She couldn’t undo the pain, couldn’t rewrite the day, couldn’t silence the grief that came roaring back every year like clockwork.

But she could be there.

She could stand beside him while he remembered. Hold him when the silence got too loud. Make French toast when he couldn’t speak. Love him through the days that hurt the most.

And maybe—just maybe—for someone like Rafe Cameron, who had spent most of his life drowning in unspoken sorrow and empty rooms, that was enough.

More than enough.

Maybe it was everything.

Taglist: (join here)

@starkeyvhs @delayeddrabbles @faithlyn444 @lilaccameronsflower @sc05 @taliluv @tudorgirl @yurmom444 @anobbs-blog @love-me-satoru @macbaetwo @tezzzzzzzz @cokewithcameron @carolinaxvz @ivy-34 @mattyskies @emmiesummers @maybankslover @mymelii @urlittlesparklejumpropequeen @lessxoxo @defnotayonna @superlegend216 @koalalafications @sousourulesthegalaxy @bebebambs

[anayamma]

Pool table

Summary: Sitting on the leather bench, you propose an intimate challenge to Bucky against the nearly empty pool table.

Warnings: Rough and dominant sex, Public setting, Detailed description of scope, Explicit sex with crude language, Intense dirty talk. Minors should not read.

Word count: ~600

previous - Heavy Training

💙 Readers' List

It was their favorite bar. All of your bar.

Bikers, raucous laughter, the smell of stale beer and charred wood on the bar. The red sign flickered outside like a slow heartbeat.

You sat on the leather stool, watching the last minutes of the night pass by. The smoke in the air began to dissipate, and the voices faded one by one, until only the dim lights and the rock soundtrack playing at an almost intimate volume remained.

Bucky wiped the bar slowly, the muscles in his arms rippling beneath his tight black t-shirt. His large fingers brushed the cloth as if they'd been doing this all their lives. And he knew you were watching.

"Are you closing today?" you asked, sliding your fingers over the empty glass.

"Five minutes left. Why?"

"Because I have an idea."

"This never ends well."

"But it starts out really well."

He averted his eyes.

And you were already standing. She slid slowly to the pool table, her low heels echoing on the cement floor. She ran her hand along the wooden edge and leaned on it with both arms behind her, her hips jutting out, her legs crossed.

"I've always imagined what it would be like, here."

"Here where?"

"Against this table."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmm. I want to be all marked, smelling of chalk, of beer, with the taste of you in my throat."

He threw the cloth on the counter without answering.

He locked the door with a sharp click.

And he crossed the dark room to you, with that predatory expression that made your body react even before he touched it.

"You'll come."

"Like this?" you said, bracing yourself with your hands on the table.

"Like this."

He turned you around firmly.

One hand gripped your waist. The other tugged at your panties under your skirt—quick, brutal, until the side burst. You gasped. He brought the fabric to his nose and glistened.

"That's a crime."

"Only if you stop."

And he didn't.

His jeans barely slid down far enough. His cock was already hard, hot, delayed. He gripped the base and pressed it against your entrance, rubbing hard, spreading his excitement between your wet lips.

"Ready?"

"For your cock, always."

"Then definitely."

And he thrust.

Deep. All at once.

The impact made you moan loudly, your hands gripping the edge of the table, your body arching back as he buried every inch, slow and merciless.

He held your hips and you pulled against him, thrusting deep, the snaps of your skin echoing in the empty room.

The table creaked. The cues fell. The pool balls moved on their own.

"Fuck... this little pussy drives me crazy," he growled, biting the back of your neck. "Then fuck me like your little toy."

You bucked even more, grinding against him.

He gripped your hair with his metal hand, pulling hard, forcing you to look forward—at the mirror above the bottle rack.

"Look what you're making me do. Look."

"You love this."

"I'm addicted to this."

He fucked you with rage and enthusiasm at the same time.

Hard. Hot. Desperate.

The wood of the table was already stained with sweat. Your moans blended with the soundtrack of old rock. And everything in that moment felt urgent—as if the outside world no longer mattered.

You came with a muffled scream, your knees trembling, your body collapsing forward.

He came seconds later, burying himself all at once, groaning softly, his hot cum filling you from the inside.

He rested his forehead on your back, panting, kissed your spine, and answered against your skin:

"In the pool hall, huh?" I love that you use me as a cue while I push the balls.

"My God, you're so childish."

[leviatronyx]

You ever think about tfp Soundwave? And the Shadowzone? About how he was trapped there, alone and unable to interact with anyone or anything?

Soundwave was a gladiator turned revolutionary/freedom fighter, and he was left caged in a stagnant hell in which nothing he did had any effect on the world around him. Soundwave fought for millions of years for change and dedicated himself so deeply to the Decepticon cause and Megatron that his name is nearly synonymous with loyalty– and he was abandoned and left to wither away in nothingness.

Then when he finally escapes? He emerges into a world that has moved on without him. Change happened while he was left isolated and unable to influence anything.

Like nothing he did mattered.

Sometimes I think it would have been kinder to have put him back in the gladiator pits.

[plaidcowboy]

“just hold me”

( synopsis ) — a badly injured clark comes to you after a losing fight against the kaiju. not only does he need to be patched up, but his ego needs a little fixing to. and luckily for you, your praise does just the trick.

( warnings ) — none. suuuuuper fluffy n cute. i love sensitive crybaby puppyboy clark!

( tags ) — @pittsick @dumbbandpoetic @alvi-alvi-alvi @jordiemeow @hrtfilm @ryyvkkr @freddyfazblair @cryptic-doe @summerwriting @eeveedream @cestdommage @ohyouluckysaint @weeeeeeeeeeeezle @matildavol6 @fishie-baby-apple @drunkinthemiddleoftheday [to be added]

“Shit,” you whisper from where you sit on your bed, a deep frown tugging at your mouth as your teeth press down on your index knuckle. Your eyes are locked on the screen in front of you, anxiety etched into every part of your face.

The TV plays live coverage of the chaos downtown. The setting sun casts a warm hue through your window, an almost cruel contrast to what you’re watching unfold. Superman soars across the sky, moving fast and focused, his fist connecting with the kaiju’s eye and forcing a roar of pain from its throat. The blow stuns it, but only for a second.

The monster recovers quickly, lashing out with a powerful arm. Its massive claws grip Superman’s cape, yanking him out of the sky and slamming him through a high rise. You flinch as glass explodes outward, his body crumpling against the steel frame inside before disappearing into the shadow of the building’s interior.

You can’t watch anymore. Your hand reaches for the remote and shuts the screen off just as the Justice Gang steps in, finally giving Superman a chance to catch his breath.

Silence fills the room like smoke. You sit there, frozen, your hands still clutching the fabric of your blanket as your mind races through everything you just saw. You know Superman is stronger than anyone. Practically invincible. But that kind of impact would break bones on anyone. And he’s still human in some ways. He still feels pain. That has to mean something.

Before you can sink too deep into your thoughts, the sound of glass crunching in the distance makes your head snap up. The noise barely registers before your bedroom door creaks open and Clark steps through.

He looks wrecked.

There’s blood on his lip, slowly trailing down to his chin. His suit is in pieces, torn in too many places to count, revealing scrapes and bruises along his torso and arms. His eyes are red, glossy with unshed tears, and for a second he just stands there, chest heaving from exhaustion. Then he moves.

He crosses the room and collapses onto the bed on top of you without a word, his arms wrapping tight around your middle. His face presses into your chest, the heat of him soaking into your skin. You hear him sniffle before everything else goes still.

“Clark..?” you whisper, hesitant, your hand slowly lifting to rest in his hair. Your fingers begin to move without thinking, brushing gently through the tangled strands. He lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders starting to fall, the tension draining from his body with every slow movement of your hand.

“No,” he mumbles into your chest. His voice is rough, strained. “Don’t wanna talk. Just hold me.”

“I can do that,” you whisper, your fingers continuing to move gently through his hair, the quiet rhythm comforting for both of you.

You sit together like that in silence for a while. The room is dim now, lit only by the last slivers of sunlight filtering through your window. The sounds of the city outside feel distant, like they belong to another world. All you hear are the soft groans of pain Clark tries to muffle against your chest.

Eventually, your other hand lifts to tilt his face up. His cheek is warm against your palm. You press a soft kiss to his forehead, barely there but enough to make him look at you. His eyes are glassy and tired, and your heart breaks all over again.

“Let me clean you up,” you whisper. “Just some ointment. A few bandages. We’ll get you home to heal tomorrow. The sun’s already down.”

Clark nods. The motion is small, slow. Tears slip from his eyes again, rolling down his cheeks and soaking into your shirt as he whispers, “Alright… yeah.”

You help him out of what’s left of his suit, easing him into a clean pair of sweatpants. His skin is warm and bruised under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. He just sits on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly, his hands moving under your shirt to rest against your sides. He keeps his touch gentle, steady, like he needs the connection to ground him.

You press the last bandage over the cut on his forehead, then place the ointment tube aside. Your hands come to his face again, thumbs resting on either cheek as you look at him closely.

“How’s the pain medicine feeling?” you ask quietly.

“Hasn’t kicked in yet,” he mutters. His tone is flat, but you can tell it’s more than the pain. It’s everything else. The failure he thinks he’s shouldering alone.

“You did a good job out there,” you murmur, brushing one of the bandages flat softly. “That was more than anyone should’ve been expected to handle.”

“I lost,” he says, barely above a whisper. His hand moves from your waist to wipe at his eyes. “I didn’t do anything good.”

“You did everything you could, Clark. That’s what matters,” you say softly, tilting his chin up again to keep his eyes on yours. “You might be a metahuman, but you’re still only one man. And you saved people. A lot of people. That thing would’ve crushed half the city if you hadn’t slowed it down. You gave others time to escape. You gave the Justice Gang time to arrive. You did that.”

He doesn’t respond right away. You can see the war behind his eyes, the stubborn pride he’s trying to hold onto, clashing with how much he wants to believe you.

“I’m really proud of you,” you whisper, and the change in him is immediate. His eyes lift to meet yours again, wider now, a new kind of emotion breaking through.

“You are?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. His pupils dilate by ten sizes at the simple fact that you’re proud. He made you proud, that’s all he’s ever wanted. “You’re proud of me? You mean that?”

“Of course I do, baby,” you reply, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks. “Everyone’s proud of you. You’re Superman. The one people count on. The one kids pretend to be when they play heroes. You’re more than just strong. You give people hope. And you’re loved for it.”

“And what about you?” he asks after a second. His hands slide up your waist, pulling you closer between his legs.

“And I also love you, Clark,” you whisper with a chuckle, leaning in until your forehead rests against his.

He presses a soft kiss to your lips. There’s no urgency behind it. No need for anything more. It’s slow, full of gratitude, and when he pulls back, your hand rises to nudge his chin playfully.

A small, tired smile appears on his face.

“I love you too.”

[cassiemaebarnes]

Shoulder to Lean On

Bucky x reader

Summary: When you fall asleep with your head resting on Bucky's metal arm, he starts to realize he's not just a weapon.

Word Count: 1,878

Steve insisted that the group do a team bonding activity, something about not spending enough time together outside of missions.

Which is how you ended up here, on the couch, squished between Bucky and Nat while everyone argued about which movie to watch.

It’s not that you didn’t like the idea of a movie night – you loved watching movies. You were just getting a little overwhelmed with everyone around you yelling, your shoulder awkwardly pressing against Bucky’s metal one, and it was clear Bucky wanted to be anywhere but here, leaning as far away from you as he could.

You and Bucky didn’t interact much, but he didn’t really talk to anyone much other than Steve. You just shared quick greetings and awkward small talk if you were alone in a room together.

So being this close to him for a few hours was going to be interesting.

But when the others finally settled down and decided on a movie, Nat leaned against the other side of the couch, allowing you to shift away from Bucky, just enough so you weren’t touching anymore.

They had picked a fairly new action movie, one you’d seen once before, so you were half-paying attention and half-zoned out.

You didn’t even realize when your eyes started to flutter shut as your body slowly shifted to the side.

Before you knew it, you were asleep – with your head slowly falling against Bucky’s metal shoulder.

--

Bucky stiffened the second he felt her head drift onto his shoulder, her weight light but unmistakable. His spine went straight, eyes wide as if someone had yanked him into a mission briefing without warning.

Of all the places she could’ve leaned – why the metal arm?

The chill of the vibranium pressed against her cheek, and yet…she didn’t flinch. She didn’t move away. She even sighed, soft and content, like this was the most natural thing in the world. His chest tightened.

He stared straight ahead, muscles locked, jaw clenched. His instinct screamed at him to shift, to move her gently off him before she noticed what she’d done. He hated this part – this reminder of what he was made of. What had been done to him. People didn’t lean on weapons. They avoided them.

But then…he glanced down.

She was completely at ease, her features relaxed, lips slightly parted in sleep. One hand curled loosely in her lap, the other resting near his thigh but not touching. There was no hesitation in her body, no discomfort in her expression. Just peace.

She trusted him.

His heart thudded heavily, each beat slowing with the realization. She knew what his arm was, and she’d still fallen asleep against it. Against him.

He swallowed, unsure of what to do. He let out a slow, silent breath, careful not to disturb her, and leaned back just a little more into the couch cushion, letting himself settle.

Maybe he’d let her stay there a while longer.

A few minutes passed before Sam noticed.

He leaned forward from where he sat on the floor and blinked. “Wait a second – am I seeing this right?” he whispered loudly, elbowing Clint.

Clint turned, squinting in the low light. His grin spread instantly. “Holy crap. Is she – yeah, she’s definitely asleep on Bucky.”

Steve looked over and raised an eyebrow. “And Bucky’s letting her?”

Nat craned her neck and smirked. “Not just letting – he’s not moving a muscle. He’s frozen.”

“That’s because he’s malfunctioning,” Tony deadpanned, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Someone call Wakanda, his arm’s about to short-circuit.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn’t move. “She’s asleep,” he muttered, voice low.

“On your shoulder,” Sam pointed out, grinning like a kid at Christmas. “You normally flinch if someone breathes in your direction.”

“She’s different,” Clint stage-whispered dramatically. “The Winter Soldier has a soft spot.”

Steve chuckled, clearly enjoying this a little too much. “You okay there, Buck?”

Bucky glanced down at you again, then shrugged one shoulder carefully – not the one you were leaning on. “She’s comfortable,” he said simply. “Didn’t wanna wake her.”

But deep down, under the teasing and the smirks and the popcorn being flicked at his head, he wasn’t actually all that bothered.

In fact, he kind of liked it.

--

The credits rolled slowly up the screen as the final soundtrack played out, and one by one, the team began shifting and standing.

Nat stretched and cracked her neck. “Well, that was two hours of my life I’ll never get back.”

“Better than Clint’s last pick,” Sam muttered, brushing popcorn off his pants.

“You said you liked Mamma Mia!” Clint shot back, scandalized.

Voices layered over each other, shoes scuffed the floor, and someone knocked over an empty cup. The volume in the room rose steadily – but Bucky didn’t move an inch.

Still sitting ramrod straight on the couch, still letting you lean against his metal arm. His jaw tightened slightly as Steve glanced at him again with a knowing smile.

“You gonna stay like that all night, Buck?”

“Yeah,” Clint chimed in. “We should take bets – think she drooled on the vibranium?”

“I’m offended,” Tony said, pointing dramatically. “That arm was designed for stealth, precision, and battlefield dominance – not as a sleep aid.”

“Maybe it’s multifunctional,” Nat deadpanned, crossing her arms.

Bucky just huffed quietly, refusing to take the bait. “She’s still sleeping.”

“Not for long,” Steve murmured, just as your lashes fluttered.

Your body shifted slightly, and your head lifted off his shoulder as you blinked, disoriented. Your hair was mussed, a crease on your cheek from the ridges of his arm, faint but obvious. You squinted around at the group, half-asleep, voice groggy.

“…What’s going on?”

Clint snorted. “Sleeping Beauty returns.”

“You fell asleep on Bucky’s shoulder,” Sam said, clearly enjoying this way too much.

You paused, and then your eyes widened slightly as you slowly sat up straighter, fingers brushing at your cheek as if trying to smooth away the sleep marks. You didn’t say anything at first, just turned to Bucky – who still hadn’t moved – and gave him a sheepish look.

“Sorry,” you said softly, voice laced with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s okay,” Bucky said quickly, quietly. “Really.”

Something in his tone made you glance at him a little longer than necessary, but before either of you could say anything else, the teasing resumed.

“Look at him,” Sam grinned. “Protective mode activated.”

“This is my favorite team bonding night ever,” Clint said, not even trying to hide his laughter.

“Should we get matching blankets for them next time?” Tony added.

Bucky groaned and ran a hand down his face, but there was no bite behind it. You, now wide awake and thoroughly flustered, could only shake your head as Nat leaned in to whisper, “For what it’s worth, he didn’t move a single inch the whole movie.”

Your face burned, but a small, surprised smile tugged at your lips anyway.

The others slowly filed out of the room, still snickering and tossing back comments as they went.

“Get some rest, lovebirds,” Tony called, tossing a final wink over his shoulder.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Clint added before Steve finally ushered the stragglers out with a tired shake of his head.

You stood up slowly, rubbing your eyes and letting out a quiet yawn. The creak of the couch cushions behind you told you Bucky had gotten up too. You turned back slightly, surprised he hadn’t made a beeline for the exit like he usually did after group events.

You hesitated for a second, then smiled as you looked up at him. “Thanks,” you said lightly, your voice a little shy but warm. “For, y’know…letting me fall asleep on you.” You let out a small laugh, a bit self-conscious. “Didn’t mean to use your shoulder as a pillow.”

Bucky shrugged, hands in his pockets, a flicker of something soft in his eyes. “No problem,” he said. “Just didn’t wanna wake you.”

His gaze flicked to your cheek, and his brow furrowed a little. “Did it hurt? The arm, I mean.”

You blinked, then instinctively reached up and touched your cheek, feeling the faint ridges the metal had left behind. You laughed again, this time more genuinely.

“No, not at all,” you said, still smiling. “It was actually…really comfortable.”

His eyes widened slightly, just for a second.

“I usually can’t fall asleep sitting up like that,” you continued, dropping your hand and meeting his gaze. “But I guess it was comfortable enough to stay asleep, huh?”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh – more like a breath of disbelief – and looked away for a second, trying (and failing) not to let the corner of his mouth pull up into a smile.

People didn’t say things like that. Not about that part of him.

“That’s good,” he said, voice low and sincere. “I’m glad.”

And he was. More than he could say out loud.

You stepped out into the hallway together, the soft hum of the tower’s lights overhead filling the quiet.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Bucky walked just half a step behind you, hands tucked in the pockets of his sweats, eyes flicking to you every so often but never quite landing. You toyed with the sleeve of your hoodie, not really sure what to say either. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly – just full of a weird mix of lingering embarrassment and…something else. Something new.

You were halfway down the hall when you glanced at him and said lightly, “I’m kind of surprised you didn’t shove me off the couch.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “I thought about it.”

You laughed, nudging him gently with your elbow, this time intentionally bumping into his metal arm. “Wow. Honored.”

“That was before you started snoring,” he added deadpan, but there was a playful glint in his eyes.

Your jaw dropped. “I did not snore.”

“I didn’t say it was loud,” he said with a straight face, “just a little pathetic.”

You gasped, swatting his arm with a laugh, and he chuckled – actually chuckled – like the sound surprised even him.

By the time you reached your door, both of you were still smiling, the awkwardness from earlier fading into something easier.

You stopped and turned to face him, hand resting on the doorknob.

“Really, though,” you said, voice softer now. “Thanks again. I…I don’t usually let myself fall asleep around people.” You hesitated, then added with a slight shrug, “But I guess I felt safe.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. His expression flickered – surprise, warmth, something quietly vulnerable.

He cleared his throat and glanced away for a second. “It was nothing,” he said, brushing it off with the same calm tone he used earlier. “You were tired.”

You smiled again, this one gentler. “Still. Thanks.”

He looked back at you then, and the space between you shifted – not charged, not heavy. Just full of something simple. Honest.

“Goodnight,” you said softly.

“‘Night,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting.

And with that, you slipped into your room, the door closing quietly behind you.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the wood grain, before finally turning and walking back down the hall – still not quite sure why he was smiling.

--

Masterlist

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd @navs-bhat @starstruckfirecat @yes-ilovetowrite

[verstappenverse]

Give Me a Chance

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has always been a playboy, fast cars, faster flings. You’ve always been his best friend. Falling for him was risky… but loving him? That’s where it gets dangerous. Because what if you’re just the next chapter in a story that always ends the same?

12.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him.

In fact you had tried for most of your life really hard not to.

Because Max Verstappen was the kind of boy mothers warned you about, fast cars and faster flings, cocky grins and charming stories. He lived like he raced, pedal down, never looking back, always chasing the next high. Everyone knew what Max was like off-track. He was beautiful, reckless, magnetic. The kind of man who could have anyone, and often did.

The kind of man who didn’t pause to consider consequences, only cared about momentum. About the next thrill, the next win, the next warm body to fall asleep beside and leave before dawn.

There was always someone new.

Models, influencers, heiresses, you’d seen them all. Blonde, brunette, redheads, tall, short, sultry, polished. Faces blurred together after a while, barely distinguishable from one another in the parade of photo ops and club exits. They came and went like pit stops, momentary distractions before the real race resumed. They wore his hoodie for a week, posted cryptic captions with champagne emojis, and disappeared just as quickly. You knew the pattern. You watched it play out like clockwork.

Headlines followed him like smoke, inevitable, choking, impossible to ignore. Paparazzi shots of him slipping into back doors of nightclubs, lip-locked with someone who’d be labeled a “mystery woman” for twelve hours until internet sleuths figured it out. Tabloids loved him. “F1’s Wild Child.” “Heartbreaker Verstappen Strikes Again.” And he never denied it. Never corrected the record. In interviews he wore that playboy reputation like armour. Let them believe what they wanted. Flashed that sly, sideways grin and shrugged when asked about the girl from the weekend before.

“Just friends,” he’d say. Or, “I don’t remember,” with that maddening smirk that made people want to slap him or kiss him or both.

He walked into a room and the air changed. People noticed him. Women wanted him. Men envied him. He didn’t have to try, and maybe that was the most dangerous part he never had to try. He craved connection the same way he craved speed, intense and immediate, but never built to last.

He broke hearts without meaning to. Gave people memories they’d replay for years while he forgot their names. He wasn’t malicious. Just... restless. Always moving. Always wanting. Always leaving.

And still, people fell for him. Hard. Like you did.

Even when you swore you wouldn’t.

You saw it all up close in the shadows of his chaos, tucked just behind the cameras and the curated smiles. The one he called when things inevitably crashed and burned. When the sparkle wore off and the girls realised they were nothing more than another fleeting thrill. The one who waited outside hotel rooms, keys in hand, while he cleaned up another mistake with tired eyes and a muttered, “Can we go now?”

You knew the rhythm. You lived it. The cycle. The drama. The aftermath. You told yourself it didn’t hurt. That being the best friend was better than being temporary.

But Max made it hard. He always made it hard.

With you there was no performance, no pretending. With you he was real. Raw. Honest in ways he never showed anyone else. You saw it in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t watching. The nights in his Monaco apartment when the lights were low and his voice went soft. When you asked each other questions about things no one else cared to know, dreams, fears, family. When he looked at you like you mattered.

He learned your moods, your silences, your tells and knew exactly when to make you laugh or when to sit beside you and say nothing at all. Once when you got sick he flew back as quick as could and stocked your freezer with your favourite soup and sat on the floor of your apartment watching old movies with you, refusing to leave until you promised you felt better.

He laughed with you in a way he didn’t with anyone else, loud, unguarded, tears in his eyes as he doubled over at some stupid inside joke that would’ve made no sense to anyone else. He remembered the names of your cousins. Your favourite flower. The way you always tapped your fingers twice before answering a hardi question.

It happened slowly, then all at once.

One smile at a time. One stupid smirk, one inside joke, one sleepy “goodnight” over the phone. Until one day you looked at him and realised you were completely and utterly ruined. Heart gone.

You buried it deep with sharp-edged sarcasm and playful teasing. You clapped for him on podiums, rolled your eyes at his bravado, kept your late-night talks locked up tight like something fragile.

Lately however, it’s been harder to breathe around him. Harder to ignore the way his hand lingers when he touches you. The way his voice dips low when he says your name. The way he looks at you like he knows. Like he’s been watching you just as long, and he’s finally seeing it too.

Still, you don’t let yourself believe.

Because you remember the girls. The flings. The ones who thought they were different. You remember the rumours, the morning-afters, the hungover apologies. You don’t want to be another girl on a list he swears he never made. You don't want to become just another story Max forgets when the next race comes.

You want to matter, and that’s the scariest part of all.

It happens one rainy night in Monaco.

The rain taps gently against Max’s floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking down the glass like it’s too tired to fall properly. The world outside is blurred, soft around the edges like maybe even Monaco is holding its breath.

You’re curled up on the corner of his massive sectional, legs tucked beneath you, his hoodie swallowing you whole. It smells like him, something sharp and expensive and faintly like motor oil. Familiar in a way that hurts if you think too hard about it.

Max moves through the space like he owns it, barefoot on hardwood, quiet in a way he rarely is. He hands you a drink without asking, the same one he makes you every time you're here. Like clockwork. Like ritual. He settles in beside you with a soft exhale, the kind he only lets out when it’s late and you're the only person in the room. He doesn’t sit on the other end, he never does, he sits close and his thigh brushing yours.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, low and careful, like he’s easing into a conversation he’s rehearsed in his head a hundred times and still isn’t sure he’s brave enough to have.

You keep your eyes on the rain. “I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets the silence stretch, broken only by the steady hum of the storm outside and the soft clink of ice in your glass.

Then, flat and certain. “Bullshit.”

You blink. Look at him.

He’s already watching you with that frown he only gets when something’s wrong, but this one’s different, more confused.

You force a shrug, weak and defensive. “You’ve been busy too. With your… dates.”

It comes out sharper than you meant. You hate the way it sounds, like an accusation, betraying how much it hurts.

You sip your drink quickly, like maybe that can swallow the truth down before he notices it.

“I haven’t been seeing anyone,” he says eventually, and there’s a strange tension in his voice, as if the words are uncomfortable on his tongue. Not because they’re a lie, but because they’re heavier than he expected them to be once said aloud.

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “Since when?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over, prepared to catch him in some vague half-truth, but he’s not squirming or flinching. He’s just… still. He’s choosing his next words carefully, whatever he says next matters more than he knows how to explain.

“For a while now.” He swallows, eyes fixed ahead. “Since I realised no one else is you.”

You blink.

“I don’t know the exact moment,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t one thing.”

He turns toward you, gaze steady despite the nerves thrumming beneath the surface.

“I think it started after that night in Austin,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What night?”

“You don’t remember? We stayed up talking until 4 a.m. You were ranting about FIA inconsistencies, and I—” He cuts himself off, smiling faintly. “I looked at you and for some reason, it hit me like a fucking truck. That none one else has ever made me feel the way you do. Like you always do… without even trying.”

He shakes his head, almost like he’s embarrassed. “Every room I walked into I was just looking for you. Every conversation I had I’d compare their laugh to yours, their eyes, their timing. And it never matched. Nothing does.”

Your heart stutters. Just once, but enough to make you feel dizzy. You blink down at your glass like maybe the answer’s there, maybe if you hold still enough this moment will pass.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t do this, Max.”

“This isn’t a joke.” His voice is steady now. “I’m not drunk or confused. I’m just… done pretending.”

“You’ve always pretended,” you say, retreating emotionally even though your body hasn’t moved an inch. “That’s your thing. Fast flings, fast cars, fast goodbyes. You know exactly how to make someone feel wanted… for a night. For a weekend. And then it’s over.”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You’re good at it,” you add, voice brittle. “You don’t even look twice Max. You never have. One weekend, one story, and then it’s on to the next.”

You breathe out shakily, eyes falling to your lap. “I’m sorry if I’m being harsh, but that’s what I’ve always seen.”

“That’s who I was,” he corrects, and now there’s something sharp in his voice. Not angry but wounded. “I didn’t know what I wanted. Not really. So I kept trying to fill the gap with anything else, with people. With things that didn’t mean anything, I was... trying to outrun something.”

Your voice shakes. “And what were you running from?”

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “You.”

Silence crackles between you like static.

“You’re it,” he says, softer now, the words catching on the edge of his breath. “Every race. Every late-night call. And I—I never saw it until I couldn’t not see it. I didn’t know how to look at you and not want more, and then it was everywhere. You were everywhere.”

“I’ve ignored it for years, I shoved it down so deep I forgot where I’d buried it. I told myself I didn’t need you like that. That I couldn’t afford to need anyone like that, but I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to spend another day without you.”

“Max…” Your voice breaks on his name.

“I’m in love with you.”

He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s been sitting just behind his teeth for years and this is the first time he’s let it out.

You meet his eyes and it’s a mistake, it always is, because he’s not guarded. Not this time. He’s wide open, bare, like he’s laid every version of himself on the table and is just waiting for you to decide whether he’s enough.

Your voice is a whisper. Shaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You think you do,” you say quickly, desperate to stop the ground from shifting beneath you. “But this, this is just timing Max. It’s proximity, you’re lonely and I’m here, and we’re comfortable, and you’re—”

“No.” His voice cuts clean through your spiral. It’s sharp, but not cruel. “That’s not what this is.”

He leans forward slightly, and you can feel the heat off his body now. He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t push.

“Don’t do that,” he says, quieter now. “Don’t make it smaller than it is just so you can walk away without feeling guilty.”

You inhale sharply, chest tight, vision blurring just a little at the edges, because he knows. Of course he knows. He always sees straight through you.

You look away, blinking hard, willing the tears not to come. “You’ve never looked at a girl twice,” you murmur. “I can’t—I won’t be the next one you get bored of.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body tenses. His jaw clenches like you’ve struck something soft inside him.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asks, and this time the hurt is impossible to miss. It lingers between syllables, bruised and bleeding.

You swallow. “No. It’s what I think of your history Max.”

And then the words tumble out faster than you can stop them. Words you’ve been biting down on for years.

“I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched you stumble out of beds with girls whose names you couldn’t remember. I’ve sat outside hotel rooms while you cleaned up your mess. I’ve looked them in the eye and told them they were going to be okay when they were clearly not.”

You shake your head. “So no it’s not just me being insecure. It’s me knowing exactly how this story ends.”

Max drops his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair like he wants to tear the frustration out by the roots.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I was a fucking idiot alright? I didn’t know how to handle the one thing I actually wanted and so that’s what I did instead. I kept hooking up with girls I didn’t care about, letting them believe I did just to keep myself from thinking about you. It wasn’t fair to them. I know that. They didn’t deserve to be placeholders.” He shakes his head, almost to himself. “But I couldn’t open up to them even if I tried, because deep down I knew none of them would ever be you.”

Max shifts toward you again, slower this time, gentler, like one wrong move might send you bolting for the door.

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly.

This time, it isn’t just a promise, it’s a plea. A desperate truth pulled straight from the core of him.

There’s no bravado in his voice, no charm.

You close your eyes. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“I am sure,” he replies instantly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You open your eyes slowly.

“I’m done pretending I don’t need you,” he continues. “I do. I need you like air, and I’m tired of suffocating.”

“I don’t want to be a phase,” you whisper, eyes burning. “I don’t want to be something you look back on one day and realise was just a detour. A lesson. Some girl you had to lose to grow up.”

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, voice hoarse. “And you’ll never be a lesson.”

You try to look away, but his hand follows, gently guiding your face back to his. He’s so close now, and yet everything in you feels like it’s bracing for impact.

“I’ve messed up a lot,” he continues, breath unsteady. “I’ve hurt people. I've pushed away every good thing that came near me. But this, you, I swear to God, I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”

You say nothing, but your silence isn’t empty. It’s heavy. It’s waiting.

Max swallows hard, his thumb brushing just below your jaw as his forehead tips to yours.

“Give me a chance,” he breathes. “Please.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. Honest. The sound of a man who’s never begged before, but would drop to his knees if you asked.

He cups your jaw gently, his palm warm and steady against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. Like he’s trying to soothe a bruise that hasn’t even formed.

“You’re it for me,” he says.

His voice falters at the end, not from doubt, but emotion. Like the confession is still too big for his chest. Like he’s still surprised he got it out at all.

There’s a beat. A heartbeat.

Then slowly, cautiously, you lean forward. Just enough to bridge the space between you, to show him you’re not running. That the weight of everything he’s said hasn’t crushed you. That you’re still here.

Your lips brush his, tentative and trembling, and it feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

The kiss is soft and shaky. Full of everything you’ve both been holding back. Regret. Hope. Love that’s been simmering quietly for years beneath shared laughter and almosts.

For a moment, the world stills.

Even the rain outside seems to hush.

He doesn’t move at first stunned that you’re actually here, kissing him back, but then something shifts in him.

Whens he kisses you back, really kisses you, it feels like the one thing he’s been waiting for his whole damn life. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in with a confidence that makes your chest ache. His mouth moves slowly, carefully, but with the urgency of someone who finally knows what he wants and is terrified it might slip away.

When you finally pull apart, barely inches away, you stay close. Foreheads almost touching. Breathing the same air.

Your voice comes out as little more than a breath. “If you break my heart Max…”

He doesn't hesitate.

“I won’t,” he whispers.

In this moment you believe him, because this doesn’t feel like a game it feels like a beginning.

You don’t tell anyone at first.

Not because you’re hiding, but because there’s something special about having him to yourself. Something about the way Max looks at you when no one else is around, the quiet awe, the unguarded affection, that makes it feel like a secret too precious to share.

The world knows him in noise. In flashes. In fire and fury and front pages. But you get the quiet version. The early-morning version. The one who kisses your shoulder before you’re even awake. The one who rests his palm on your stomach at night like he needs to feel you breathing to sleep properly.

He holds your hand under the table at dinner with friends, thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He presses kisses into your hair when you lean into him, murmurs little things under his breath just for you, things that make you smile when you’re supposed to be paying attention to someone else talking.

And he looks at you.

God, he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Like everything else is just background noise. Like he’s memorising your face in case he ever wakes up and finds this was all a dream.

He’s softer with you now.

Gentler than the world gives him credit for. He still moves like a storm, still yells at the TV during football matches, still throws his gloves down when a race weekend doesn’t go to plan, still mutters sharp Dutch curses under his breath when the sim doesn’t respond the way he wants it to, but when you’re nearby something in him eases.

It’s like you’re the only thing that quiets his engine.

You start noticing the smaller things. The way he brings you your drink in your favourite mug, even though it’s chipped. The way he pulls you onto his lap during movie nights, hands on your waist like he just needs you close. The way he checks to make sure you’re covered by the blanket before he lets himself fall asleep.

One morning you wake up tangled in his sheets, your leg draped over his hip, his arm slung heavy around your waist. The sun is just beginning to spill into the room, pale and sleepy.

You blink yourself awake and find him already watching you, head propped lazily on one arm, his other hand tracing light shapes into your spine.

“What?” you mumble, voice hoarse and sleepy.

He grins, slow and fond. “You drool.”

You slap his chest, groaning through a laugh. “Asshole.”

But he just laughs quietly, eyes still on you like you hung the stars. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole.”

He tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“Still cute though.”

That’s when it hits you, how simple it is being loved by him in moments like this. How all the noise of the world disappears when it’s just him and you, and the warmth of something real.

Three weeks later and you’re perched on his kitchen counter in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, bare legs swinging, a half-eaten punnet of strawberries in your lap. The sleeves hang past your hands, stained faintly with syrup from earlier, but Max doesn’t mind. If anything, he looks at you like that hoodie belongs there.

He’s standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand, barefoot and half-distracted, the other hand sweeping his hair back off his forehead.

“Did you just flip that pancake with your fingers?” you ask, incredulous.

Max shrugs without looking, unbothered. “Hands of a champion.”

You snort, grinning as you reach forward and steal one before it even hits the plate.

He narrows his eyes, swats at you with the spatula. “Thief.”

You just giggle and take a dramatic bite, swinging your legs like you’re immune to consequences.

When he slides the final plate in front of you, he leans in and kisses your temple, soft, instinctive, and then he leans back against the counter with a sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had breakfast with someone before you,” he says quietly.

You blink, looking up from your fork. “Seriously?”

He nods, eyes distant for a second. “They never stayed the night. Or if they did I left before the sun came up.”

“Oh,” you say, and it’s small, because you’ve seen that version of him. The messy morning-afters. The goodbyes he never struggled to say. But then he glances back at you.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

The air stills, and you know he doesn’t just mean in his bed or in the morning. He means in his life. You didn’t come and go. You didn’t stay for the night and disappear with the morning light. You’re still here, you always were.

You look down, heart thudding. “Well… I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Max steps closer. His hand lifts to tilt your chin up with quiet care, and when he looks at you, there’s nothing left to doubt.

“I love you,” he says.

Your smile is soft. “Good, because I’m in love with you too.”

Early next month he kisses you in the garage, quick, sharp, just behind a monitor while no one’s looking. It’s reckless and brief and completely perfect.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Christian walks past, giving Max a suspicious glance.

Without missing a beat, Max blurts something about, “tyre strategy” with the panic of someone who’s just been caught stealing state secrets. You double over laughing, one hand on your stomach, the other covering your mouth. “You are the worst liar.”

“I panicked!”

“Am I gonna get you fined?” You tease, pulling him in again.

He grins, smug. “Worth it.”

You roll your eyes and steal one more kiss before shoving him back toward the car. “Now go get that win.”

He winks over his shoulder. “See you at the podium.”

When he lifts the trophy that afternoon, face flushed with adrenaline and champagne, he doesn’t look at the crowd. He looks for you.

Two months in and it’s raining again in Monaco, lazy, unhurried raindrops tapping against the windows as Max drops his keys on the kitchen counter and kicks off his shoes.

“Let’s just stay in,” he mutters, stretching like a cat. “Order pizza, I’ll pretend to care about rom-coms.”

You snort. “You love rom-coms.”

He squints. “I tolerate rom-coms.”

“Max you cried during The Notebook.”

He collapses beside you on the couch with a groan. You’re both laughing by the time you’ve curled into each other, limbs tangled, your hand lazily threading through his hair while his arm wraps around your waist like a promise.

“I like this,” you whisper into the quiet. “Us.”

He hums in agreement, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Later that week you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom, bare feet against the cool tile, sleep still clinging to your skin.

He appears behind you in the mirror, sleep-mussed and shirtless, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, presses a kiss to the back of your neck.

“You know…” he mumbles, voice still gravel-rough from sleep, “You can leave a toothbrush here… permanently I mean.”

You turn in his arms, brushing your nose against his. “You sure?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear.

“I’m sure,” he says.

And when you smile at him, he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because loving each other is.

You fall in love with Max again and again in the quiet moments. Not during the grand gestures or the champagne-soaked victories, but in the stillness. The ones that aren’t meant to be romantic but somehow end up that way because he’s in them.

When he rolls over in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, and starts rubbing your back with slow, lazy circles like his body just knows where to find you, even in his dreams.

When he texts you ‘How you feeling?’ before every race, like you’re the one about to climb into the car. Like your nerves matter more than his own. Like his day doesn’t fully start until he hears from you.

When he sends you voice notes while traveling, some mundane, some ridiculous, just because he wants to hear you laugh at them later. You’ll be alone in your kitchen, earbuds in, grinning like an idiot because he’s making some terrible impression of some influencer he met in the paddock just to make you smile.

You never knew this version of him existed.

Not fully.

The Max you knew was fast and loud and untouchable. Reckless, impatient, always moving. But this Max, this one is quiet. Present. Soft in a way the world never gets to see. He lets you in without even realising he’s doing it. A hand on your thigh while he’s on a call. A glance across the room that says there you are. A small smile when you walk through the door, like the storm in his chest settles just from seeing you.

That’s what scares you most, because this kind of love, this steady, real, fragile kind, it feels too good. Too rare.

You know somewhere deep down in that quiet anxious part of your mind that happiness like this usually doesn’t come without cost, but you let yourself fall anyway. Over and over again.

The first crack doesn’t shatter.

It hums. Soft. Subtle. A tremor beneath the surface. A splinter in glass you don’t notice until the light hits it just right and suddenly it’s everywhere.

It starts after Silverstone.

Nothing dramatic. Just a silence.

He doesn’t text you goodnight after press. Doesn’t call when he lands back in Monaco. Doesn’t tell you he’s safe, or tired, or that the car felt like shit in the corners today.

You only find out he’s home when you see a blurry photo on Twitter, sunglasses on, walking alone.

Your stomach knots because he always calls. Even if it’s just a two-minute check-in. Even if he’s exhausted.

You wait.

Tell yourself not to spiral. He’s probably tired. Jet lagged. Burned out from the media.

But the second day passes.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Your texts go unread.

And you feel it, the ache creeping in through the cracks. That old fear, the one you buried deep under love and laughter and whispered confessions in the dark. The fear that this was always too good to be true.

When you finally show up at his apartment, heart hammering, throat dry, he looks… surprised.

Not angry.

Not guilty.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect you.”

You force a smile that feels too tight. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”

The apartment is a mess.

Not Max-messy. Not the usual clutter of a man who lives in fast lanes and hotel rooms. This is off. Empty Red Bull cans crowding the counter. Dishes in the sink. His sim rig sits abandoned, paused mid-race, one corner frozen on-screen like he just walked away.

Everything looks… unfinished.

You glance around. Then back at him.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

You sit down slowly on the edge of the couch, his couch. Your usual spot, but somehow it feels different now, like you don’t belong in it anymore.

“I didn’t hear from you,” you say after a long silence. The words are gentle. Not accusatory. Quiet enough that they tremble a little in the air.

Max exhales hard, standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Yeah. I just… I needed some space.”

You don’t react right away because the words take a second to land. You nod slowly, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

He still won’t look at you.

You glance down at your hands. “Do you not want me here?”

That finally makes him look up.

There’s something in his eyes, something fractured. Regret? Fear? Shame? You don’t know. You can’t tell anymore.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Max paces a little, dragging a hand through his hair like it’s suddenly too heavy on his head. “I don’t know alright? It’s just been… a lot latley. The races. The press. Everything’s moving so fast, you, us…”

He says the last part quieter. Barely audible.

You flinch, chest tightening. “Do you regret it? Us?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Too quick, almost. “God, no. I just… I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Feel like what?” you whisper.

Max looks at you, finally, really looks, and the fear there knocks the wind out of you.

“Like I could lose you.”

That silences you for a beat, but you still angry at his silence.

“So your solution to that is pushing me away?”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “I know it makes no sense. I know I sound like an asshole. I just… I needed space to figures things out.”

You laugh bitterly. “Of course.”

“I’m scared,” he chokes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just—I panicked”

You stare at him, your throat raw. “I’m scared too,” you whisper. “But I didn’t run, I didn’t shut you out, I chose to trust you.”

Max blinks hard, tears slipping out despite his best efforts. “I don’t know what to do. I just… I’m confused, I fucked it up.”

You nod, chest heaving, the ache in your throat threatening to choke you, and maybe that’s what finally makes the decision for you, because he still hasn’t apologised. Not really. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way you need.

You take a shaky breath and step back, and for the first time since this started he doesn’t stop you from walking toward the door.

You try to move past it.

You tell yourself it was just a bad week. A rough patch. Pressure from the championship. Jet lag. Burnout. Anything but what it really was, him pulling away.

So you adjust.

You stop staying over every night. You give him space like he asked for. You sleep in your own bed again, wake up alone again, try not to flinch when you roll over in the morning and your phone is still empty.

You keep texting. Short things. Safe things. "Good luck tomorrow." "Need anything from the store?" You try to keep it light. Try not to ask for too much. Try not to make him feel cornered, and for a while, you convince yourself it’s working.

But things don’t go back to normal.

He doesn’t touch you the same way, doesn’t reach for your hand when you’re walking side by side. Doesn’t lean in to kiss your cheek at red lights anymore. He still holds you when you’re in his bed, but it feels different now.

He misses your cousin’s birthday dinner and when you finally ask him to come with you to a wedding one of your best friend’s, someone who’s known him for years, he hesitates.

“Do I have to?”

You freeze. The question knocks the breath from your chest like a slap.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say slowly. “But I thought you’d want to.”

Max sighs, rubbing at his jaw like the conversation is hurting him. “It’s just… a lot. Weddings. People. All the questions.”

You frown. “What questions?”

He hesitates.

“You know people will assume things,” he says not looking up.

You blink. “Like what?”

“That we’re serious.” he says too quickly.

Your heart stutters. “We’re not?”

He looks up at you now, and you watch the realisation of what he’s said dawn on his face.

“Fuck, that’s not. That’s not what I meant—”

“No,” you cut in, voice tight. “I think it is.”

You step back without meaning to. Just a few inches, but it feels like miles.

“You love me,” you whisper. “But you don’t want people to know we’re serious?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m just scared alright? I’ve never done this before. I’ve never been this with anyone. I don’t know the rules.”

“I’m not asking for rules,” you say, trying so hard not to cry. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking you to show up. To stand next to me and let people know I matter to you.”

“You do matter—”

“Then why are you acting like being with me is something to hide?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks down, jaw clenched, shoulders tight.

“So what?” you ask, voice cracking. “I’m just supposed to wait until you figure it out? Until you decide if I’m worth claiming in daylight?”

He flinches like the word physically hits him.

“That’s not fair—” he starts, voice rough, eyes red.

“And you think all of this is. I told you I was scared too,” you whisper, your hands now clenched tightly in your lap. “I told you from the beginning I didn’t want to be another girl you hurt.”

“You’re not—”

“But you are hurting me Max.” Your voice shatters, and you hate the way it sounds. Like begging. Like heartbreak. “You said you wouldn’t do this to me. You promised you wouldn’t.”

He winces, stepping toward you, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You promised,” you cry. “You said, ‘I would never hurt you. Give me a chance.’ And I did. I gave you everything. And now you’re backing off because it’s real? Because it scares you?”

He looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but knows he has no right. Silence falls between you, sharp and immediate. A pause that drags one second too long.

That’s all it takes to know.

“I need time,” he says again.

It sounds like a door clicking shut.

You nod, barely holding yourself together. “Then take it.”

You grab your bag off the floor, your fingers numb, your throat burning.

He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak for two weeks.

When he finally texts, it’s short.

Can we talk?

You type three different responses before you settle on:

I don’t know what else there is to say.

No reply.

Two days later he shows up at your door and you’re still not sure if it was the right decision to let him up. You see his shadow before you see his face. The shape of him through the peephole. The weight of him in your hallway.

You don’t open it right away. Instead you press your forehead against the door, eyes shut, your hand hovering near the handle, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. Then softly, almost broken, he says,

“Please.”

You open it.

He looks like hell. His hoodie is wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in it for days. There are shadows under his eyes that no amount of good lighting could hide. His posture is all wrong slumped, guarded, but still reaching, like guilt has wrapped itself around him like a second skin.

He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve to be standing there and he knows it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You nod once, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “For what?”

“For freezing. For being a coward. For everything.”

You step aside, wordless, and let him in.

He paces at first, back and forth like he’s trying to burn off nerves he can’t outrun. You don’t speak.

“I didn’t know how to hold onto something I was so terrified to lose,” he says finally. His voice is uneven.

You sink onto the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. “You made me feel like I was too much.”

His eyes snap to yours. “You aren’t.”

“You aren’t,” he says again. “You’re everything. I know that. I knew it then too, but I was so fucking scared. I thought if I kept you at a distance… if I didn’t let myself want it too much… then maybe it wouldn’t hurt if it ended.”

His voice breaks, just slightly. “I know the logic is messed up. I know it’s selfish. But I didn’t know how to get out of my own head and all I did was ruin the best thing I’ve ever had anyway.”

You turn your head slowly. “And what do we have now?”

Max hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“I guess it depends,” he says quietly.

“On what?”

He meets your eyes. “On if you can give me another chance.”

He’s not hiding now. There’s no mask, no ego. Just Max. Completely exposed. Heart on his sleeve. Hands trembling slightly like he’s terrified of your answer.

“Max…” you whisper.

“I love you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “I love you more than I know how to say. More than I ever thought I could. And I know—” he swallows hard, eyes glassy, “I know I fucked up. I know I shut you out, and I hurt you when you trusted me not to. That’s on me. All of it.”

He takes a step closer, hands shaking slightly at his sides. “But you have to know it was never because I didn’t care. It was the opposite. You scare the hell out of me. What I felt—what I feel it’s real in a way nothing else has ever been, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I panicked. I pushed you away because I thought that would make the risk of losing you hurt less.”

His voice cracks then, and he looks down, like he can’t bear to see your face.

“I was wrong about everything. Because I can’t—” he looks back up, desperate now. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the only thing that’s ever made any of this make sense.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself before the fall.

“I don’t deserve to ask I know that, but I’m asking anyway, because if there’s even the smallest part of you that still believes in me, still wants us, then I swear I will spend every single day proving how much I love you. Not just in words. In every way I know how. Please... give me a chance again.”

Your heart splinters all over again.

Because it hurts to love someone who’s scared of loving you back properly.

Because that first chance was already hard enough to give.

And you don’t know if you can survive handing him your heart again.

“I can’t… at least not now… I need to think,” you say, voice cracking like glass.

He nods.

“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “As long as you need.”

Then he leaves and this time, you’re the one who doesn’t stop him.

The days bleed into weeks.

You keep telling people you're fine, you say it so often it almost sounds believable.

You go to work. You answer texts. You show up to dinners and birthdays and work events you wish you could cancel. You smile in the right places. Laugh at the right jokes. Drink just enough to dull the ache but not enough to let the truth spill out.

But you’re not living, you’re just existing.

Floating. Fragile. Half-hollow.

He texts you still. Cautiously. One or two spaced out over days like he’s testing the water. Then more. They’re never demanding. Never pushy. Just… him.

Hope you had a good day today.

I saw your favourite cafe changed owners. Made me sad.

You’d laugh if you saw what I cooked for dinner. Burned half of it. Still ate it.

Do you remember the time we got lost in Belgium and you swore Google Maps was gaslighting us?

I miss you.

I miss us.

Each one lands like a pebble in your chest, small, but shifting everything underneath.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because replying would mean reopening the door, and after everything, staying broken feels safer than risking being shattered all over again.

Still, he keeps trying.

He sends you flowers, simple, beautiful, no name on the card, but you know. Of course you know. A few days later, his friend drops off one of his hoodies. Clean. Folded. The faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the fabric. You hold it in your hands longer than you mean to. Almost bring it to your face. Almost give in.

Then comes the book, your favourite book. You find it on your doorstep, wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside, the page is dog-eared to your favourite quote. You sit on the floor of your hallway and nearly cry. Not because it’s romantic, but because it hurts, because you know he remembers, because a part of you wants to let him back in.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Max is not fine.

He tells the world he’s focused. Locked in. Gearing up for the next race.

But the truth is uglier.

He doesn’t go out. Doesn’t answer most calls. He cancels plans with with his friends, ignores texts from his engineers. He spends hours in the sim, running the same laps on the same track until the lines blur and his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tight.

He stays up past 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, heart racing from things that have nothing to do with speed. Replaying everything he said to you. Everything he didn’t.

He keeps your contact pinned at the top of his messages. Reads the last thing you ever sent him on a loop like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll text him back.

Christian asks what’s wrong.

Lando asks if he’s dying.

Even Helmut frowns and tells him to "sort it out before he drives like that again."

He’s so tired. Tired of the silence. Tired of the way his apartment still smells faintly like you even after he’s finally changed the sheets.

He’s tired of being without you.

Two weeks before Zandvoort, Max does an interview.

The reporter asks about his mindset. His focus. How he’s changed over the last few months. He hesitates. Then, for once, he lets a little truth slip through the cracks.

“I think real connection can change the way you drive,” he says softly. “Makes you sharper. Calmer. When you’ve got something real to come home to.”

The quote goes viral.

People call it poetic. A sign of maturity.

Your fingers hover over your phone for nearly an hour after you see it.

You type a reply.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

In the end you say nothing because you’re still not sure if wanting him back is the same as trusting him again, and love, you’re learning, isn’t always enough.

Then it happens.

It gets worse before it gets better.

The photo.

You’re scrolling idly one afternoon, trying to feel normal, trying to feel anything and then suddenly there it is.

Blurry, looks like it’s been taken from the inside of a car, somewhere in Monaco. Probably by a fan who didn’t realise they were about to ruin your entire day. Max, outside a restaurant. Laughing. With a girl.

You freeze mid-scroll. Your body goes still before your mind can catch up. Your breath catches, sharp and ugly in your throat, and your stomach twists into something dark and acidic, nausea rising fast.

She’s beautiful. Of course she is. She’s touching him. One hand on his arm, casually, she looks comfortable. You swear she’s wearing his jacket. The one that used to smell like you. The one that used to be folded on your side of the bed.

You blink. Once. Twice. But the image doesn’t change. If anything, it burns itself in deeper.

You click it open. Then you open Twitter. Then Instagram.

It’s all there.

The girl posted something on her story, nothing blatant, nothing tagging him, but it doesn’t need to be. A selfie, smiley and sun-kissed, and in the blurred background there he is. Max. In the corner of the frame. Head turned, not looking at the camera, but it’s him. Clear as day. Clear enough to hurt.

Your phone slips from your hands and hits the floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

You don’t move to pick it up.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t call a friend or throw something or give into the heartbreak clawing at your ribs.

You just sit there.

Staring at nothing.

Frozen in place like your body doesn’t know how to function now that your heart’s short-circuited.

You lie in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling a blur as your mind replays every word he ever said to you in that low, steady voice that used to sound like safety. “You’re it for me.” “I’d never hurt you.” “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t. Of course he went back to what was easy. What was familiar.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most, knowing deep down in the quietest part of you that this was always going to happen. That you knew. That something in your gut warned you, and you still believed, still hoped anyway.

When Max texts the next morning, your heart stutters in that horrible, traitorous way it always does when his name lights up your screen.

Can I see you today? I’ve got something for you it’s stupid but I think you’ll smile.

You read it three times in disbelief.

You see the photo again in your head, her hand on his arm and something in you snaps. Your hands are shaking as you type back, but your fingers don’t hesitate.

Don’t bother. I saw the photos. You don’t have to lie. I don’t want to hear from you anymore.

There’s a full minute of silence.

Then—

What are you talking about?

Almost a minute passes.

Then a second message.

Please let me explain.

You can see the dots, he’s typing, but you don’t wait to read the rest.

You block his number.

And this time, you do cry.

Not just because he hurt you. Not just because you lost him. Not even because it hurts to know he moved on so easily, but because deep down you’re terrified that you never really had him at all.

You don’t get out of bed for two days.

The curtains stay drawn, your room dim even in the middle of the afternoon, like the light itself knows it isn’t welcome. Your phone sits face-down on your dresser, untouched except for the few times you glance at it, only to glance away again. The hoodie Max returned lies at the foot of your bed, folded too neatly, as if it doesn’t belong to the chaos he left behind. You tell yourself you’ll throw it out. Burn it, maybe. But instead, you bring it to your nose, just once, just to see and when it still smells like him, like cologne and warmth and the memory of every quiet morning you spent wrapped up in his arms, you hate yourself a little for checking.

The world, predictably, keeps spinning. Cars pass by outside. The neighbour’s dog barks. On Monday you go to work because your boss would notice if you didn’t. You lie to your friends on autopilot, tell them you’re just “tired,” just “burned out,” that work’s been “crazy,” and no, you’re fine, you swear.

You don’t mention the photo. You don’t mention the way it knocked the air out of your lungs or the way your stomach twisted so hard you had to sit down or the way you still see it in your mind every time you close your eyes.

You try not to look at the tab you left open. “Max Verstappen Monaco mystery girl.”

You don’t click any links. You don’t read the comments. You don’t want to know what people are saying about him, or about her, or think about the way your chest still aches like a bruise that won’t heal.

Still, the images play on an endless loop in your mind.

Your best friend shows up three days later, uninvited but not unwelcome, letting herself into your apartment with the spare key you gave her years ago for emergencies. You’re curled up on your couch, legs under a blanket, the TV playing something you’re not even pretending to watch. You haven’t told her anything, but she just… knows.

“What happened?” she asks gently, lowering herself onto the couch beside you.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t look at her either. You’re too tired to lie, too hollow to make it sound okay. So instead, you pick up your phone for the first time in hours. You unlock it and hand it to her.

The photo.

The messages.

The last thing you sent him before you blocked his number.

She reads it in silence. Once. Then again. Her brows pull together. She lets out a slow exhale.

“Okay,” she says carefully, “but… this doesn’t make sense.”

You blink. “What?”

“I mean—I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up, I’m on your side. But this girl? I’ve seen her around. She’s one of those Monaco hanger-ons. She posted that same selfie with like five other drivers. Always around the “hot-spots”. Always tagging locations, trying to be seen.”

You shift on the couch. “So?”

“So… maybe you saw what you thought was happening. Not what actually was.”

You shake your head, heart pounding. “She was wearing his jacket. She had her hand on him.”

“And? Max lends stuff out all the time, maybe he lent it to her outside like the gentleman he weirdly is sometimes. Maybe it was someone else’s and it looked similar. Maybe she grabbed his arm for two seconds and the photo caught it at the worst possible moment. You don’t know.”

You sit up straighter. “But he didn’t deny it.”

She looks at you then. Really looks.

“To be fair,” she says slowly, “you blocked him before he could.”

You go quiet. The guilt creeps in like cold water seeping through cracks in the floor.

“What if I didn’t want to hear his explanation?” you whisper.

She gives you a look that’s too knowing to be comfortable. “Then you have to ask yourself something.”

You already know what she’s going to say. You hear it before she even says it.

“Do you want to stay angry or do you still love him?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you want to say it doesn’t matter. That you’re done. That it’s too late.

But the truth is louder than your pride.

You still love him.

You always have.

Meanwhile Max is pacing like a storm in a bottle. Restless energy coiled in his spine, unspooling with every step across the hardwood floor. His phone is clutched in his hand like it might break if he squeezes any harder, his face flushed not just with frustration but with something closer to panic.

“She blocked me,” he says again, like saying it aloud will make it sound less insane. “She actually blocked me. I was on my way to surprise her with her favourite flowers and that stupid stuffed koala she laughs at in the airport gift shop every time we see it and then boom gone. Just cut off.”

Lando is sitting on the edge of Max’s sofa, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching his friend spiral with the wide-eyed expression of someone who’s been dropped in the middle of a house fire with a plastic spoon. “Alright. Breathe. Start from the beginning. What happened?”

Max swipes angrily at his phone, pulls up the blurry photo that’s been circulating for the past few days. “That’s Julia,” he snaps. “She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend or something. I barely even know her. She showed up out of nowhere while I was grabbing lunch with him, said she was meeting someone else, asked if she could wait there for a minute. She sat down, we made small talk, and then hug goodbye. Five minutes. Tops. Flash of a camera.”

He runs both hands through his hair, yanking the roots like he could force the shame out of his head. “I didn’t even see the camera it looks, it looks bad. The jacket, the arm, it’s the worst possible moment.”

Daniel, who had arrived five minutes ago and already regrets it, scrolls through the messages Max had sent in the days before everything blew up. He lets out a low whistle, his face pinched in sympathy. “Shit. These are… a lot.”

Max grabs the phone back. “She thinks I’m lying. She thinks I went back to being that guy. The one who says what he needs to get what he wants and then disappears when it gets real. She thinks everything I said was just noise.”

“And do you blame her?” Daniel says carefully. “I mean, not to kick you when you’re already bleeding out here, but… you did disappear on her for a while.”

Max looks like he’s been slapped. “I know that. I know. I handled it like a fucking coward and I’ve been trying to make it right ever since.”

Lando leans back on the couch. “So what now? You just sit around and mope?”

Max glares at him. “What do you want me to do, force it? I already made her feel like shit. The last thing she needs is me showing up uninvited.”

“Maybe,” Daniel says. “But she also needs to see that you care. That you’re not just sending sad little texts and hoping she forgets.”

“I’ve been trying!” Max snaps. Then lowers his voice. “I’ve been trying. But everything I do feels too late.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Daniel tilts his head. “What about her best friend?”

Max looks up. “What about her?”

“Talk to her,” Daniel says. “Not to get the friend to do your dirty work, just… find out if there’s anything you can do that wouldn’t make things worse, or maybe she can suggest a way in, wouldn’t hurt to try and get someone in her corner to understand your side.”

Max hesitates.

Lando shrugs. “It’s better than sitting here waiting for her to magically unblock you.”

Max nods slowly, like something clicks into place. “Alright I’ll try. I’m not giving up on this. On her.”

Daniel smirks. “Good. Because it’s about time you started acting like it.”

The next morning Max makes a call he’s been dreading. It’s awkward as hell, and the conversation doesn’t go the way he practiced in his head, but he owns it. He tells the truth.

And somehow, it’s enough.

Because a day later he’s standing outside your building in the shadows of early evening, hoodie pulled tight, cap low, heart pounding harder than it ever has behind the wheel of an F1 car.

Your best friend lets him up without a word and then disappears.

You don’t even know she’s done it until you hear the knock, three quiet raps against your door, hesitant, almost like he’s not sure he deserves to be heard. When you open it, he’s standing there, his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is a mess, flattened from the cap. His mouth opens, then closes again before he finally finds the words.

“Before you slam the door,” he says, voice shaking, “just let me explain. Please.”

You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. You don’t move, don’t speak, but you don’t close it.

So he keeps going.

“She’s not someone I’m seeing,” he blurts, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I barely know her. She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend, I didn’t invite her, I didn’t ask her to sit with us. She showed up at the restaurant, said she was waiting for someone else. We made awkward small talk for five minutes. I didn’t even realise how close she was sitting until I saw the photo. And the jacket—” He pauses, swallows hard. “She said she was cold. It was draped over the back of my chair. I didn’t think. I just—” His voice cracks. “I was trying to be nice.”

You blink at him, vision going blurry. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you come here earlier?”

“Because you blocked me, and I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” he says softly.

“I thought you gave up,” you say, arms folding over your chest to keep from falling apart. “I thought you moved on. That it was just easy for you.”

“I would never,” Max says, and it’s not a plea, it’s a vow. He steps forward, carefully, like he’s afraid to spook you. “You have no idea how hard it was not to show up every day. How many times I sat in the car ready to drive here, wondering if I had any right to knock. I only stayed away because you asked me to, because I thought you needed time.”

“I did.”

“And I wanted to to give that to you,” he says. “But it’s been killing me.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s not holding it together anymore. Not even close.

“I didn’t want anyone else,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t want anyone else. Not now. Not ever. You’re it. You always were.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the flood building behind your eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, cracked and shaking as tears trail slowly down his cheeks. “I know I hurt you. I let the fear win. I let my past, my pride, my bullshit get louder than everything we had, and I hate myself for it.”

He swallows hard. “But if you give me another shot… if you ever could I would spend every single day earning it. Proving I’m not the same coward who let you walk away. I’d show you what I should’ve from the beginning. That I’m in this. That I meant every word I ever said to you, even the ones I was too much of a mess to back up.”

Max steps forward slightly, like he’s bracing for rejection but can’t help chasing hope anyway.

“I don’t know how else to ask. I keep trying to think of the right thing to say but none of it feels like enough, but this, you, you’re everything, and I’ll take whatever version of us you’re willing to give me, even if it’s just the chance to try.”

His voice breaks completely then. “Please. Give me a chance.”

It breaks something in you.

Because you do love him. Even now. Even after all the silence, all the distance, all the aching disappointment. Your heart still beats louder when he’s near. But love isn’t enough, not when you’re still bleeding from the wounds he left behind.

“I can’t,” you say, and your voice shakes.

Max’s face crumples like he’d prepared for this but prayed against it anyway. He nods, slow and steady, like each movement hurts.

“I understand.”

He nods. Once. Twice. Each movement slower than the last, like gravity’s working harder on him now.

“Yeah,” he breathes, barely audible. “I thought maybe I could earn it back.”

His eyes are red, glistening, but he doesn’t wipe them. Doesn’t hide. He just stands there, hollowed out. “I knew that coming here was a long shot. I just hoped…”

He steps back, nodding again like he needs to convince his body to move.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight. “For everything.”

He steps back and turns away, but just before he disappears down the hall, your voice breaks through the silence, shaky, quiet, but impossible not to hear.

“I never stopped loving you.”

He halts mid-step. Stiffens. For a long moment, he just stands there, back to you, head bowed like the weight of your words physically hit him.

His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds like it hurts to take.

“Me neither.”

A pause. The kind that stretches forever.

“Not for a single second.”

Then he walks away, with the same realisation you’ve been battling for weeks, that love alone was never going to be enough.

It’s been two months since you closed the door on him.

Max hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once. He hasn’t tried to push, hasn’t knocked at the door or slipped another note under it, and in a strange, cruel way, it hurts. It means he heard you. It means he listened, he’s respecting your boundaries. But it also means he’s gone.

And yet, he’s everywhere.

You still find pieces of him buried in the quiet corners of your days, like ghosts you’re too tired to chase away. His name doesn’t appear on your screen, but his voice plays in your head when you drive past the petrol station where he used to stop for your favourite gum. His laugh echoes in the back of your mind when you open Spotify and the playlist you made for him starts and somehow it still knows which songs make your throat close.

You keep his shirt in the back of your drawer, forgotten, then remembered, then deliberately not moved. It still smells like his skin in a way that makes your knees weak. You pass the little café he loved and your heart stumbles over itself because you can see him leaning against the window, tapping the lid of your drink so the steam wouldn't burn your lips, eyes already crinkled in that half-smile he never gave to anyone else.

He's there when you open the fridge and automatically reach for the orange juice he always used to keep on the top shelf so he could tease you about not being able to reach and then act all macho when he got it down for you. He’s in your dreams when sleep forgets you’re supposed to be angry and lets him back into your arms. He’s in the ache just beneath your ribs when someone asks, “Are you okay?” and you smile and nod and hope they don’t hear the lie rattling behind your teeth.

But today… today you can’t do it anymore.

You can’t keep carrying the silence like a shield when all it’s done is cut you off from the one person who ever made you feel that kind of love. You’ve tried the distance. You’ve tried the pretending. You’ve tried to be fine.

You don’t know what you’re going to say.

You don’t know if it’ll come out as forgiveness or fire, or if you’ll be able to speak at all when you see him again.

You do know this, nothing hurts more than this in-between. Nothing is worse than wondering what might’ve happened if you’d just tried one more time. Maybe you’ll get hurt again. Maybe he’ll break your heart all over again. But what you had was rare, and that kind of love? That kind of connection? It’s worth the risk. It’s a chance you’re willing to take, for how special you were together. If there’s still a chance, you have to take it, you have to try.

Because waiting might protect your heart.

But not giving the two of you another chance, not finding out what this could’ve been.

That’s the kind of regret that would haunt you forever.

It’s late.

Almost midnight, Monaco is quiet, and rain is threatening the cobblestones. You take the steps to his apartment two at a time, heart pounding so hard you can hear it echoing in your ears.

When you reach his door, you hesitate.

Then you knock.

It only takes a few seconds.

The door swings open.

He’s there. Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, barefoot, eyes wide like he thought maybe he was dreaming.

You’re both frozen.

Then you whisper, “Hi.”

“You’re here,” Max says, voice wrecked.

His eyes are wide, disbelieving. He looks thinner than you remember, tired in a way sleep can’t fix. One hand grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I didn’t think you’d ever—” He breaks off, breath catching. “I never thought…”

You shift your weight, arms folded tightly across your chest. You want to say something comforting, but instead, what comes out is honest.

“You hurt me so badly, Max.”

His shoulders drop. “I know,” he says immediately, his voice cracking at the edges. “And I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You look away, just for a second, long enough to stop yourself from crying. “I wasn’t asking you to be the perfect boyfriend. I never expected you to be anyone but yourself. I just needed you to show up for me. I needed you to stay. To choose me, even when it wasn’t easy. Especially then.”

“I know,” he says again, more desperate this time, stepping forward without thinking. “I thought I was doing the right thing, pulling back, then trying not to mess it up more. I was scared. Scared of what it meant to need someone like I needed you. I thought pushing you away would protect us, but all it did was destroy what we had.”

His eyes are glassy, voice trembling. “You were everything I ever wanted and I handled it like someone who didn’t deserve you.”

You take a breath and step past him, into the apartment.

It still smells like him.

Still feels like home, in the way a bruise still hums beneath your skin, aching when you press it, reminding you of everything that came before. You look around, and your voice is soft when you say, “I told myself I was done. That I deserved better. That I shouldn’t come back.”

His breath catches.

“And I still don’t know what’s right,” you admit. “But I know this, waiting didn’t make it hurt any less. Pretending not to love you didn’t help, and maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe we’ll fuck it all up again, but I would rather risk everything than spend one more night wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just given you that second chance.”

Max is crying openly now, but he’s smiling, too, this broken, beautiful kind of smile that only comes from relief so overwhelming it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You still want this?” he asks hoarsely. “You still want me?”

You nod, stepping into his arms. “I want us. I want messy and real and worth it. But only if you choose me this time. Every time. No more halfway.”

He pulls you into him like he might never let go again, his whole body trembling. “I choose you,” he breathes against your temple. “Forever. I swear to God, I’m all in. I don’t want a life where you’re not mine.”

Without any warning you're crashing into him like waves that have waited too long, too long to break, too long to finally come home.

There’s no pause, no hesitation, no careful approach just your body folding into his, arms winding tight around his neck, his wrapped around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re both trembling, not from cold but from the sheer weight of it all, weeks of silence, of pain, of love held back like a dam on the verge of breaking.

Your forehead presses against his as your fingers twist into the familiar fabric of his hoodie, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sob, the words cracking in your chest as they leave your mouth.

Max lets out a sound like something inside him is breaking open. “I missed you every fucking second,” he says, voice thick with desperation and relief, like he’s been holding that sentence inside his lungs and can finally exhale.

Then his lips are on yours, messy, raw, and a little too hard, but you don’t care because it’s not careful, not poised, not the kind of kiss you save for clean slates or picture-perfect moments.

It’s real. It’s everything.

All the love, all the grief, all the fear and the hope and the need you’ve both been swallowing since the second things first cracked, it's all there, spilling out between your mouths in gasps and saltwater tears.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

Like his heart has been aching for this one small miracle.

When he finally pulls away, your chests are heaving, noses still brushing, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs swiping away your tears, his fingers trembling against your skin like he still can’t believe you’re here.

“I’ll do it right this time,” he whispers, voice breaking like glass in the quiet. “Whatever it takes. I’m yours, completely, stupidly, yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You don’t answer with words.

You kiss him again instead, slower this time, deeper. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just full of everything you couldn’t say before. Then you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, tears still drying on your cheeks as you both stand there in the silence, in the safety of each other’s arms.

It’s steady.

Sure.

Home.

Later, when the adrenaline has settled into something softer, when the tears have dried but the weight of everything still clings to your bones, you lie curled up beside him, limbs tangled beneath the duvet, the room dim and hushed, like the universe itself is catching its breath.

His arms are around you and your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The same heart that's trying truly, desperately to piece you back together again.

You tilt your face up toward him, your voice quiet but steady, raw from crying, scraped from truth.

“It meant a lot that you waited,” you whisper, your fingers drawing soft shapes along his ribs like you're still trying to memorise the feeling of being this close again.

Max looks down at you, and there’s something different in his eyes now, not panic, not fear. Just presence. Just him. A boy who’s made mistakes. A man who’s trying to do better. Someone who is choosing you, fully and without flinching.

He reaches up and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle.

“I hoped every day you’d walk through that door,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours like they’re the only truth he knows. “I swore I didn’t care if it was weeks, or years… or never… I would’ve still waited.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him.

It’s hope.

It’s trust.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, in what feels like lifetimes, you both finally believe, truly believe, that this will last.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy

[jaesblogstuff]

The Lines I Crossed For You

Happy (early) father’s day i guess LOL. I might write something a little better, best fit for the occasion.

Simon’s been divorced six years.

She left without a fight — just said she was tired of a man who worked too much and smiled too little.

He didn’t beg. Didn’t chase. Just stood in the kitchen while the door shut behind her. Since then he’s been steady. Alone.

Liam —his only continuation of Riley blood, his son — moved in after burning through money and excuses. Said he was trying. Said he’d “try and get back on his feet” Simon didn’t ask. Just gave him a room. A second chance.

But he knew the truth. Liam wasn’t trying. He was coasting. Still a boy in a man’s world.

And then you came along.

At first, just weekends. Then overnights, shifts too long, Liam too distracted to show up. You were always moving. Always tired. Always giving.

Simon saw it all. Quietly. Every forgotten pickup. Every brushed-off look. And the way you stayed anyway. He knew that lingering in the doorway, cooking for you, waiting up even when you didn’t ask. It was too much. But there was a point where watching became unbearable.

He told himself to stay out of it.

But tonight? He can’t, He wouldn’t.

⸻

It’s almost 11 p.m. when you show up. No text. No call.

You hadn’t planned to really. You’d finished a 14-hour shift, head splitting, feet throbbing, too exhausted to go home. You’d asked Liam to pick you up — just this once — and when he didn’t answer, you sat in your car with your keys in your hand and your chest tight with something between shame and fury. Simon’s house was closer than your apartment. That’s the only reason you came. At least… that’s what you told yourself.

He opens the door in sweatpants, barefoot, hair a mess, face unreadable — and the moment his eyes land on yours, something in you buckles. You’re not okay. And he sees it. “I didn’t know where else to go,” you murmur. “Just… need a quick crash.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just steps aside. “You’re here,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

You walk in. He doesn’t ask questions. Just takes the bags and load from your hands, sets them gently on the counter, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you. You swallow and glance toward the hallway. “Is Liam here?”

Simon’s jaw shifts, barely, but you catch it. “He left a few hours ago,” he says. “Went out with friends, I think. Didn’t say much.” A pause. Then quieter, “Haven’t seen him since before dinner.”

You nod once, like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t sting.

“I called him… three times,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Guess he forgot.” You rub your hands over your face, the fatigue crashing down all at once. “I can go… if this is weird. I don’t want to—”

“Stop.” Simon’s voice is low, firm. “You’re staying. Sit down.”

You do. Not because you’re told, but because for once, it feels like someone means it.

He places a warm mug in front of you — tea from the pot he made not long ago. You wrap your hands around it like it’s the only heat you have left. He sits across from you, watching you sip. “Rough day?”

You nod. “I don’t even know what happened. Just… non-stop. Four admits. One code. Everyone short-staffed again.”

You shrug lightly, stare into your cup. “It’s whatever.”

Simon watches you a long moment, his eyes careful, searching. “And Liam?”

You let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh — hollow. “Didn’t show. Again. I waited outside the hospital like a fucking idiot for fifteen minutes before I gave up.”

The silence that follows is thick — not awkward, just loaded. Something in Simon snaps. Not loudly. Not violently. Just… breaks.

“I’ve watched you give him everything,” Simon murmurs, voice low and sharp. “And I’ve watched him give you nothing. That’s not fair. That’s not love.”

You blink hard. Swallow. “I don’t want pity.”

“You think this is pity?” he says, eyes locked to yours.

Then, softer, steadier. “I don’t look at you and see someone weak. I see someone who’s been strong for too long.”

His hand finds your knee. His thumb moves in slow, grounding circles.

“I’d give you everything if you let me. Every minute. Every drop. Just to watch you breathe easier.”

Your throat tightens. Something inside you splinters. You’re tired. Spent. But right now — right here — you’re also seen. Not just as someone who’s holding it together. But someone worth being held.

And Simon? He’s still waiting. Still giving you room.

“I don’t want to think,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why I will.”

Then you nod, barely a movement, and say, “Yes.”

⸻

He fucks you like someone who’s had years to imagine it.

Because he has.

Celibacy might as well have been stitched into the collar of his shirts — not by choice, but by the kind of quiet, aching resignation that comes from too many years of going untouched. No one since his wife.

And not once does he rush.

He undresses you slowly, reverently. Like your body is something to earn. His hands are warm and a little rough from yardwork and tools, but his touch is gentle. Intentional. His lips brush the inside of your wrist. Your collarbone. The skin just beneath your navel.

He doesn’t move to tease. He worships. When his mouth finds your thighs, you’re already trembling.

His tongue circles your clit. Soft, controlled, devastating, and the moan that leaves your throat is so quiet it startles you. It’s the kind of sound you don’t mean to make. The kind that lives deep in your chest and only comes out when someone really knows what they’re doing.

“Please,” you whisper, hips twitching, too gone to be embarrassed.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you first.”

Two fingers slide into you — slow, deep — and the groan he lets out is nearly broken. Like he’s mourning all the days he didn’t get to touch you like this.

His mouth doesn’t stop. And neither does your unraveling. You writhe under him, hand fisting the sheets, tears pricking at your lashes from how tender it all is. He doesn’t stop until you break — gasping, breathless, your back arching and legs shaking as you come hard against his mouth.

Only then does he rise, chest heaving, and kiss you like he’s starved. And then, just before he sinks inside you, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice rough and trembling

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Simon says, his voice low and raw against your shoulder. “To have someone like you. Someone so strong, so fucking hardworking, and beautiful, and kind — and just… look away. To not show up for you.”

“If you were mine—”

He stops himself. Shakes his head again like he’s trying to clear it. Like the thought hurts too much to say out loud.

But you feel it. You need it.

“No,” you whisper, voice shaky. “Say it.”

His throat works around the words. And when they come, they’re not smooth — they’re wrecked.

“I’d never stop touching you,” he says, voice cracking. “I’d never stop showing you. Every day. That you’re wanted. That you’re seen. That you’re safe. That you deserve it. All of it.”

You let out a broken sound, a breath that turns into a moan because the way he says it is what finishes you.

Not the touch. Not the friction. Him.

When he finally pushes in — slow, thick, achingly deep — the sound that leaves your mouth is a strangled cry.

“Oh my god—Simon—”

He groans, low and guttural. His hands grip your hips, firm but careful. “That’s it,” he pants. “Take it. Let me give it to you. Let me fucking have you.”

You nod wildly, mouth open, no words left. Your moans are quiet, breathy, raw. Real. They spill out of you like confessions. Like relief.

Simon moves slow — deliberate — each stroke heavy and deep, angled just right to drag a new gasp from your throat. His eyes never leave your face. His hands never stop touching.

It’s not just sex. It’s reverence. It’s grief. It’s a man making up for all the years he didn’t believe he’d ever get to feel this again.

It’s a man giving you everything his son never even thought to.

“You’re so full,” you whimper.

“You deserve it,” he breathes against your mouth. “Deserve to be filled until you can’t think.”

And when you come again, harder this time, your whole body clenched and trembling, he fucks you through it with nothing but praise:

“Good girl.”

“So fucking perfect.”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When he comes, he doesn’t pull out. He stays there — still buried inside — holding you like he’s terrified the moment might vanish if he lets go.

Later, when your breathing slows and the room fades to a quiet hum, Simon wraps his arms around you from behind. Anchors you to him. Then softer, at your temple: “Sleep.”

And for the first time in a long, long time — you do.

(i don’t know what i was thinking oh my goodness i’m sorry)

[dakusan]

S K Z F A L L I N G I N L O V E

stray kids ot8 x reader | this is how they fall—soft, slow, and all at once.

🌙 synopsis: love doesn’t always arrive loudly. sometimes it slips in through laughter, late-night ramen, bookstore rambles, or the way your eyes crinkle when you’re proud of them. this is the moment it hits them. the heartbeat they’ll never forget. the thought they can’t shake. the shift from “i like her” to “oh. i’m hers.” get ready for bashful glances, overthought texts, unsent voice notes, and loyalty so deep it stings. this isn’t just a headcanon set. it’s a love letter. from them, to you.

💌 a/n: welcome to another sunday softdrops. hello to everyone who’s ever accidentally fallen in love with someone who tied their hoodie wrong or smiled weird during ramen. this is for you. this is cinema. this is spiritual collapse. this is accidentally locking eyes while brushing your teeth and now he’s pacing the hallway writing poetry in his notes app. p.s. reblog = kisses and love p.p.s. hydrate. wear something soft. never settle for a love that doesn’t look at you like Hyunjin looks at sun-warm skin and unscripted laughter p.p.p.s. drop a member + a soft scenario in my inbox and I’ll write it. no shame. no brakes. let’s emotionally disintegrate together 💌

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Love Again — Baekhyun « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting on the studio floor, legs criss-crossed in that hoodie you always steal, eating spicy ramen with your hair a mess, humming quietly to the instrumental he left looping. It’s nothing fancy. No makeup. No posing. Just you, glowing under the dim studio light. You look up and smile—mouth full, eyes bright, like he’s your favourite person in the world.

His heart stutters. His breath catches. And then: stillness.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Shit. I’m gone. I’m in love. There’s no coming back from this.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolute silence. Like, full system shutdown. He suddenly “needs to focus” on the track, spins his chair around, fidgets with literally anything. He can't stop glancing at you in the reflection of the monitor, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like a schoolboy.

You: “What’s wrong?” Chan: “Nothing.” Also Chan: writes 6 love songs in one night and names the folder “idk.”

🫀 How he is in love: Gentle. So, so gentle it aches. He pays attention to every detail—your snack habits, your late-night mood swings, the way your lip curls when you’re overthinking. He worries constantly. Holds you like you're something delicate and divine. He serves you, literally and emotionally.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → makes you playlists, folds your laundry, rubs your feet at 3am. – Physical touch → forehead kisses, waist holds, late-night cuddle traps. – Reassurance → always reminding you: “I’ve got you. No matter what.”

Lee Know // 리노

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re napping on his couch, curled up in a pile of his cats and blankets. There's drool on your cheek. One slipper’s fallen off. Your hand’s loosely tangled in Soonie’s fur. And for some reason, when he walks in and sees that—that chaotic little mess of softness in his space—his chest tightens. He stands there, completely still. And just breathes. Like if he moves, the realization will hit too hard.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“...Damn it. This is love, isn’t it?”

💌 How he acts right after: Unbothered™. But that’s a lie. He acts the exact same on the outside—dry, sarcastic, lightly roasting you every five minutes. But now, when he calls you annoying, there’s a softness to it. He lets you steal his hoodies without comment. He cuts the crusts off your toast even though he always said that was “a waste.” And when he tucks the blanket tighter around you, he doesn’t say a word. But his hands linger.

🫀 How he is in love: He loves quietly. Intensely. Like it’s sacred. He watches you more than he talks, memorizes your habits like he’s preparing for a test. He won’t say “I love you” often—but the second someone else hurts you, he’s the first to stand up, fists clenched. His loyalty is undeniable.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → he wants you in the room, always. even if you're doing nothing. – Acts of service → small, exacting things. he'll fix your charger, refill your water, remember your favourite side dishes. – Words of affirmation → but only at 3am. in the dark. when you're half asleep and he thinks you won’t remember.

Changbin // 창빈

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re hyping him up after a recording session, arms flailing, voice full of chaotic praise like, “YOU’RE A GENIUS, SEO CHANGBIN. ACTUAL GOD-TIER. GRAMMY WHEN?” He laughs so hard he snorts. Then you toss your phone at him to queue your shared playlist, already scrolling to the song labelled “for binnie only 💘” like it’s just a normal thing to do.

And he just… pauses. Heart pounding. Smile fading into something softer. Because it’s not just a crush anymore. You’ve carved a home in his chest and didn’t even ask for rent.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Holy shit. She sees me. Like, all of me. And still wants to stay?”

💌 How he acts right after: He becomes a walking compliment generator.

You breathe? “You’re so cool.” You trip on air? “Even gravity loves you.” You touch his arm for 0.5 seconds? malfunction noises

He works out harder. Writes more. Smiles more. But also starts sending dramatic voice notes at midnight like,

“Hey um… not to be weird but like… your existence inspires me?? okay bye.” [hangs up instantly]

🫀 How he is in love: Overflowing. He feels big, and he loves bigger. He shows up. Every time. Front row in life for you. Loudest hype man, softest cuddle bear, always checking in even if you don’t ask. His love is protective, silly, and deeply rooted in loyalty—he doesn’t fall often, but when he does? He dives.

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → compliments on compliments on compliments. – Physical touch → bear hugs, back hugs, lap cuddles, full weight of his love on your body 24/7. – Gift giving → protein bars, playlists, random trinkets that “reminded me of you, don’t ask why.”

Hyunjin // 현진

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting in the sun, surrounded by your own little chaos—open books, headphones half-falling out, doodles all over the margins, an untouched coffee gone cold beside you. And you’re smiling to yourself. You’re not looking at him. Not even aware he’s watching. And for the first time, he doesn’t reach for his phone to take a photo. He just… stares. Because this moment is his, and his alone.

And he realizes, with a soft kind of devastation,

“I’m already hers.”

🖋️ Inner thought:

“She’s a poem. A prayer. A painting I want to memorize in my sleep.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely spirals. Draws your side profile 12 times and ruins 11 because “they don’t capture it right.” Starts journaling in half-English-half-messy-sketches. Tells Felix about it and then gets mad when Felix smiles knowingly. He gets so quiet around you for a few days—not cold, just reverent. Like he’s scared to touch the moment too hard in case it disappears.

🫀 How he is in love: Soft and dramatic at the same time. He holds your hand like it’s precious, but he also tells the moon about you like you're his eternal muse. Cries at the idea of your future together. Panics if you don’t text back in 20 minutes. Wants to show you the world, but more than that—he wants you to feel safe in his world.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → long walks. gallery dates. sitting in silence and feeling it. – Words of affirmation → whispered. written. cried into your hair at 2AM. – Gift giving → his hoodie. his poetry. flowers that “reminded me of you” and are never store-bought.

Han // 한

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re laughing so hard you almost choke on your boba. You try to tell a story but you’re wheezing between every word, face red, tears in your eyes, and instead of helping—he just starts laughing with you. Like really laughing. Loud. Unfiltered. Giddy. And then your hand brushes his and you don’t move it. Neither does he. He freezes mid-laugh and goes silent. Heart racing. Staring at your hand like it’s a bomb and he forgot the detonation code.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. No. Nope. Not allowed. Too much. Too fast. TOO—oh god I like her.”

💌 How he acts right after: 🧍‍♂️← him trying to walk normally while his brain is buffering Goes from “haha bestie 🤪” to “DO NOT PERCEIVE ME” in 0.3 seconds. Can’t look you in the eye. Drops everything he’s holding for a full week. Randomly sends memes at 2am like “HAHA this reminded me of nothing in particular bye” Starts writing lyrics with your initials in them and then panics and changes them to random letters.

🫀 How he is in love: Unhinged. Loyal. So soft he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Tells you dumb jokes because he wants to be the reason you smile. Acts like he’s chill about everything but will lose sleep over whether you liked the playlist he made you. He’s all heart, no brakes. The type to say “I’m not obsessed or anything” and then write your name 73 times in a private doc called “DO NOT OPEN I’M NORMAL.”

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → “you’re amazing” 24/7. calls you pretty when you sneeze. – Physical touch → clings to you like a koala when sleepy. arms around your waist while cooking. forehead touches when he’s overwhelmed. – Gifts → voice memos. notebooks full of scribbles. late-night snacks labelled “eat this or I cry.”

Felix // 필릭스

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re struggling with something—frustrated, eyes glassy, breath shallow. You try to smile through it, but he sees the crack in your voice. And instead of saying anything, you just... reach for him. Wordlessly. Trustingly. Like he’s your calm in the storm. And he holds you. No questions. No “what’s wrong?” And that’s when it clicks. You see him as your safe place. And now? He never wants to be anything else.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“I’d burn the whole world down just to keep her soft.”

💌 How he acts right after: SO SOFT. SO SHY. SO PANICKED. Starts checking in more often—"did you eat?" / "how are you feeling?" / "i saw a cloud and thought of you." Smiles at you like you’re made of glitter and stardust. He hugs longer. Texts sweeter. Starts journaling without realizing it. Cries at random songs because they "sound like you."

🫀 How he is in love: Loyal like a golden retriever. Protective like a knight. Gentle like warm tea in your hands. He wants to give—his time, his hoodie, the last bite, his full attention. He doesn’t love halfway. He pours. Will randomly whisper, “I love you,” mid-snack or during a grocery run. Just because.

💝 Love language: – Physical touch → hand-holding, pinky linking, long cuddles with your head on his chest where he can kiss your hair over and over – Words of affirmation → “you’re doing great,” “you’re beautiful always,” “you make me proud just by being you” – Gift giving → handmade bracelets, playlists with titles like “sunshine for my sunshine,” carefully wrapped little things he “just saw and thought of you”

Seungmin // 승민

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re arguing. Not seriously, just bantering over which ramen flavor is superior. You’re passionate, dramatic, refusing to back down. He rolls his eyes, calls you a menace. But then—

You crinkle your nose at him. That same look you always give him. That smug little grin. And for no reason at all, his brain just short-circuits. Because suddenly, he realizes he never wants to argue with anyone else ever again.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh god. She’s my person. She’s IT. That’s… that’s terrifying.”

💌 How he acts right after: Unchanged. Suspiciously unchanged. Keeps up the banter, calls you annoying, pretends like his heart didn’t just fall out of his chest. But he starts doing the quiet things—carrying your water bottle without asking, remembering exactly how you like your eggs, glancing at you when you laugh like it’s the last time he’ll get to hear it.

🫀 How he is in love: He doesn’t say it often—but he shows it in every micro-moment. He teases because he’s comfortable. He remembers everything you say. Stays up just to walk you home. Buys you medicine before you realize you’re sick. He doesn’t ask for much—he just wants to be the reason you feel steady.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → does everything quietly. recharges your headphones. clears your plate. fixes your tech. – Quality time → invites you to sit with him while he works. listens when you ramble about nothing. – Words of affirmation (low volume) → slips in compliments when you least expect it:

“you’re really smart, you know.” “i like when you talk like that.” “i’m proud of you… just don’t make it weird.”

I.n // 아이엔

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re dragging him through a bookstore, rambling about your favourite genre, talking a mile a minute. He’s not even following half of it—he’s too busy watching the way your eyes light up when you speak, the way your hands move when you’re excited. You stop mid-sentence, look back at him, and go:

“What? You’re staring.”

And he stammers some excuse—but the truth is, he just realized he wants to follow you around like that forever.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Oh no. I’m in love. I’m so done for. What do I do. WHAT DO I DO—”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely panics internally. Externally? Tries to act cool. Cue awkward jokes. Random distance. More awkward jokes. Starts doing little things for you but blaming them on coincidence.

“Oh you forgot your charger? Weird that I brought an extra one for no reason.” “I totally wasn’t waiting here for you to show up. I just… happened to be standing exactly where you are now.”

🫀 How he is in love: He glows. Around you, because of you, for you. Gets bolder in bursts—sends texts like “I missed your voice today.” Wants to impress you but also wants to be vulnerable. He tries so hard not to mess it up. But love softens him, makes him gentle, open, kind in a way that’s deeply intentional. Every time you smile at him, he falls harder.

💝 Love language: – Gift giving → tiny, random trinkets. receipts with hearts. keychains. snacks he saw and thought “this is so her.” – Quality time → slow walks, late calls, staying on FaceTime even if you’re both doing other things. – Physical touch → hesitant at first, then clingy. loves resting his head on your shoulder or getting forehead kisses like he’s your baby bird.

[plutosunshine]

What changes do you need to make in your life? Uranus in houses

Uranus in the 1st house

If you have Uranus in the 1st house, life is kinda asking you — maybe even pushing you — to embrace your individuality completely. Like, not just surface-level "I'm a little different" — but deep, radical self-acceptance. You're meant to stand out. You’re not here to fit into neat little boxes or live by someone else’s blueprint. And honestly, the more you try to "blend in," the more uncomfortable and restless you’ll probably feel.

Change for you often looks like breaking free from old versions of yourself — shedding layers of identity that don't match who you actually are inside. It's almost like you have to reinvent yourself several times through life, and each time you get closer to your truest, most electric version.

Also, people with Uranus in the 1st house sometimes shock others without meaning to — just by being themselves. If you've ever felt like people either instantly "get you" or are like, "Whoa, what are they about?" — that's totally part of your magic. You're meant to wake people up just by existing. So part of the change you might need is learning not to shrink yourself to make others more comfortable. Your energy shakes things up, and the world needs that.

Basically, life is asking you to be bold about who you are. Own your quirks, trust your instincts, and don't be afraid of people who don't "get it." Your real people will. ⚡

Uranus in the 2nd house

When Uranus is in your 2nd house, life kinda whispers (or sometimes yells), "Hey, your relationship to money, possessions, and self-worth isn't meant to be traditional." Stability in those areas? It's a moving target. You might experience sudden gains and losses, or your income might come from weird, unconventional, or unexpected places — like random side hustles, tech stuff, spiritual work, inventions, or just not the typical 9-5 route.

You're not supposed to cling too hard to stuff — money, belongings, even security in the "normal" sense — because Uranus wants you to find your true value somewhere deeper. It's like life challenges you to stay flexible, resourceful, and open to change. If you ever try to "lock down" your finances too tightly, life might throw curveballs just to remind you: "Hey, you can't control this like everyone else does."

What you’re really being nudged toward is a more authentic, liberated version of security — one that's based on your own inner worth, not just how much is in your bank account or what you own. That can feel wild sometimes, but it’s where your freedom and true abundance live.

Also, with Uranus here, you probably have some super unique talents or ways of creating value — like, skills that aren't "standard issue." Part of your life path is trusting that and not trying to be cookie-cutter about how you "should" earn or what you "should" have.

In short: you’re here to redefine what stability means — on your terms. And once you stop trying to do it the way everyone else expects, the real magic flows.

Uranus in the 3rd house

If you’ve got Uranus in the 3rd house, your mind doesn’t work like everyone else's — and that’s a huge gift. You're wired to think fast, differently, outside the box. Like, while everyone else is still putting the pieces of a puzzle together, you're already looking at the next puzzle two steps ahead. Your ideas can be brilliant, futuristic, and honestly, sometimes even too "out there" for people to immediately understand.

Life pushes you to communicate in your own unique way — whether that’s through writing, speaking, tech, memes, art, whatever fits your flavor. You’re probably not here to just parrot what’s already been said — you're here to spark new conversations. It’s very "I have something different to say, and if you don't get it, that's fine — you'll catch up."

Change-wise, Uranus in the 3rd house wants you to free your voice. Don’t water yourself down just to be understood easily. You're meant to bring new ideas into the world, even if it feels like you're shouting into the void sometimes. You’re also probably here to teach or influence people in unexpected ways — even just by chatting or posting online. You might drop a random comment that seriously changes someone's life without even trying.

Also, heads up: your day-to-day life can be kinda unpredictable. Last-minute trips, sudden changes in plans, weird encounters with siblings or neighbors — that's all very Uranus 3rd house energy. The universe likes to keep your environment stimulating, because your brain craves newness and movement.

So overall, life’s asking you to trust your strange, electric mind — and share it, even if it feels like no one gets it at first. You’re a mental pioneer. 🧠⚡

Uranus in the 4th house

When Uranus is in your 4th house, home and family roots are not exactly "normal" — and they’re not supposed to be. You might have grown up in a household that felt a little unstable, eccentric, chaotic, or just different from what most people around you experienced. Maybe there were sudden moves, surprising family dynamics, or a general sense that home didn’t always mean "predictable."

At a soul level, life is nudging you to redefine what home and emotional security mean for yourself. You’re probably not meant to live a super traditional, white-picket-fence kind of life — unless you totally reinvent what that looks like for you. You're wired to crave emotional freedom as much as emotional connection, which can be a weird balancing act. You want to belong, but not if it means losing yourself.

One big change Uranus asks from you is to detach from old family patterns that no longer support who you are becoming. You might be the one in your family who “breaks the chain” — doing life differently, healing old emotional wounds, choosing freedom over stuck loyalty.

Also, you may randomly move at unexpected times, live in unusual places, have a very unique home setup, or create a kind of “chosen family” of your own. Home for you isn't necessarily one physical place — it’s more about finding people and spaces where you can breathe, be weird, and feel truly safe being yourself.

If you ever feel like your foundation is shaking, it’s usually Uranus asking, "Is this still real for you? Or are you clinging to something out of fear?" And if it’s not authentic, life will eventually push you to shake it loose.

In short: your soul's mission is to create an emotional life based on truth, not tradition — and it's okay if it looks totally different from what you grew up with. In fact, it’s supposed to. 💫

Uranus in the 5th house

When Uranus is in your 5th house, life is saying loud and clear: "You’re not here to create like everyone else. You’re here to shock, inspire, and completely rewrite the rules of self-expression." Your creativity, your passions, even the way you love — it’s all electric, unpredictable, and absolutely unique to you.

You probably get flashes of inspiration out of nowhere — like one minute you're just living your life, the next you’re hit with a wild idea that’s lightyears ahead of its time. Follow those sparks. Your soul is happiest when you’re making or doing something that feels exciting, different, even a little rebellious.

When it comes to love and dating? Yeahhh... not exactly "by the book" either. 😂 You need excitement, freedom, and real connection — not just safe, boring routines. People who try to tie you down too fast or expect you to follow some romance script might make you want to run for the hills. Fast. Love for you needs to feel like an adventure, not an obligation.

Also, with Uranus in the 5th, you're meant to experiment with joy — find what lights you up and don’t be afraid if it changes over time. Hobbies, art, passion projects, even the way you relate to kids (if you have them or ever do) will all have a non-traditional flavor.

The big change Uranus asks of you is to trust your weird, wonderful self-expression, even if it doesn’t make sense to others. You’re not here to color inside the lines — you're here to invent whole new colors. 🎨⚡

And honestly, when you really let yourself play your way, life becomes magic.

Uranus in the 6th house

If Uranus is in your 6th house, life is basically saying: "You’re not meant to do work, health, or daily life the 'normal' way — and the sooner you own that, the freer and happier you’ll be."

You probably get restless with routines that feel too rigid or boring. Clocking into a 9-5 every day doing the same thing forever? Hard pass. Your soul craves freedom in your work life — meaning freelance gigs, weird career paths, sudden changes in job direction, or working somewhere that lets you be independent or innovative. Traditional setups might feel like they drain your life force unless they give you enough space to be you.

And your relationship to health is just as unique. Your body might respond weirdly to stress, routine, diet, or even conventional medicine. Sometimes it’s like your system is more sensitive to energy shifts — so listening to your own intuition, trying alternative healing methods, or mixing different styles might actually work better for you than following the "one size fits all" advice.

The big thing Uranus pushes you to change? Let go of trying to force yourself into boring, mechanical rhythms just because you think you “should.” Find your own rhythm. Make your day-to-day life feel alive, not suffocating. It’s about learning how to serve the world and honor your individuality at the same time — not sacrificing one for the other.

Also — random note — you might suddenly shift habits, diets, or routines overnight. Like, you wake up one day and think, "I'm never eating sugar again" or "I'm quitting this job today." And if you trust those intuitive jolts (and they come from real insight, not just rebellion), they can actually be super healthy for you.

In short: build a life that lets you work and live in a way that feels electric, free, and true — even if it looks totally different from what everyone else is doing. 🛠️⚡

Uranus in the 7th house

If you’ve got Uranus in the 7th house, life is basically setting you up for relationships that break the mold. The traditional "settle down, follow the script" thing? Yeah... not really your destiny. Deep down, you crave connection — but it has to come with a huge side of freedom, authenticity, and excitement.

You might attract super unusual, eccentric, brilliant, rebellious partners — people who are totally different from what your family or friends expect. Or your relationships might start in weird, sudden, out-of-nowhere ways. Sometimes it's instant sparks, sometimes it's chaos, but it’s never boring.

One big thing Uranus asks of you is to rethink what partnership means. You’re not here to merge into someone else or lose yourself in "we" — you're here to form relationships where both people still get to be totally themselves. If someone tries to control you or box you in, your soul is gonna scream, "Nope!" even if everything looks good on paper.

There can also be sudden changes in relationships — fast beginnings, sudden breakups, on-and-off vibes — because your partnerships are meant to reflect growth and evolution, not just stability for stability’s sake. Long-term, the kind of relationship that works for you is one that feels like a conscious choice every day, not an obligation you’re stuck in.

You’re meant to experience partnership as something that’s alive, surprising, and full of breathing room — not something that clips your wings. ��

In short: you’re here to build new models of love and partnership, ones that are real, free, and yours — even if they don’t look traditional to the outside world.

Uranus in the 8th house

If Uranus is in your 8th house, you are wired for deep transformation, but it’s not going to be slow, steady, or easy — it’s going to come in flashes, breakthroughs, and total holy sht* moments. Life doesn’t let you stay the same for long. You’re built to shed skins, reinvent yourself, and go through some seriously wild inner changes that shock even you sometimes.

The 8th house is about shared energy — intimacy, deep trust, merging resources, death and rebirth (emotionally, spiritually, and sometimes literally dealing with loss). Uranus here brings sudden shifts in all those deep areas. You might experience unexpected changes with money you share with others — inheritance, investments, debts, etc. But even bigger than money? Emotional intimacy. You probably don’t do closeness the "normal" way. You need freedom even in deep bonds — meaning you’ll crave deep connection but also fear losing your independence if it gets too entangled or heavy.

Part of your growth is learning how to let people in without feeling trapped. And honestly? You're meant to attract people who help awaken you — lovers, friends, mentors — not just keep you safe and cozy. Relationships with you can feel electric, transformative, and a little chaotic because you wake people up, and they wake you up right back.

Also, you probably have some crazy strong intuition about hidden things — emotional undercurrents, secrets, even metaphysical stuff like energy healing, astrology, or psychic phenomena. Uranus in the 8th house often gives flashes of insight into the unseen realms.

In short: you’re here to transform, to trust your inner flashes of insight, and to live through depth without losing your freedom. It’s intense, but you were built for this kind of magic. 🖤⚡

Uranus in the 9th house

If Uranus is in your 9th house, your soul is basically wired for exploration, expansion, and truth-seeking — but in the most wild, non-traditional way possible. You’re not here to just accept what you're taught; you’re here to question everything and find your own truth, even if it’s way outside the "normal" zone.

You might have an intense need for freedom through learning, travel, philosophy, or spirituality — but you’ll always approach those things in your own way. Like, traditional religious systems? Academic structures? "One-size-fits-all" beliefs? Nah, that’s not gonna cut it for you. You need room to roam, both mentally and literally. ✈️📚

Big changes with Uranus here usually look like sudden revelations that totally flip your worldview. One day you might believe in X, the next day you're like, "Nope, it’s Y," because a flash of insight hit you so hard you can’t unsee it. And travel? Yeah — you might have unexpected moves, spontaneous trips, or a restless need to experience different cultures and ways of thinking. Even if you stay in one place physically, your mind is always somewhere new, exploring.

In relationships and life in general, you need people around you who respect your mental freedom. Anyone trying to force you into their belief system or limit your thinking? Instantly a no-go for you.

The change Uranus is pushing you toward is breaking free from inherited beliefs and creating your own understanding of the universe — one that's alive, evolving, and completely yours. You’re here to be a trailblazer in thought, not a follower.

In short: You’re meant to wake people up to bigger, freer ways of seeing life — starting with yourself. 🧠🚀

Uranus in the 10th house

If you have Uranus in your 10th house, you are not here to have a "normal" career or public life — at all. Like, truly, you’re built to shock, inspire, and change the system by just being yourself out in the world.

You might have this deep, restless urge to do work that’s different, groundbreaking, or ahead of its time. Sitting at a desk doing the same thing every day under someone else's rules? Not it. You need freedom, innovation, and the space to carve your own path. A lot of people with this placement either blow up suddenly (like, overnight success out of nowhere) or have a career path that's full of random twists, turns, starts, and reboots. You're not supposed to have a straight-line journey. You’re meant to reinvent yourself publicly over and over.

And when it comes to your reputation? People might see you as rebellious, brilliant, eccentric — maybe even a little unpredictable. Some will admire it, some won’t know what to do with you — but either way, you’re unforgettable. Your energy shakes things up wherever you go, especially in the areas of leadership, fame, career, and achievement.

The big shift Uranus demands from you is: don’t force yourself into traditional definitions of "success." You're supposed to define success on your terms, even if nobody else gets it at first. When you stay true to your weird, genius path, that's when the universe really opens doors for you.

You’re basically a walking permission slip for others to realize they can be successful without selling their soul. 🔥

In short: You’re here to change the game — not play it. 🛸🌟

Uranus in the 11th house

If you have Uranus in the 11th house, you’re literally built to find your people — but it’s not gonna happen in a typical, cookie-cutter way. You're supposed to connect with wildly different, progressive, visionary communities — the weirdos, the geniuses, the rebels, the dreamers — the ones who don't just fit in but want to change the whole damn system.

You’re not meant to just be part of any group; you’re here to help invent new movements, ideas, and futures. You might feel restless or out of place in traditional circles because your soul knows you need a tribe that lets you fully be yourself — no masks, no small talk, no shrinking.

You might also notice that friendships and group connections in your life can be sudden, electric, and sometimes unstable. People can come into your life fast and leave just as fast — but every connection usually brings some kind of awakening or shift, even if it’s short-lived.

Career and dreams? You’re meant to dream big — not just for yourself, but for the collective. Like, you’re here to push humanity forward in your own way, whether that’s through tech, social movements, arts, spirituality, or whatever wild path your heart picks. And honestly, you're usually ahead of your time — you see futures that other people haven't even imagined yet.

The big shift Uranus asks of you is: don’t cling to old friendships, networks, or dreams just because they’re comfortable. Your soul craves growth and evolution. And sometimes that means walking away when a community no longer matches your vibration — even if it’s hard.

In short: you’re here to shake up the collective, connect with your soul tribe, and dream the future into being. 🌍🚀

Uranus in the 12th house

If Uranus is in your 12th house, you’ve got this deep, electric connection to the unseen — the collective unconscious, intuition, dreams, energy fields, things most people can’t even put into words. You’re wired to sense shifts before they happen. Sometimes you’ll just know stuff without knowing how you know. It's like you have a built-in cosmic antenna — picking up on vibes, future trends, hidden emotions, even collective spiritual shifts.

But here's the tricky part: because the 12th house is so hidden, a lot of this Uranian lightning might be happening under the surface, inside you — not always super obvious to you or others. You might feel restless without knowing why, or you might have sudden awakenings that feel totally random but actually aren’t.

Freedom, for you, is an inside job. It’s about freeing yourself from old karmic patterns, unconscious fears, and anything that cages your inner wildness. You’re here to break free from invisible prisons — things like self-sabotage, outdated spiritual beliefs, hidden anxieties.

Also? You’re super plugged into the collective energy. When society goes through chaos or awakening (and let’s be real, it does a lot these days), you might feel it in your body and soul before anything even happens externally. You’re like a cosmic early warning system. 🚨✨

The shift Uranus is asking from you is: trust your flashes of insight, even if they come from dreams, meditation, or deep inner nudges that don’t seem logical at first. And learn how to ground your energy so you don’t get overwhelmed by everything you’re sensing.

You’re meant to be a kind of hidden awakener — someone whose very presence, even quietly, stirs change in others on a deep, soul level. 🌀💫

In short: you’re here to awaken not just your own soul, but the collective dream — and it all starts with trusting your inner electric magic.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

More thoughts about Lion!Mydei: He takes reader home and provides her with food, love, a safe place and protects her from the others predator. Then when the night comes, he will keep breeding and breeding her all over again until she’s nothing but a dumb cockdrunk little rabbit ><

✧ tws : nsfw/smut, breeding kink, size kink/difference, multiple of rounds, c*ckdrunk reader, overstimulation, mating/possessive behaviour, marking (biting & claiming), claws & fangs, c*mflation, mild dumbification and degradation ( mydei calls you dumb).

The first time Mydei found you, you were trembling, small and fragile, a soft little bunny lost in a world far too dangerous for you. He had been watching, waiting, his golden eyes locked onto you as you struggled to find shelter. A weak, defenseless thing like you wouldn’t last long—not with predators lurking in the shadows, waiting to sink their teeth into your delicate flesh.

But Mydei got to you first.

He took you home, carried you in his strong arms, his powerful frame making you feel even smaller. His den was warm, hidden deep within the cliffs where no one could reach you. The moment he placed you inside, you knew you weren’t leaving. You belonged to him now.

And he took care of you.

Every day, he brought you food—the sweetest fruits, the softest greens, everything you needed to stay healthy and satisfied. He kept you wrapped in his warmth, his massive body curled around you, shielding you from the outside world. No harm would ever come to you, not while he was here. No one would ever touch you—not when you were his.

But when the sun dipped below the horizon, when night fell and the world grew quiet, Mydei’s patience snapped.

You barely had time to react before you were on your back, your mate looming over you, his sharp claws gripping your hips as he spread you open beneath him. His golden eyes burned with hunger, his strong body pressing you down, trapping you under his sheer size.

“So soft,” he murmured, dragging his sharp teeth along your neck, marking you with gentle bites. “So weak. My little bunny… what would you do without me?”

You gasped, your body trembling as he pushed inside—stretching you, filling you too deep, making you feel so small, so helpless beneath him. He didn’t wait, didn’t give you a chance to adjust. He never did.

Mydei was starved for you.

His cock bullied its way into your tight, wet heat, forcing you to take every inch, to mold around his size as he fucked you into the nest of soft leaves and furs he had prepared just for you. His growls rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin as he pounded into you, forcing your body to accept all of him.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his claws dragging down your waist, gripping you like he would never let you go. “So small, so weak—yet you take my cock so perfectly. My perfect little mate.”

“Nn—hnn, lion, ‘m feelin’ funny.”

Your thoughts were slipping, your body melting under the relentless pleasure. Mydei had already filled you up so many times tonight, his hot seed dripping from your swollen cunt, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Not until you were bred.

Not until your belly was swollen with his cubs, proof that you belonged to him in every way. Your tongue lolled out, you big fluffy ears twitching, as your brain became even more mush.

Your moans were nothing but broken little noises, your legs trembling as he fucked you into dumb, mindless bliss. Your body was his to ruin, his to fill, and he wouldn’t stop—not until you were nothing but a cockdrunk little bunny, too full of his cum to think, too weak to move.

“D-Don’—ohhhh, lio-lionyyy, s’ too much—!”

“Shh, my little bunny,” he purred, his voice dripping with possessive hunger. “Just let me breed you. That’s all you need to do.”

And with another deep thrust, he did.

Your body ached.

Your legs trembled, spread wide as Mydei’s thick cock stretched your pussy all over again, filling you too deep, hitting a spot that made your mind melt into nothing but hot, needy pleasure. His claws pressed into your hips, holding you still as he rutted into you, forcing your tight little hole to take everything he gave.

“Such a good little bunny,” he groaned, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. “You were made for this—made to take my cock, made to be bred.”

Your head lolled to the side, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your eyes rolled back. You couldn’t think anymore, not with how good he felt, how full you were. His cock stretched you to the limit, stuffing you over and over, making sure you felt nothing but him. Your dumb little brain melted into nothing but pleasure.

His pace was brutal, his heavy balls slapping against your sticky, messy pussy, already so swollen from how many times he had filled you tonight. You had lost count of how many times he had bred you, how many times he had pushed his thick cum inside, but Mydei didn’t care.

It wasn’t enough

It would never be enough.

One of his big hands slid down your belly, pressing down just as he thrust deep, making you cry out at how full you were. His cock twitched inside you, buried so far that you could feel the bulge in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he purred, his sharp teeth dragging over your shoulder before he bit down, claiming you all over again. “That’s me. That’s my cock inside your pretty little pussy, making sure you’re stuffed full of my seed.”

You let out a broken whimper, your body twitching as pleasure surged through you, as your clit throbbed from the overwhelming sensation. Mydei loved it—loved how dumb you got when he fucked you like this, loved the way your pussy clenched around him, trying to milk him for more.

“My dumb little bunny,” he chuckled, his voice full of pride as he dragged a rough finger down to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles. “All cockdrunk and needy, aren’t you? You don’t even care anymore—just want my cum, want me to breed you until you’re too full to move.”

You screamed when he rubbed your clit harder, sending you into another orgasm, your pussy tightening around him as you came. But Mydei didn’t stop—he never stopped.

His cock throbbed, his thrusts turning messy as he growled against your skin, his grip tightening as he bred you all over again.

“Take it,” he groaned, his pace turning desperate as his cock pulsed inside you. “Take all of it, little bunny—take my seed like the perfect mate you are.”

And when he spilled inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum flooding your pussy, filling you so deep—he didn’t pull out. He just held you close, rolling his hips slowly, making sure every drop stayed inside.

You were too weak to move, too cockdrunk to do anything but let him keep you there, plugged full of his cum, his cock still hard inside you.

And Mydei? He smirked, pressing a possessive kiss to your forehead.

“You’re not done yet, little bunny,” he murmured, rolling his hips just enough to make you whimper. “We’re going all night.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[hanniebaeee]

Without you

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: lots of tears

Genre: established relationship, angst, fluff

Summary: When Hyunjin comes home after a week away for work, he finds you gone. And he's furious because you didn't say a word, just packed and left. And he knows it has everything to do with the dinner you had with his parents just before he left.

a/n: writing my pain away. I'm sorry if this is too angsty.

Hyunjin’s knuckles rapped against Jisoo’s front door with such force you feared that it might come off its hinges. You glanced at Jisoo, your face streaked with tears, your heart racing.

“Y/N!” His voice came through the door, sending a jolt of panic through your chest. “Open the damn door, or so help me, I’ll kick it down.”

Jisoo shot you a glance, silently asking if you wanted her to handle it. You just shook your head. You had to face him at some point. 

“You sure?” Jisoo asked, her protective instincts flaring.

You nodded, and she sighed before walking towards the door.

Memories of that night flashed through your mind painfully. Dinner at his parents’ place. Everything was going fine until his mum cornered you in the kitchen as you helped her put things away. She was so polite as she suggested that her son was very impulsive, and rarely thought things through.

You heart nearly stopped as she said that, because you had a feeling where this conversation was headed. And then she told you with a smile that if you really loved him, you'd stop holding him back, and let him have the life he truly deserved - a life with a Korean girl who'd fit better with his family. With him. 

And she had proceeded to pretend like everything was ok the rest of the night, while you had to do everything in your power to not break down. He was their only son. You didn't want to ruin his relationship with them, considering how wildly protective he was of you. 

The man loved you with everything in him. And Hyunjin literally wore his heart on his sleeves, and you would never knowingly do anything to agitate him. And so you'd gone home silently that night, spent a long time silently sobbing in the bathroom as he packed for a one week trip. He had multiple shows scheduled for the week, all outside Korea. 

Obviously he knew the minute you emerged from the bathroom with a smile. He had stared into your eyes, his mouth opening and closing like he desperately wanted to talk. But he had to leave in another hour, and he didn't want to start a conversation that he knew he couldn't finish before he left. So he engulfed you in a hug, kissed you deeply and told you that he loved you. And that you're his entire world. 

But sadly, that didn't make your aching insecurities vanish. Because after he left, you'd packed your own bags and called Jisoo, panicking.

He called out again, this time a little softer, but his tone was dripping with frustration.

“Jisoo, I know you’re in there. And I know she’s with you. Let me in.” he said. “Please.”

“Fine! But if you make her cry again, I'll make you suffer.” Jisoo opened the door, shooting him a glare as she moved aside. “She's in the guest room.”

Hyunjin stormed in, wearing his travel-worn hoodie and sweatpants, looking so tired, but furious at the same time. 

His sharp eyes locked onto you immediately as he stepped into the guest bedroom. Hyunjin stood there for a moment, staring at you. Your face was nearly unrecognizable - eyes swollen, skin blotchy from crying for days. You could barely keep your eyes open. 

Hyunjin’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths, and you could see the tension radiating off him. 

“You wanna explain to me what the hell is going on?” he asked finally, his voice tight with barely suppressed anger.

You tried to hold his gaze, but the intensity in his eyes was unbearable.

“Hyunjin, please don’t do this right now,” you muttered, wiping your face with the sleeve of your oversized sweater.

“Oh, we’re doing this,” he said, stalking toward you like a predator who’d just spotted its prey. He crossed his arms, towering over you. “Start talking. Now.”

You folded your arms, a weak attempt to put up a barrier. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Nothing to talk about?” He scoffed, letting out a humorless laugh. “That’s rich, considering I came home to our apartment looking like a ghost town. All your stuff gone. My gifts left behind like they were trash. And you dodging my calls?”

His voice was rising, and it was clear that more than anger, he was hurt.

“I didn’t dodge your calls,” you countered weakly, your voice breaking.

“You didn’t answer them. Or my texts,” he fired back. “What the hell, Y/N? I want you to tell me why you thought it was okay to pack your things and leave without a word."

You tried to muster the courage to stay firm, to push him away like his mother had suggested.

“I… I think we’re too different, Hyunjin.” The words tasted bitter on your tongue. “It's for the best…”

His jaw clenched, his angelic features hardening. “Bullshit.”

Your eyes widened at his bluntness, and how he took another step forward. 

“You don’t get to pull this ‘too different’ crap on me now,” he snapped. “If you don’t want to be with me anymore, fine, say that. But don’t lie to me. Is that it? You don't love me?”

“No, no,” you insisted, though your voice was shaky. “Hyunjin, please-”

“Then tell me why you cried your eyes out after that dinner,” he challenged. “Tell me why my mom’s been calling me nonstop asking if you’re okay.”

Your heart sank. Of course, he’d piece it together. He wasn’t stupid.

Hyunjin exhaled, running a hand through his short hair, his frustration giving way to something softer. “Baby, what did she say to you?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Hyunjin, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” he said, his voice cracking. “It matters if it’s enough to make you leave me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes again, and your eyes burned as you blinked them back.

“She loves you, Jinnie…whatever she wants for you, it's for the best…you do deserve better,” you admitted quietly. “Someone who fits into your world better than I do.”

Hyunjin let out a low curse, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He turned away for a moment, running both hands through his hair as he paced the room, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.

“You deserve someone who won’t hold you back.”

He froze, his gaze darkening as he asked, “You think you hold me back?”

“Hyunjin -”

“I don’t care what she said,” he snapped, cutting you off. “I’m asking you. Do you think that?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

“Y/N,” he whispered, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. “You’re my world. No one else fits better into it than you. My mom doesn’t get to decide who’s good enough for me, baby. I do. And guess what? You’re it. You’ve always been it. Don’t you see that?”

“I just…” You shook your head, your voice trembling. “I don’t want to cause problems for you. I love you too much to -”

“To what?” he interrupted, stepping closer again. His hands found your face, his touch firm but gentle as he tilted your chin up to make you look at him. “To stay? To fight for us?”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching at the sincerity in his voice.

“And if my mom can’t see what we have, that’s her problem,” he continued, his tone fierce. “But you don’t get to decide for me. You don’t get to run away without even talking to me.”

You felt your resolve crumbling, your walls breaking down under the weight of his words.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, trying to push him away.

“Like what?” He smirked, his confidence creeping back. “Like I’m madly in love with you?”

“Hyunjin…” Your voice was barely audible as you mumbled, “I don't want you to regret this. Ever.”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Don’t you dare say that. Because it's bullshit. You’re everything to me.”

The tears flowed freely now, and you couldn’t stop them even if you tried. “But your mom -”

“I’ll handle my mom,” he growled, cutting you off again. “You’re my choice, Y/N. My family. My life.”

His words shattered the last of your resolve, and before you knew it, you were sobbing into his chest, clutching at his hoodie. He held you close, his arms wrapped around you so tight. 

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your hair, his voice trembling. “And I’m yours. Don’t ever forget that.”

You nodded against him, too overwhelmed to speak. A small tearful laugh escaped you, despite the tears still streaming down your face.

“There’s my girl,” he teased, brushing a thumb over your cheek to wipe your tears away. “Now, grab your things. Let’s go home.”

You hesitated, still unsure if you could ever face his mother again.

“Don’t worry about her,” he added, as if reading your mind. “I’ll handle it. This is not your battle, okay?”

And just like that, the weight on your chest began to lift. In that moment, nothing else mattered. It was just you and Hyunjin - two souls refusing to let go of each other.

And you knew, deep down, that you never would.

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Player of the Match 3/3

Summary : She’s the most dominant player in women’s volleyball and media favorite known for her killer serves and perfectly styled hair. She’s also a massive Formula 1 fan. More specifically, an Oscar Piastri fan.

Oscar has no idea… until Lando shows him an interview of her revealing her crush.

Pairing : Oscar Piastri x volleyball player!reader

Genre : SMAU, fluff, request, suggestive

Face claim : Duru Türknas

Series : Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Main Masterlist

The sliding doors of the Nice Côte d'Azur Airport opened to let in a soft wave of summer heat, the Mediterranean sun spilling across the arrival hall in a gentle haze. Oscar stood a few feet away, slightly bouncing on the balls of his feet as his eyes scanned the crowd. His palms were clammy despite the air-conditioned terminal, one hand clutching his phone while the other rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck.

He had arrived twenty minutes early. Of course he had.

In the past, he'd always prided himself on being calm and composed, on track, during press, even in front of wild fans. But this? This had him undone. Because this wasn’t just anyone flying in for a weekend. It was her.

The girl he had watched on screen, spiking balls with impossible grace and laughing under fluorescent gym lights. The girl who had blushed in interviews when his name came up. The girl who, against all odds, was now texting him, flirting with him, going on dates with him. And now, stepping off a flight to spend the weekend in his world.

When he spotted her, dragging a small suitcase and wearing that bright smile that made his stomach twist in ways he hadn’t felt before, Oscar actually forgot how to breathe.

"Hi," she said, slightly breathless, eyes lighting up when she saw him standing there, white tee slightly wrinkled, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

He blinked, swallowed the lump in his throat, then finally moved forward. "Hi," he replied, smile blooming instantly. "You made it."

She laughed. "I did. Still can't believe it. Monaco feels like a dream."

Oscar reached for her suitcase handle, already pulling it from her hand with a gentleman's ease. "Well, let’s make it a good one. I parked just outside."

The drive from Nice to Monaco was smooth, the coastal roads curving between cliffs and sea, sunlight painting everything in gold. Oscar kept stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye. She looked out the window, hair pulled back loosely, sunglasses resting in her hand as she took in every glimpse of the Riviera.

Every few minutes, he'd ask something.

"Are you comfortable? Want the AC lower? Need water? Snacks? Should I stop for coffee?"

She turned to him at one point, placing a gentle hand on his wrist, laughter in her eyes. "Oscar. Breathe. Please. I'm good. Just really happy to be here."

He exhaled like she'd physically released some valve in his chest. "Okay, sorry. Just want to make sure everything's perfect."

"It already is," she said softly.

And then she pulled a tiny gift bag from her tote and handed it to him.

Oscar blinked. "What's this?"

"A little something. I saw it and thought of you. I hope it’s not too stupid."

He opened the bag carefully and pulled out a small, plush croissant with a smiling face stitched into it. His eyes widened in amusement.

"It’s a Piastri-pastry," she said, cheeks warming. "Pastry. Piastri. You know... dumb wordplay."

He actually choked out a laugh, one of those genuine, uncontrolled ones that made his eyes crinkle.

"That might be the best gift I’ve ever gotten," he said, turning the plush in his hands. "I'm putting this on my nightstand. Or maybe in the car. Permanent seat."

Their eyes locked for a moment longer than necessary. He leaned in slightly, almost without thinking but then pulled back, jaw tight, remembering himself.

She noticed.

He was too careful. Too cautious. Too polite. And it only made her like him more.

Oscar’s apartment in Monaco was sleek and modern, but surprisingly homey. Minimalist furniture, soft neutrals, and a framed photo of his dog back home in Australia on the entryway table.

He helped her with her bag, hovering in the hallway like he wasn’t sure if he should offer her the tour or apologize for not vacuuming.

"You can freshen up here," he said, leading her to the guest room. "Or rest. Or... whatever you need. Again, if you’re hungry or thirsty, I..."

"Oscar," she said gently, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest. "I’m fine. Seriously. Stop worrying so much. Let’s just enjoy this, okay? No pressure. No expectations."

He nodded, trying to absorb her calm like a sponge. "Okay. It’s just, I really want this to go well. You to feel welcome. I’ve never flown anyone out here before."

Her smile softened. "That’s sweet. And a little intimidating. But sweet."

He laughed awkwardly. Then his voice dropped slightly, eyes flickering to her lips before quickly darting away. "Also... I’ve kind of been panicking about when to kiss you since the second I saw you at the airport."

She tilted her head. "Really?"

"Yeah. I keep overthinking it. Like, do I wait for the boat? At dinner? Under the stars? After dessert? Before dessert?"

She chuckled and stepped a little closer, eyes glinting with playful mischief. "Well, boat night does seem like the most cinematic option."

Oscar tried to hide his disappointment, nodding. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."

She stared at his pout for one second too long, then let out a soft sigh. "Oscar."

He looked up.

"I was joking."

He blinked.

She took his hand. "You can kiss me now."

The way his breath caught—like the air had left the room and returned all at once, was almost funny.

Almost.

Then he stepped forward, cupped her cheek with one careful hand like he didn’t trust this to be real, and kissed her.

It was slow and warm at first, uncertain and full of all the nerves they’d been dancing around for weeks. But when she curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt, he melted into it, deepened it, let himself feel all of it.

And when they finally pulled away, their foreheads resting together, both slightly breathless, she whispered:

"Guess I won’t be needing that cinematic boat kiss anymore."

Oscar smiled against her lips. "Let’s do that too. Just for the full experience."

She laughed.

And God, he never wanted her to stop.

The sun hung low over the Monaco skyline, casting a soft golden light across the shimmering waters of the harbor. The cobbled streets were busy but calm, the sounds of gentle waves lapping against yachts mixing with the distant clinks of silverware from seaside cafés. Oscar glanced at her as they strolled side by side, her hand occasionally brushing against his, a quiet spark every time it happened.

He'd taken the afternoon to show her around the city, as much of it as could be covered in a few hours anyway. From the famous Casino de Monte-Carlo to the little market stalls tucked between luxury boutiques, she had marvelled at everything like a kid on Christmas morning. And God, he loved watching her take it all in.

"Okay," she said, pulling off her sunglasses and tucking them into her hair, "Monaco might be my new favorite place."

Oscar grinned, relieved and proud at the same time. "Yeah? That’s a big win."

"I mean... you, ice cream, yachts, sunshine? It’s like a dream."

"You forgot to mention traffic and being stared at by tourists."

"Minor inconveniences," she said, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers.

They stopped at a small gelateria by the harbor, Oscar ordering two cones: lemon and pistachio for him, dark chocolate and raspberry for her. He paid before she could even reach for her wallet.

"Oscar," she protested, laughing.

"Monaco rule number one," he replied smoothly. "When you're visiting, you don't pay for anything."

"Says who?"

"Me. Just now."

She licked her ice cream and raised a brow. "Fine. But I’m buying breakfast tomorrow."

He smiled to himself as they continued their slow walk along the marina, passing polished yachts, local fishermen packing up for the day, and the occasional couple arm-in-arm. With every passing minute, he felt himself relax a little more. Her laugh came easily. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She wasn’t overthinking this the way he was.

As they reached the far edge of the harbor, the private docks opened up before them, quieter and more secluded. Oscar led her down a narrow path between the boats, their steps echoing faintly on the wood.

He stopped when they reached Lando’s borrowed yacht.

"This is the one," he said, trying to sound casual, but the nerves were creeping back into his voice.

She turned toward the boat, then back at him, a slow grin forming. "Of course it is."

"I know, it’s a bit... much."

She tilted her head. "It's Monaco. Everything here is a bit much. But I love it."

They climbed aboard, and Oscar helped her down onto the deck with exaggerated care, his hand lingering in hers for a few seconds longer than needed.

"You okay?" he asked for the fifth time that afternoon.

"Oscar. I swear. If you ask me that again, I’m going to push you overboard."

He laughed, raising both hands in surrender. "Fair. I just..."

"Want to make sure I’m okay, I know," she interrupted, softer now. She looked at him for a moment, then reached out and took his hand. "I am. I’m really happy to be here."

They sat side by side on the back deck, the sky fading slowly into shades of amber and rose. The sun dipped behind the hills, leaving a trail of light dancing on the water. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. It wasn’t awkward. It was just,  peaceful.

Oscar finally broke the silence. "Can I ask something stupid?"

She turned to look at him, intrigued. "Always."

"Are you... not nervous? At all? Because I’ve been in a constant state of panic since noon."

She smiled and looked down at their hands, still loosely tangled. "I was terrified."

He blinked. "Wait, seriously?"

"God, yes. You’re Oscar Piastri. The guy I crushed on through a screen, remember? The one who had no idea I existed while I was out here embarrassing myself in interviews."

Oscar winced playfully. "I loved those interviews. I watch them on repeat after your match. I think my favorite was when your teammate called me your imaginary husband."

"God no, but that's because you didn't know me, I tough you will never saw those."

"Well I saw it eventually."

They both laughed.

She continued, voice softening. "But yeah, I was nervous. I just... I’m a bit better at pretending I’m not."

"That’s not fair," he said, shaking his head. "You’re calm and collected and perfect, and I’m just here hoping I don’t say something dumb every two minutes."

Their laughter faded into another moment of quiet, one that lingered just long enough for her to lean against his shoulder. The air had cooled slightly, but her presence was warm.

"This might be my favorite day," she murmured.

Oscar tilted his head to rest lightly against hers. "Same."

Then, after a beat he says : "No pressure, right? Just... enjoy the moment?"

She smiled, eyes closed. "Exactly."

And as the stars began to blink into view above them, Oscar felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. Not nerves. Not anxiety. Something calm. Something hopeful.

@volley_yn

Boat day with perfect company. 🛥️

@_user1: Wait wait wait… isn’t she in Monaco?? 👀 isn’t Oscar there too???

@_user2: okay but like… Oscar doesn’t have a boat, does he?

@_user3: maybe it’s just another guy?? maybe a random date??

@_user4: NO bc Lando does have a boat and he was at her match too

@_user5: but she was crushing on Piastri HARD, so like why would it be Lando now??

@_user6: plot twist: she changed favorite McLaren boys 💀

@_user7: can someone confirm if that’s the same white shirt Oscar wear all the time or am i just delulu

@_user8: the grapes. the lighting. the boat. THE MAN. I NEED TO KNOW.

@_user9: nah fr WHO IS HE 😭😭

@_francesca: you look so cuteee. enjoy 😌

@_user10: FRANCESCA DON’T JUST SAY THAT, TELL US WHO THE GUY IS

@_user11: @_francesca blink twice if it’s Piastri

@_user12: just say his name bestie, you’re in too deep now 🫣

The stars had claimed the sky above Monaco by the time they finished their glasses of wine. The yacht floated steady beneath them, anchored just outside the main harbor, where the city lights shimmered in the dark sea like a reflection of the stars above.

Oscar had brought a bottle of white, something Italian and crisp he thought she might like and to his relief, she did. She’d even made a pleased little sound after the first sip, which he stored deep in his memory like it meant something.

They were curled up on the back lounge of the boat now, close but not quite tangled yet. The wind was soft and salty, her legs bare where her skirt had slipped higher, and Oscar, trying very, very hard not to be a cliché, had placed his hand gently on her thigh when she leaned into him with a giggle. He didn’t even know what they were laughing about anymore.

Probably the wine.

She leaned back slightly, still chuckling, and ran her fingers into his hair, slow and light and deliberate.

Oscar’s breath caught.

“Okay,” she said, “you are very tense for someone who’s supposedly calm.”

“I’m not tense,” he replied too fast, too stiff. “I’m just... aware.”

“Aware?”

“That your hand is in my hair and I might actually melt into this seat if you keep doing that.”

She laughed, low and warm. “You like it?”

He hummed. “Dangerously.”

Her hand lingered, tugging lightly. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. When he opened them, she was watching him.

And she wasn’t smiling.

She was looking at him like she was thinking.

Planning.

Then she leaned in again and kissed him.

This time, it wasn’t sweet or shy or careful.

This time, it was slow, deliberate, her mouth opening beneath his, her tongue brushing his in a way that made his pulse skyrocket. He kissed her deeper, one hand firm on her thigh now, the other sliding up her waist to keep her close. Her fingers stayed in his hair, pulling softly, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until he groaned.

Actually groaned.

She grinned against his mouth.

“Oh God,” he muttered, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.

“I didn’t know you made noises like that,” she teased, her voice thick with amusement.

“I didn’t either,” he said honestly.

Then she did something that short-circuited every remaining rational thought in his brain.

She climbed onto his lap.

Effortless. Confident. Gorgeous.

Straddling him in one smooth movement, her legs on either side, her body warm and soft against his.

Oscar blinked, hands frozen in place like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch.

She was smiling again, that mischievous glint in her eyes. “You okay?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

She laughed, leaned down and kissed him again, deeper this time, hungrier. He finally moved, hands sliding down her back, pulling her just a little closer. She shifted in his lap and he bit his lip to keep another sound in.

Her mouth moved to his neck, kissing, teasing, then a little bite.

Oscar swore under his breath. “You’re going to kill me.”

She nuzzled against his jaw. “You’ll die happy.”

His hands started to explore more now, drifting lower on her back, brushing the edge of her shirt where skin met fabric. And then he paused.

Pulled back just an inch. Enough to look at her.

“You know,” he said carefully, his voice quieter, “I didn’t invite you here for… this.”

She blinked. “Really?”

He flushed. “I mean… not that I don’t want to. I just… it wasn’t the plan. I wanted you to see Monaco. I wanted to show you the boat. Lando might’ve had… other ideas.”

She tilted her head. “Lando ?”

“Condoms on the main desk,” he muttered.

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God. That was him?”

“Yeah,” Oscar groaned. “I try to hide them the minute we step in here. And then I spent the entire afternoon praying you wouldn’t notice.”

“I did notice.”

“Of course you did.”

She started laughing, really laughing. Her whole body shaking against his lap.

“I thought you put them there!” she managed.

“What?! No! I would never...” he cut himself off, then muttered, “he’s such a menace.”

“He’s just a good friend. A little too involved.”

Oscar huffed. “Too involved. That’s putting it lightly.”

There was a pause. Then he ask again. “So… we’re not actually doing anything, right?” he asked, brows raised.

She smiled, brushing hair from his forehead, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Yeah. No way.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

“...You don’t sound convinced.”

She leaned in again, her mouth hovering just over his.

“Neither do you.”

Oscar leaned forward, guiding her gently down onto the cushioned bench, his breath shallow and rapid, the wine and heat and desire fogging everything else. She let herself fall back easily, pulling him with her, their mouths still connected in a slow, hungry kiss.

Her hands were on his neck, then in his hair again, tugging softly as he trailed his lips down her jaw, to the line of her throat.

Then lower.

He kissed her neck, soft and warm, then again, deeper this time, slower, lingering as he began to truly taste her skin. He found that spot just beneath her ear and she gasped. It made him smile, and then do it again, this time letting his teeth graze lightly before soothing the mark with his mouth.

Her body arched under him.

Her shirt had ridden up slightly in the motion, and with trembling fingers, Oscar slipped one hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over the warm, bare skin of her waist.

She didn’t stop him.

In fact, she sighed, soft and pleased and shifted her hips beneath him, her legs slowly parting to make space between them. She welcomed him there, like she had been waiting for it all night.

That single movement undid him.

His breath hitched, his hand tightening on her hip for a second as he pulled back just enough to look down at her, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright in the dim yacht lighting.

He swallowed hard, heart racing, then leaned up and pulled his shirt over his head in one quick motion.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t overanalyze.

He just… let go.

Her eyes followed the movement and lingered, on the planes of his chest, the soft shadow of muscle, the way his breath rose and fell quickly now. She bit her bottom lip, smiling as if seeing him like this was both unexpected and completely inevitable.

And then her hands were on his skin too, her palms warm and steady against his ribs, her nails grazing softly as she explored him with a confidence that only made his heart beat faster.

Oscar kissed her again, more desperate now, more certain. The kind of kiss that says “I want all of you” without ever needing the words. His body pressed between her open legs, fitting there like it had always belonged.

Maybe they weren’t planning anything.

Maybe they still weren’t sure.

But the boat rocked gently beneath them.

And when she take off her shirt in a heated move, he stopped pretending he wasn’t all in.

The morning sun filtered softly through the half-closed curtains of the yacht's main cabin, casting streaks of golden light across the bed. The sea outside was calm, gently rocking the boat with a rhythmic lullaby. Oscar lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting lightly on her bare waist, fingers curled in the sheets.

He’d been awake for a while now, quietly basking in the warmth of her body against his. Her breathing was slow, deep, still lost in dreams, and God, she looked so peaceful. Her cheek pressed into his chest, lips slightly parted, hair a soft mess against his skin. Every now and then she’d shift in her sleep, pulling herself closer, curling into him like he was her favorite place to rest.

Oscar had barely moved except to grab his phone at one point to text Lando. A decision he immediately regretted. As soon as the texts started spiraling into chaos, he regretted everything.

He was mid-scrolling through Lando’s 25th message asking him for details when she stirred.

She let out a tiny hum, barely audible, before pressing a sleepy kiss to his chest. Then her head lifted, eyes slowly blinking open.

"Hey," she whispered, voice raspy and low.

Oscar froze, dropped his phone off the side of the bed with a quiet thump, and turned to face her fully. "Hey," he replied, a little too quickly, a little too brightly.

She smiled, soft and sleepy, then immediately tucked her face back into his neck. "God. Is this real?"

"I’ve been asking myself the same thing for an hour," he whispered into her hair.

They lay like that for a few minutes, tangled together, the morning light warming the room, the smell of salt and sunshine slipping in through the open window. She shifted, resting her leg over his, pulling herself impossibly closer.

"You’re really warm," she mumbled.

Oscar chuckled. "You’re literally on top of me."

"Exactly." She looked up at him, eyes clearer now, teasing. "Human heater."

He laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Do you want something? Water? Breakfast? I could go grab you a..."

She gently pressed her hand over his mouth.

"Oscar."

He blinked.

"Stop. You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"Overthinking. Panicking. Offering me seventeen different types of juice."

"Only three," he muttered behind her hand.

She smiled, dropping her hand to his chest. "I’m here. I’m happy. Can we just... stay like this for a second?"

Oscar nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do that."

She leaned up and kissed him gently, slow and sleepy, her lips tasting like last night and morning sun. And when she pulled away, she looked at him with this wide, almost nervous look.

"So... does this mean you’re like... my boyfriend now?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was afraid saying it out loud might ruin something.

Oscar's eyes softened.

He cupped her cheek with one hand and leaned in again, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then her lips.

"Oh, I am," he said between kisses. "For real now, baby."

She grinned, cheeks turning warm as she pulled him into another kiss, this one deeper, more certain. She rolled back against the pillows, pulling him with her, the sheets twisting around their legs. Their laughter echoed softly in the cabin, mixing with the morning breeze, with the gentle sway of the sea.

@_oscarpiastri

Just a perfect weekend.💙

@_user1 not to be dramatic but WHO is that girl 😭😭😭

@_user2 Oscar… boyfriend era??????????

@_user3 sir we are gonna need a face reveal RIGHT NOW

@_user4 wait wait is this THE soft launch ????

@_user5 that’s not Oscar casually soft launching a gf like we wouldn’t notice 😭

@_user6 y’all it can be Y/N right?? she’s been posting similar boat stuff lately 👀

@_user7 omg it better be her I love her so much they’re cute together

@_user8 STOPPP IF IT’S HER I’LL SCREAM

@_landonorris Bro you’re terrible at this. Just post her face already we were all literally there when you kept looking at her at her volleyball match💀

@_user9 LANDO WHAT 😭😭😭 @_user10 ANDDDD THE COVER IS BLOWN LMAOOOOOO @_user11 @_landonorris is actually the messiest wingman I love him @_user12 this confirms it omg it’s Y/N for real @_user13 Y/N AND OSCAR CONFIRMED I’M GONNA FAINT

@_oscarpiastri Ignore him.

@volley_yn

Well, since everyone clearly knows now 🙄 Guess nothing’s stopping me from posting my favorite Oscar pics from my very personal gallery. Hope he doesn’t think I’m crazy after this...

@_oscarpiastri: You ARE crazy. But I love you so that’s my problem now ❤️‍🔥

@_landonorris: You're welcome btw. This love story wouldn’t exist without me.

@_francesca Okay but Lando’s right for once. Also… Lando, you single or what 👀

@_user1 from celebrity crush to boyfriend??? girl is LIVING THE DREAM 💘

@_user2: no bc imagine telling your bf “this is my fav meme of you” and it’s HIM 🤣 she’s texting Oscar with his own memes rn i just know it

@_user3: girl went from “he’s cute” to “he’s mine”

@_user3: the beach pic?? the dinner pic?? I AM NOT OKAY 🫠

@_user4: I want what they have. and also her camera roll. and her boyfriend.

@_user5 i just KNOW she made the dinner one her lockscreen 💅

@_user6 everyone shut up she deserves him. this is the cutest reveal in f1 couple history

Author note: It's the last part of this serie, thank you again so much for the request, hope you like it :)

taglist : @bunnisplayground @vampgege, @chocolatemooncoffee, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @charlotteking27, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @dustie-faerie, @madicecream123, @angstynasty, @jolixtreesunn @bycinnamoons @taylordaughter @athanasia-day @halleest @l-a-u-r-aaa @esw1012 @storminacloud @anthonys-viscountess @saudianna @cutestarsandstuff @alittlechaotics-blog @sailorinthesie @lindseyybarrett @junklockets @h-rtsnana @anonomano @julvrs @gigigreens @remussbitch

[hatethysinner]

kinda messed up toxic!remmick x pregnant reader

ᴛᴏxɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

ᴀ/ɴ: NOTHING IS TOO MESSED UP FOR ME ANON!! please heed the warnings, they are there for your benefit <33! went more serious than my normal headcanon writing bc even though i love writing dark themes i never want to come off as too silly when approaching these topics. i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MDNI (!!!!!!), shamelessly gratuitous smut, unapologetically dark (!!!), malicious fluff (i'm coining this), obsession, manipulation, isolation, lovebombing, dubcon (!!!), noncon (!!!), mental/emotional abuse (!!!), heavily abused power dynamic (!!!), breeding kink, pregnancy kink, lactation kink, praise/degradation kink, cunnilingus, fingering, p in v, free use, overstimulation, dacryphilia, unreliable narrator-ish, read at your own discretion

remmick loves you so much it’s suffocating. tells you so every single day, in a voice dripping honey, in words soft enough to be a lullaby. “ain’t nobody in this world loves ya like i do, darlin’. not your friends, not your family. nobody.”

and he’s so good at making you believe it. at making you think he’s the only one who ever could.

he’s doting in ways that would be sweet if it wasn’t all followed by iron chains. he insists on cooking every meal for you, pressing kisses to your temple as he sets a plate in front of you, murmuring, “gotta keep my best girl strong. my baby needs ya strong.” he does the chores, every single one, moving around the house like a gentle shadow, humming while he sweeps, while he folds your clothes, while he rubs oil into your growing belly at night.

he draws your baths, tests the water with his fingers, carries you to the tub if your feet are sore. he brushes and combs through your hair with long, careful strokes, cooing, “such a pretty girl. my pretty little wife.” and sometimes it almost makes you forget the other side of him.

almost makes you forget the hours he’ll lock you in your room when he’s angry, pacing on the other side of the door, telling you it’s for your own good. makes you forget how you never get a private moment anymore, not even to bathe or change clothes, because he’s always there, eyes tracking every breath you take, every twitch of your fingers.

he buys you gifts constantly, filling the house with flowers and silks and gold, draping you in it like he’s gilding a shrine. but you’re not allowed to go out and show it off. “don’t want all them eyes on ya, baby. you’re mine to look at. mine to keep.”

he isolates you, sweetly. softly. makes sure you know the world outside the house is cruel, full of people who’d never understand you the way he does. “ain’t safe out there for a pretty thing like ya. folks’d try to hurt ya. i’d kill ‘em if they did.”

sometimes you believe him. sometimes you want to run. but even the thought of running makes your stomach flip, because you can’t imagine where you’d go without him. you can’t imagine being alone.

and he loves you so thoroughly that you start thinking maybe you’re the one who’s being cruel. for doubting him. for crying when he touches you. for saying no. for not wanting him every time he wants you.

because he always wants you.

he’s obsessed with the way you look carrying his baby. the round swell of your belly, the fullness of your breasts. runs his palms over you like he’s petting something precious, voice low and reverent. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful, baby. didn’t think it was possible for ya to get prettier, but look at ya now. full of me. just like y’should be.”

he talks about putting more babies in you before you’ve even had this one. about keeping you pregnant for the rest of your life. about how your body was made for this. “gonna keep ya so full, folks won’t even remember what you looked like before i bred ya.”

he adores your milk. even before it’s fully come in, he’s latched to your tits whenever he can get them, licking and suckling and praising you for how sweet you taste, even if you’re crying. especially if you’re crying. “shh, darlin’. let me have it. s’just me. always gonna be just me.”

he’s always touching you. even when he’s pretending to be gentle. fingers stroking your belly, your thighs, slipping between your legs while he murmurs, “need to make sure you’re still stretchin’ nice f’me. can’t have ya closin’ up on me now.”

he’ll tell you how good you are in one breath and tear you down in the next, lips soft against your ear. “such a good girl lettin’ me use ya like this. my sweet little broodmare. nothin’ but a hole to keep my kids warm.” and when you sob, he groans, hips snapping harder. “cry all y’want, sugar. ain’t gonna stop me.”

he lives for the taste of those tears too. for the way your voice goes high and broken when you’re crying and coming at the same time. loves licking the salt off your cheeks and telling you how pretty you are when you cry. “ain’t no sight sweeter than my girl in tears. means i’m doin’ my job right.”

eating you out isn’t even something he asks permission for. you’re his. he’ll spread your thighs, mouth hot and relentless, licking you until your legs shake and your tears spill, ignoring your babbled pleas to stop. loves how your blood sings under your skin when you’re aroused, how your pulse hammers, how your body betrays you even when you’re trying to crawl away.

and fucking you while you’re pregnant is nonnegotiable. he’ll go slow sometimes, murmuring about how delicate you are, but most nights it’s ruthless. bent over the bed, your swollen belly bouncing with every thrust, your breath catching on sobs as he snarls, “takin’ me so good, even with my baby inside ya. gonna stretch ya wider. gonna make room for all the rest.”

he uses your body whenever the urge strikes him. nothing and nowhere is off limits. slides his cock between your thighs while you’re folding baby clothes, or pushes you up against the pantry shelves while dinner’s bubbling on the stove. he’ll slip his fingers between your legs while you’re half-asleep on the couch, or drop to his knees to eat you out right there on the countertop. sometimes he bends you over the bathroom sink, fucking you slow and deep while steam curls around you both, and other times it’s fast, frantic rutting on the front porch as moonlight spills over your bare skin. sometimes he comes just from grinding against you, his fangs scraping your neck, red eyes rolling back as he groans, “can’t help it, baby. can’t fuckin’ help it.”

but remmick never seems satisfied, no matter how many times he takes you. he’ll fuck into you for hours, fingers or tongue or cock never stopping, dragging you over the edge again and again until you’re shaking so hard you can’t hold onto him anymore. even when you’re sobbing, whispering you can’t take any more, he only kisses your temple and murmurs, “just a little longer, darlin’. just one more.” and that’s when he finally bares his fangs and sinks them into your throat, drinking you down as your body convulses around him, making sure the last thing you feel is the bright, dizzy pleasure of giving him everything he wants.

and you want to hate him for it. you know you should. but sometimes, curled against his chest, feeling the weight of his palm over your growing belly, hearing him whisper how you’re his whole world, you wonder if maybe this is love after all.

because you can’t remember what it felt like to breathe without him.