#the strength to go back and read the rest

[cheftsunoda]

novacane — ln4

lando norris x !model reader

smau + blurbs

in which lando and yn, worn thin by fame, pressure, and the weight of always being watched, find comfort in all the wrong places — drowning their loneliness in drugs, sex, and each other's broken promises.

fc : cindy kimberly

(a/n) : no one answered if they wanted this or not so now im forcing it on everyone. sorry if you hate it:( this is based off the song “novacane” by frank ocean so if you don’t know it— definitely recommend listening it it to understand.

❗obviously warnings of drug use, relationship toxicity, angst, minor smut and eating disorder ❗

and i gave you angels a happy ending - ywwww

—

yn_ln

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux, carlossainz55 & 5,515,007 others.

yn_ln : don’t let the high go to waste

—

view 225,090 other comments.

username000 : oh great she’s with lando AGAIN.

↳ username00 : what’s the problem with her?? i thought they were together

↳ username000 : no they aren’t confirmed together. THANK GOD. she is just a horrible influence for him to be around.

↳ username1 : you do realize lando is a fully grown adult and the people he chooses to be around and what he does is completely on him, right?

↳ username000 : well yeah but i do not think being around her helps his mindset any. he’s changed.

↳ username1 : maybe has had changed from the pressure and stress. maybe he is just tired. leave them both alone.

alexandrasaintmleux : so pretty angel. hope to see your face again soon!

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mwah mwah

carlossainz55 : ….no comment 😳

liked by yourusername and lando

bellahadid : mother 🧎‍♀️

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : my poooooookie

danielricciardo : he better have that hickey covered on media day🤣

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ username7 : nooooo so it is lando again.

charles_leclerc : mon dieu.

liked by yourusername and lando

alex_albon : i am respectfully not looking. (i looked)

liked by yourusername and lando

↳ lilymhe : its okay. i did too.

username11 : lando is ruining his reputation for this woman. honestly, i kind of understand.

lando : always high on you.

liked by yourusername

—

flashback

You still remember the way the air felt that night — thick with smoke, perfume, and the kind of heat that clung to your skin long after you’d left the club. It had been Fashion Week in Milan, and you were already four shows deep into a sleepless spiral of afterparties, interviews, and eyes that didn’t see you so much as consume you. You were tired. Exhausted in the kind of way no sleep could fix. And then there he was. Lando Norris — crooked smile, familiar face, eyes like they knew you. Not knew your name. Knew you. And you hated how much that made you pause. You met him at some rooftop club that blurred together with all the rest — flashing lights, empty champagne flutes, and hands that touched too long without meaning anything. He wasn’t supposed to be there, not really. Off-season or something like that. But maybe he needed the distraction just as badly as you did.

He bought you a drink. You made a sarcastic comment about hating tequila and drank it anyway. You talked. You laughed. And then somewhere between his fourth glass and your second lie about being fine, things stopped being surface level. You caught him staring at you like he was trying to read between the cracks. So you let him see them. Or maybe you didn’t have the strength to hide them anymore.

“I don’t think I’m built for all this,” you admitted in a half whisper, legs crossed tightly in the corner of a velvet booth, mascara smudged like war paint.

He didn’t say anything. Just took a slow sip of his drink and replied, “Yeah. Me neither.”

It wasn’t flirtation after that. It was something heavier. Messier. The kind of pull that only two broken people feel when they recognize themselves in someone else’s ruin. Back at your hotel room, things unfolded like instinct. You were both too numb and too desperate to question it. The clothes came off easy. The masks came off harder.

His lips trailed your collarbone. Your hands tangled in his curls. The pressure in your stomach growing with every thrust and then after— the air changed. You were sitting on the bed, his hoodie slipping off your shoulder, and you reached for the little orange bottle you never traveled without. He watched you pop the pill with a swig of warm, flat water from the bedside table.

You caught his stare and raised an eyebrow. “Want one?”

He hesitated. Just long enough for you to know he was still trying to be the good guy, even now. Then he took it from your hand and held your gaze like a dare. You watched him swallow it dry. He turned and leaned back into you— closing the gap between the two of you again. You sat until he began to feel that warm and fuzzy feeling you had grown accustomed to but was still brand new for him.

“What even was that?” he asked, voice low and frayed at the edges. You smiled, tired and crooked. The kind of smile that says this is survival, not seduction.

“Don’t let the high go to waste,” you murmured, echoing the line like a mantra you wished wasn’t true.

He didn’t ask again. You laid back. He followed. That night wasn’t about falling in love. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about not feeling like shit for five fucking minutes. It was about losing yourselves in each other’s broken parts and calling it relief. It was about two people too hollow to hold anything real — and still clinging to each other like it might fix something anyway. You didn’t know it then, but that would be the first of many nights like that. And the last time anything between you felt accidental.

—

present day…

f1gossipgirls

2,517,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : F1’s wild child & fashion’s favorite disaster leaving Miami’s dirtiest rooftop club at 4:27AM. Looks like Lando Norris and YN, international model, are taking their rumored situationship coast to coast. The pair were seen stumbling out of RITUAL, the kind of place where the floors are sticky and the bathrooms are sacred. Sources claim Lando looked “glassy-eyed but smiling,” while YN was seen reapplying her lipstick in the back of a black SUV. Oh, and did we mention her heels were in his hand? Eyewitnesses say the duo “couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” and at least one club staffer swears they both entered the same VIP room together. But who needs sleep when your only job is being young, rich, and reckless? We’re not saying they’re the new Bonnie and Clyde, but we are saying someone’s PR team is sweating.

—

view 175,002 other comments.

username00 : the fact that he is doing this when he will be racing in 36 hours is…interesting to say the least.

username0 : someone check on zak brown. mans is probably pacing.

username1 : why are we romanticizing this behavior? they both clearly have a lot of problems that need fixed.

username5 : he is supposed to be a professional athlete. not snorting something suspicious in a club at 3 am. LANDO WAKE TF UP.

username7 : never ever expected this phase in lando’s career but here we are.

username10 : y’all will continue to blame her like he isn’t grown and can’t make his own decisions. like bruh

—

You and Lando always fell into some sort of cycle. Not love. Not quite addiction either — though it came close. Something in between. Something quieter but heavier. A pattern with soft edges and sharp consequences. It started the way it always did — too loud, too fast, too much.

Miami’s air was humid with desperation that weekend — people screaming your name, cameras flashing like seizures, bodies grinding in tempo with the bass. He met your eyes from across the club and that was all it took. You didn’t even smile. Just nodded once, like yeah. it’s time again.You’d both lost something before you even walked in. The music was pounding, the drinks were bottomless, the lines were generous — and by the time he had his hand on the small of your back, you couldn’t tell if your heart was racing from the substance or from him. He leaned down to murmur something into your ear — something stupid and sweet, something that made you laugh even though nothing about the night was funny. And then you pulled out the little bag. Same one you always had. He watched. He never stopped you, not really.

“You sure?” he asked like a formality.

You nodded like muscle memory. He followed. In the bathroom of some overpriced rooftop bar, you did it off the back of your hand while he stood behind you like a shadow, warm and steady and crumbling all at once. His knuckles brushed yours when he took his turn, eyes blown wide and tired even in the mirror’s hazy glow. And somehow, not long after, you ended up tangled together in your hotel bed — hot skin, whispered curses, need disguised as recklessness. It wasn’t sweet. It never was. It was desperate. The kind of touch that only feels good because it silences the scream in your head for a moment. The kind that makes you feel something when you’re numb everywhere else.

But later — after — when your heartbeat finally slowed and your thoughts started catching up, you climbed off the bed and walked to the bathroom without saying a word. You didn’t bother turning on the light. Just stepped under the cold stream of the shower and let yourself cry. Quiet at first. Then harder. Your mascara ran down the drain like ink in water. Your shoulders shook like you were trying to hold your bones together. You didn’t expect him to follow. But he did. Lando opened the door without knocking. Stepped into the shower fully clothed. Didn’t say anything — didn’t need to. He just wrapped his arms around you from behind and held you while the water soaked through his shirt and you sobbed into his chest like a child.

He didn’t tell you to stop. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He knew. He was wrong too. You stood like that for a long time. Just water. Skin. Silence. And the ache of being seen by someone who’s just as hollow.

The morning after always hurt worse. The sunlight hit too hard. The hangover hit harder. And then the notifications. Tabloids. Photos. Headlines about the two of you looking “high and handsy” at 4:27 AM. His team texted. Yours called. And all you could do was sit at the edge of the bed in one of his T-shirts and stare at the phone while Lando paced and swore under his breath. It always happened like this. The comedown. The regret. The beginning of the withdrawal. He left around 10AM, hoodie pulled low, sunglasses on, mumbling something about sorting it with his PR team. You didn’t ask him to stay. You never did.

Because you knew how it went. He’d vanish. Ignore your texts. You’d see him on someone else’s story a few days later. Like none of it mattered. But he always came back. Usually around 2AM. Usually with a knock and no words. Usually when your mascara was already running and your hands were already shaking. It wasn’t love. It was a cycle. And God help you, but part of you needed it.

—

But he tries to stop. For real, this time. After the Miami fallout, after his PR team threatens to pull endorsement deals and Zak himself tells him to “get your shit together or get out” — Lando goes quiet. You don’t hear from him for days. No 2AM texts. No half assed apologies. No hotel room knocks. Not even a story view. Silence.

You assume he’s doing what they all do eventually — detaching. Saving himself. Finding some version of clean that doesn’t include you. You’re used to it. You pretend not to check your phone anyway.

Meanwhile, he’s trying. He really is. He wakes up early. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t go out. He trains. Eats clean. Answers his calls. He ignores the aching pull in his chest when he sees your name light up his phone — unread messages stacked like shame. But it doesn’t help. None of it helps. Because when the world is quiet — when the race ends and the cameras go dark — he’s left alone with himself. And he can’t stand himself.

He thinks about the way your laugh sounds muffled against his chest. The way your eyeliner always smudges when you cry in the shower. The way you looked at him that night, like you were waiting for him to tell you it was okay to fall apart. And he wants it back. Not because it’s good. Not because it’s healthy. Because it’s something.

The truth is — the high didn’t just numb the pain. It muted the voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough. That he was wasting his life. That none of it — the podiums, the parties, the press tours — felt real anymore. Being numb was awful. But being awake? That’s unbearable.

He sits in his hotel room one night, a few cities away, staring at the white walls, the untouched food, the silence thick enough to suffocate. He’s alone. And it hits him like it always does — slow at first, then all at once. The ache. The craving. The need to not feel anything. He grabs the bottle. He doesn’t even think. Washes one pill down with cold champagne. Calls your number. You answer on the first ring, like you knew this moment would come. Like you were waiting for it. No words. Just breathing.

And when he shows up at your door an hour later, eyes heavy, hands shaking, hoodie clinging to his skin like regret — you don’t ask what changed his mind. Because nothing did. The truth is, he never wanted to stop. He just wanted to believe he could. Because numbness is easier. And you… you numb the pain. I guess you’re novacane.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,709,112 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well— it seems Lando Norris and YN LN are back at it again after weeks of distance. The two were seen coming and going from each other’s apartments more than 3 times this week.

—

It started slowly. Like most things do. First, it was just a headline. Some blurry pap photo of you walking out of a café in Milan, cropped in all the wrong ways. The caption read—

“Is YN Letting Herself Go?”

And that was all it took. It wasn’t true. You were exhausted, not careless. Bloated from the long flight, hungover from bad decisions and worse wine, caught mid-step with your shirt rumpled and sunglasses sliding down your nose. You hadn’t even known the cameras were there. But they were always there.

Then came the panel show segment. Some middle-aged man with a smug smile and zero credentials saying, “She’s still stunning, obviously, but you can tell the partying’s catching up to her.”

And it spiraled. Your agent texted you later that night — “No more pasta. Milan is watching.”

That’s when you stopped eating. At first it was a conscious decision. Strategic. If they wanted skinny, you’d give them starved. If they wanted hollow cheekbones and razorblade hip bones, you’d serve it on a silver fucking platter. You skipped meals and smiled through shoots. Faked fullness and learned which lies photographers never questioned. But it wasn’t long before you stopped choosing. The hunger became control. And then the control became a high. One you didn’t need to snort or swallow. And Lando noticed. He always did.

It hit him too, differently. Sharper. Publicly.

He couldn’t win a race without the press tearing him apart. Couldn’t crash out without being called immature. Couldn’t smile in an interview without being accused of not taking the sport seriously — and couldn’t look serious without them calling him cold.

“You’re not focused,” they’d said. “You’re wasting your seat.”

Every race weekend became a war. With his car. With the media. With himself.

And in between the races? Endless hotel rooms. Fake friends. Paparazzi flashes that made him feel like prey. Fans who loved the version of him that didn’t exist anymore. Who worshipped the myth and ignored the man.

He started sleeping in his hoodie with the hood pulled tight, even indoors. Started rubbing the back of his neck until it was red and raw. Couldn’t eat before practice. Couldn’t sleep after qualifying. Couldn’t breathe when it all got too loud.

You found each other in that silence.

It was after some gala you were both dragged to. You were wearing a backless dress that made your vision go blurry when you stood too long. He was in a tux he hadn’t wanted to wear, tie loosened, jaw clenched. You ended up in your hotel room again. Of course you did. But this time, there was no rush. No drugs. No sex. Just… collapse. You sat on the edge of the bed, toes pressing into the carpet, trying not to cry. Your stomach was eating itself, but you couldn’t remember the last time food didn’t feel like failure. He stood by the window, staring out like he was somewhere else entirely. Finally, you spoke.

“They said I looked fat in that dress,” you whispered.

He turned, slowly. Eyes dim. Like he’d been waiting for your voice to break.

“They say I don’t deserve my seat,” he answered.

You looked up at him, tears lining your lashes, voice small.

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

And he just nodded.

“Same.”

That’s when he walked over. Sat behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist — too gently. Like he was afraid you’d break. You leaned back into him, your spine pressing against his chest, and for a moment, you both just breathed. No masks. No captions. No noise.

You felt his lips ghost over your shoulder as he whispered, “They only want us when we’re shining. Not when we’re bleeding.”

And you replied, voice hollow but sure—

“Then let them choke.”

You stayed like that for hours. No high. No distractions. Just the quiet devastation of two people being honest. You held his hand like a lifeline. He kissed your temple like a prayer. That night, you didn’t sleep with each other. You just slept. And for the first time in weeks, that was enough.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,101,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN LN in the paddock this weekend — and all eyes were on her. Rumors continue to swirl about her relationship with McLaren driver Lando Norris, and her surprise appearance in the garage only added fuel to the fire. According to insiders, YN was nothing short of lovely — chatting with fans, posing for photos, and offering a few smiles that made it hard not to root for her. As for Lando? Let’s just say the chemistry between the two didn’t go unnoticed.

—

The nights are quieter now. Not silent — you both still wake up sweating, heart racing, hands reaching for something that isn’t there anymore — but quieter. Softer. You’re trying. So is he.

After the last fallout, the withdrawal that left you shaking and sobbing in different cities, you made a pact — no pills, no blow, no hotel room disasters. Just water. Sleep. Presence. Even if presence meant staring blankly at a wall together in shared misery, at least you were there. You still have the urge sometimes. The craving. The itch in your skin when everything gets too loud, too fast. But you text him instead of reaching for a bottle. And he answers. Always.

He’s been better. Not perfect. Not by a long shot. But better. He’s eating again. Sleeping more. Actually showing up to meetings. The anger in his voice has dulled — not gone, just folded into something quieter, sadder, but realer.

When he texts you that week —

Come to the race. I need you here.

You almost cry. Because he never used to ask.

You fly in Friday, lowkey and quiet. No paparazzi. No chaos. He picks you up in a hoodie and worn out trainers, the circles under his eyes more honest than any headline.

He doesn’t say much in the car. Just rests his hand on your thigh at a red light and squeezes, like he’s checking to see if you’re real.

You’re staying with him that weekend. The bed is cold. No sex. Just tangled limbs and half whispered memories of nights you barely remember. You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and wonder when that started being enough.

Race day comes fast. The paddock is buzzing — too bright, too loud. But he wants you there, so you come. You slip on the pass he gave you, the oversized McLaren jacket, your sunglasses. You keep your head down.

He finds you before the driver’s parade. You’re by the back of the garage, sipping water, watching the chaos unfold.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and warm.

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “Getting there.”

And then, “I’m glad you came.”

And then, “I don’t know if I would’ve made it through this week if you didn’t.”

You don’t say anything. Just slide your fingers between his and squeeze. A photographer snaps a shot you’ll both pretend not to notice.

During the race, you watch from the garage. Nails biting into your palm, eyes on every sector, every lap. You cheer when he overtakes. Your heart climbs into your throat when he locks up slightly at Turn 10. The crew gives you a nod when he comes in for a clean stop. You feel everything. And for once, you let yourself. When he crosses the line — P4 — it’s not a podium, but it’s a finish. A damn good one. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

He finds you after media. Helmet hair, race suit half unzipped, skin flushed from adrenaline and exhaustion. And when he sees you — really sees you — his face cracks open in a way the cameras never catch. No jokes. No press smiles. Just rawness. He pulls you into a hug so tight your ribs ache.

And into your hair, he whispers,

“We did it.”

You nod against his chest, eyes stinging.

“Yeah. We did.”

—

It had been weeks since the race. Weeks since you and Lando swore you’d keep going — clean, sober, together. Weeks of morning check-ins and long, quiet nights. Weeks of avoiding temptation like it lived under your skin.

And it was working. Sort of.

You were tired, but functional. Lando was focused, if a little hollow. You were making it through each day with aching effort and brittle hope. You had even started eating small things again — a banana here, some soup there. Just enough to keep the dizziness at bay. Just enough to convince your manager you were “getting better.”

But the truth was… you weren’t.

The modeling world doesn’t care about “recovery.” It cares about bones and collarbones. It cares about angles and sample sizes. And you were trying — but your body was done trying for you. You were mid-way through a shoot in Paris when everything went sideways.

You didn’t feel the moment coming. One minute you were standing in front of the lights, makeup perfect, spine held straight by willpower and spite. The next, your vision was tunneling and the floor was rushing toward you. You hit the concrete hard.

Cameras flashed. Stylists screamed. Someone dropped their iced coffee and gasped like that was the real tragedy. The medics came. The studio was cleared. Your phone was unlocked by someone who barely knew your last name. They called Lando.

He got the call just after FP2. His race suit was still clinging to him, hair damp, body sore — but none of that registered when he saw your name flash across his screen. It wasn’t your voice. It was someone from the agency.

Words like “collapsed,” “dehydrated,” “not responsive.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He stumbled back into the McLaren motorhome like he’d been hit in the chest. Pushed past press officers. Ignored his engineer. Locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection like it might offer a reason not to fall apart.

You passed out. You weren't eating. He should’ve seen it coming. He wanted to get on the next plane to Paris. But the race was in less than 48 hours. And they wouldn’t let him leave. So instead, he relapsed.

It was slow, stupid. A numbing kind of panic that led to desperate movement. He found the old bottle buried deep in his travel bag. He stared at it for almost an hour. He texted you. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. And the fear twisted into something uglier than grief — helplessness. He cracked the seal. Took two.

When your eyes fluttered open hours later in a sterile white hospital room, the first thing you saw was the IV. The second was your manager pacing outside the door. The third was Lando’s name — 10 missed calls. You could barely lift your head, but you reached for your phone anyway.

And when you saw his last message, your heart cracked open.

If you die, I’ll go with you. I can’t do this without you.

And beneath it, another message, sent hours later-

“I’m sorry. I slipped. I just… I didn’t know if you’d wake up.”

You cried. Because it should’ve been you holding him through the relapse. Because he had been trying so hard. Because this wasn’t recovery, it was survival. And even survival was slipping.

Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Lando sat on the edge of a pristine hotel bed with his head in his hands, high out of his mind and sobbing. He didn’t want the high. He just wanted the noise to stop. He just wanted you to be okay. He didn’t feel better. Not even numb. Just empty. And it was then — in the silence between his shallow breaths — that he realized…the cycle wasn’t broken. It had just gotten quieter.

—

You wake up to the sound of the door creaking open. It’s been two days since the collapse. Two days of IV drips, quiet nurses, and a blurred timeline of stern lectures and shallow breathing. You’re better, technically. Awake. Alive. But not okay.

The room is pale and too still. It smells like antiseptic and synthetic lavender. The flowers on the windowsill weren’t yours — someone dropped them off this morning, anonymous and beautiful. And then he walks in. Lando.

He’s wearing the hoodie you stole from his Monaco apartment last winter — oversized and threadbare — and he looks like shit. Eyes puffy. Lips dry. He doesn’t have the energy to pretend this isn’t the worst version of both of you. You sit up slowly, instinctively tucking your knees under the blanket like shame can be hidden that easily.

“Hi,” you manage.

He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move closer. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in case it disappears again.

“You didn’t answer my calls.”

You swallow. “I couldn’t. I… didn’t want to say anything until I knew I was okay.”

“You weren’t okay,” he snaps. “You aren’t okay. You passed out, YN.”

The silence is brutal.

“You said you were eating again,” he adds, voice cracking halfway through. “You lied to me.”

You look away, throat tight. “You relapsed too.”

He flinches. “Because I thought you were going to die.”

“You think I didn’t want to die?” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. “You think I fucking wanted to be here?”

His jaw clenches. He walks across the room, grabs the back of the chair beside your bed, but doesn’t sit.

“You’re not allowed to say that to me,” he mutters. “Not when you knew how close I was to breaking. Not when you promised—”

“I was breaking!” you yell. “Every time I looked in the mirror, all I saw was failure. Headlines telling me I was too fat, too messy, too washed-up at twenty-four. I couldn’t eat without hearing their voices in my head, Lando. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them. He’s quiet for a beat. And then, in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard from him-

“And I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer. Slowly. Like he’s afraid of what’s about to come out of his own mouth.

“I used to think you were just the person I used to forget the worst parts of myself. The drugs. The sex. The late nights.” He breathes in. “But it’s not that anymore.”

You stare at him, heart in your throat.

“You’re not something I use to numb the pain,” he whispers. “You are the pain. And the comfort. And the chaos. And the only thing that’s made me feel fucking alive in months.”

His voice breaks. “I think I love you.”

The air is still. He finally sinks into the chair beside your bed, shoulders caving in like the confession took everything out of him. You don’t speak. Because you don’t know how to respond. Because some part of you always feared this moment — feared that the mess you made together might actually be real. That love might exist inside the cycle. That someone could look at you, hollowed and hurting, and still call it love. Lando doesn’t push you. He just stares at the floor, picking at the string of his sleeve.

“Say something,” he whispers finally.

But you can’t.

So you just reach out — trembling fingers brushing over his knuckles — and hold his hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. You don’t say I love you back. But you stay. And right now, that’s the loudest truth you have.

—

You don’t have your phone anymore.

Not really. It was taken at intake, handed over with your makeup bag and the clutch of anxiety meds you’d been hoarding in your luggage “just in case.” You gave it up with shaking hands and a hollow chest. Somewhere in the distance, your name still echoed across headlines. But in here, it didn’t matter.

This place is all beige walls and early mornings. You sleep in a twin bed with sheets that smell like lemon detergent, and you sit in group therapy circles with girls who look just like you — too perfect, too thin, too tired.

You talk. Not all the time. But enough. You talk about the emptiness. The perfectionism. The terrifying high of disappearing and the unbearable crash of still being here. You don’t say Lando’s name — not at first. But he haunts the edges of everything. His hoodie is still the only thing you wear to sleep.

Some nights, you cry. Some mornings, you scream. Some days, you just breathe. It’s more progress than you’ve made in years.

Lando’s world doesn’t stop — Formula 1 doesn’t pause for pain. So he keeps racing. But something’s changed in him too. He doesn’t go out after practice anymore. Doesn’t disappear between sessions. There are no new girls, no blurry club photos, no gossip-worthy moments. He’s… quiet. Focused. Haunted. His team notices. So does his therapist.

Yes, therapist. Zak insisted. After Miami. After the relapse. After the look in Lando’s eyes started resembling burnout instead of bravado. And, reluctantly, he agreed.

At first, he sat through the sessions in silence, arms crossed, jaw clenched. But then the woman — her name was Dana — asked him a question that made something snap.

“What would it mean to love someone who might not survive loving you back?”

He cried. For the first time in years. And then he started talking. About the pressure. The fame. The way winning felt empty now and losing felt like the end of the world. About the way you looked in the hospital bed, wrists thinner than the IV line, eyes so tired but still there — still trying.

He talks about the pills. The sex. The high that used to feel like relief and now feels like shame. And, quietly, he talks about love. Not like it’s a promise — more like a wound he can’t stop touching.

They send letters now. Not texts. Not emails. Actual pen and paper letters that get reviewed by staff and delivered like old secrets. He writes to you after every race. Sometimes just a few lines—

P6. You would’ve said the helmet looked cool today. I’m still sober. Still tired. But I’m trying. Miss you. — L

You sends him drawings, mostly. Little sketches of the view outside your window. Notes in the margins—

Today I ate an entire sandwich. It scared me. But I did it. You’d be proud.

I miss hearing your heartbeat when I couldn’t find mine. I’m not ready for “I love you,” but I’m not afraid of it anymore either.

Please keep trying. I’ll meet you there. Eventually.

We are healing. Separately. But not apart. Not really. You count the days until you can leave — not because you want to run, but because you want to live again. To feel again. To see him again, clear eyed and real and maybe finally whole. He keeps showing up to the track. To therapy. To life. And every time he gets back in the car, he whispers before lights out, like a ritual—

For her. For me. For us.

It’s not perfect. But for once — for the first time — it’s not a cycle. It’s a beginning.

—

The world looks different on the outside. Not brighter, not softer. Just… clearer. Like someone cleaned the glass between you and everything else.

You’re not fixed — everyone in treatment made sure you understood that. There’s no magic milestone, no final day that turns pain into peace. But you’ve reached a point where you’re not surviving despite the feelings anymore — you’re surviving with them. And that’s something.

You walk out of the center with a suitcase, a discharge folder, and a goodbye hug from the nurse who used to sit with you when you couldn’t sleep. You haven’t worn makeup in over a month. Your hair is tied back in a bun. You look… human. For the first time in ages. You don’t tell Lando you’re coming.

You’ve rewritten your “I love you” a hundred times in your head — not like a grand confession, but like a careful gift, one you’re not entirely sure he’s ready to open. Or if you are. But you book the flight anyway. One way. To Monaco.

He doesn’t expect the knock. It’s late — nearly midnight — and he’s in one of his hoodies, sitting on the couch, eyes half-shut from a week of racing and back to back therapy sessions. There’s a half written letter to you on the coffee table. He hasn’t mailed it yet. When he opens the door and sees you — real, standing there, smaller than he remembers but glowing in a way he’s never seen before — his breath just stops.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He blinks once, twice, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

And then he exhales. “You’re here.”

You nod. Your eyes are already glassy. “I’m okay.”

He pulls you in before he can say anything else — arms wrapping around you like instinct, like muscle memory, like home. You melt into him. You smell like clean cotton and plane air and a life that doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “So much.”

You sit on the couch in silence for a while. Not awkward — just sacred. You hold his hand and trace small shapes into the back of it like your fingers forgot how to stop missing him. Then you finally speak.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, like he didn’t expect it.

You say it again. Slower. Truer.

“I love you, Lando.”

He doesn’t speak. His throat bobs. His grip on your hand tightens, just slightly.

“But I’m scared,” you admit. “I’m scared that if we go back to the way things were, we’ll lose ourselves again. That we’ll drag each other down. That we’ll confuse love for dependency.”

He nods slowly. His voice is low, rough- “I’m scared too.” You meet his eyes — those tired, beautiful eyes that saw you at your lowest and didn’t look away.

“But I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” you say. “And I don’t want to live without you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it for weeks.

“We don’t have to go back,” he whispers. “We build something new. Slower. Smarter. Softer. No highs, no crashes. Just… us.”

You nod. A tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you let it fall. He wipes it away with his thumb, gently.

“I don’t want you to be my escape,” he says. “I want you to be my reason.”

You close your eyes and lean into his palm.

“I want that too.”

That night, you don’t fall into old habits. You don’t numb anything. You sleep curled up next to him, fully clothed, his hand resting over your heart like he’s guarding it. And for the first time in what feels like years, your dreams are quiet.

—

months later...

It’s strange, the way peace can feel unfamiliar at first. Like wearing a dress that used to hang off your frame — now it fits. And that alone feels like rebellion. You wake up most mornings beside him, and the air is quiet. Not heavy. Not desperate. Just calm.

His hand usually finds yours under the sheets before either of you even open your eyes. It’s instinct now. Like breathing. Like choosing to stay. Lando makes coffee the way you like it. You fold his laundry while watching race replays on his laptop.

It’s normal. Uneventful. Safe. But more than anything else — it’s real.

He’s doing well. Not just on track, but off it too. Still going to therapy. Still checking in. Still sober. Some nights are harder than others — you both know that. But there are fewer secrets now. Less shame.

You write again. Sketch. Eat. Exist. You laugh more. You cry less. You look in the mirror and see a person you’re learning to love — not a ghost. Sometimes people ask if the two of you are “still together.”

As if the world only expects passion if it’s breaking things. As if surviving each other doesn’t count. You don’t give them answers. You don’t owe them that. But if they looked close enough, they’d know. The way he looks at you across the paddock — that smile, soft and full of memory. The way your hand always ends up in his before lights out. The way you whisper “I’m okay” and mean it now.

You think about the song sometimes— Novacane. Even listen to it from time to time. The pattern of destruction you used to so closely live to Hell, you used to live inside it. The numbness. The quiet kind of destruction.

You used to need the high to forget how bad everything felt. You used to use sex to convince yourself you are worthy of life— of love. To forget all the little things that built up inside of you over the course of one day. You used to use drugs— pills, cocaine— anything to calm your nerves and rid your mind of all the bad press, the horrible comments, the overall stress of being a person in fame. You and him used to use each other to make some fucked up form of ‘happiness’.

You don’t anymore. Lando said it best a few weeks ago, while you both sat on the balcony of the Monaco apartment, wrapped in one blanket, your legs tangled together as the sun sank into the sea—

“You were never the high. You were what reminded me I deserved to come down.”

You smiled at him, rested your head on his shoulder, and let that be enough. Because you’re not perfect. He isn’t either. But together? You’re present. You’re healing. You’re free. And that’s better than any high you ever chased.

[rooster-the-love-of-my-life]

Idiots At a Wedding pt.5

Summary: Pretending to be Bob's girlfriend in front of his family has to be easy right? Right..?

Pairings: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing, allusions to smut but no real smut, cliffhanger

A/N: I woke up horny and in the mood for some angst ok, don't blame me. Not proof read, we die like men💪💪 Anyways enjoy reading, and don't be a stranger. Also, this taglist is kinda getting out of hand, I don't want to close it but I really need advice on what to do.

series masterlist || part 4

Bob floyd made you silly in all the right ways.

The moments after your confessions was a whirlwind. You and him went back down for dinner thst night, pretending everything was just as it was before, but the entire time he was holding your hand from under the table. You were blushing and giggling like teenagers, stealing secret glances, making prolonged eye contact, making everyone around you sick with how in love you looked, how in love you really were.

When you went back up, you couldn't keep your hands or your lips off of each other. As soon as the door closed, Bob pushed you onto it and kissed you with such vigor and passion the you completely returned, by racking your hands through his carefully brushed blonde locks, messing them up with every dig of your fingers. It was only when someone knocked loudly on your door that you pulled away from each other, very reluctantly of course.

"Unfortunately you need you to go and pick up the bridesmades dress with Bob tomorrow. Jeff and I've got to run home and get some work done." It was Annie, yet again being the block to Bob's cock.

"What's so unfortunate about that?" Bob asked from behind the door where he was supposed to hide is messy, freshly snogged face.

"Why are you so red?" Annie questioned, eyebrows coming together, trying to figure out what was happing in her brothers childhood bedroom prior to her coming there.

"It's fine Anne, I'll go with him." You diverted the conversation, shielding him further.

"Alright, goodnight kids." She sized you up, smirking. "Use protection."

You gasped while Bob went red, if that was even possible, freezing at what he heard. Turinging around, you just laughed at his face, placing a kiss on his cheek and walking into the bathroom.

The rest of the night went by quick, you stayed up till one, talking, kissing, touching. You had to physically push Bob off of you and to the other side of the bed, so you could finally get some sleep. But even in sleep he found you, arms wrapped around you waist, legs tangled with yours, radiating immense amounts of heat.

In all the days you'd stayed with him, this was the first time you had woken up with him next to you and it had to be your favourite sight. For the first time since you had met Bob he had always shy and reserved and his posture showed that. Tense shoulders, always sat up straight, body always stiff. But now, as he snored softly he was at peace, not an iota of tension was in his body, and upon seeing this, you had made it your life's mission to let him stay this tension free forever and always.

You could have stayed in bed for the rest of your life, but your bladder had other plans. You tried to control it, but after a certain point you just couldn't take it anymore and stared shimming out of Bob's firm grasp. Even though you thought you were being very stealthy, your moving had woken up the man behind you.

"Stop it." He mumbled, pulling you in closer, if that was even physically possible, making you lose all the progress you had made. "Stay here."

"I've got to pee." You whispered, dragging out the last word, grabbing his hand and prying it off of your waist.

"Hold it." His hand wouldn't budge making you seriously judge your strength.

"Bobby, I have to go really badly. I've been holding it in for the past twenty minutes." You whined.

"Fine." He lifted his hand up and you ran to the bathroom. "But come back in two minutes. That's an order." Even in sleep army lingo didn't leave the lieutenant making you giggle softly.

"Sis yes sir." You saluted as you came out of the bathroom and moved your eyes to the sight that awaited you. His side of the bed was empty and untouched whereas yours was completely undone and the way he was lying on the bed left little to ho space for you. You leaned against the wall of the bathroom and admired Bob, eyes traveling up from his legs tangled in blankets to his back and then to his messy blond hair. You wanted to take a picture, keep this locked in your phone forever, but before you could, the rough, sleepy voice of the cutest man you had ever seen interrupted.

"You gonna stand there staring or are you going to join me?" The question was normal, but the country accent that it was spoken with made it much more alluring.

"Careful Bobby, your country is showing." You smirked, not moving an inch, wanting to make then man wait for you longer.

"Fuck, I love it when you call me that." He mumbled, pushing his head and hips further into the mattress. "Drives me nuts."

If you would have know such a simple nickname was having this effect on the man, you would have driven him to madness or confession by saying it every chance you got over the last year. The smirk never left your face, and you didn't leave your place.

"Sunny, please come back to bed." He begged, sitting up now, giving you a full view of his chest. "It's so cold without you."

"Says the human furnace." You snorted, pushing yourself off the wall and taking slow, calculated steps towards the bed. "You want me back in bed baby?" You coaxed, as he nodded his head and pouted his lips.

"Yes please."

"Always so polite and respectful." You neared the bed, knees touching the frame.

"Only for you." His eyes were fixed on you, watching all the moves you made, every breath you take. You planted one of your knees on the bed, hands moving in front, crawling over him.

"God, I love it when you neg for me Bobby." You whispered, a hands distance away from him.

You were expecting a reply or atleast a groan, but what you got was even better. He reached out and ulled you on top of his by your waist, holding you delicately as he leaned back. His mouth caught yours, pulling you into a deep kiss, lips moving slow, not trying to assert dominance or show off, just portraying all the love he had for you.

The way he drove you wild with just his mouth, you couldn't help but wonder what the rest of him could do. Feeling as daring as ever, you slowly moved your hips, dragging them painfully over his, making him groan into your mouth. You repeated the same movement a few times, getting bolder and hornier with each one, pulling soft moans from the man under you.

He pulled away from your mouth to try and regain his breath and control himself from fucking you right then and there, but you were having none of that. Your lips made there way down to his neck, pressing feather light kisses on his collarbone and all over the right side of his neck.

"You're a little minx you, you know." Bob managed to say in between his moans.

"And you love it." You replied, lifting your head to look into his eyes for just a second before continuing your attack.

"Oh, fuck it." He let go of any ounce self control he had left in him and grabbed your waist tighter, flipping you two over.

What was supposed to happen, was that he would now take control and show you around pound town. But poor Bobby forgot he was already on the edge of the bed, and all that the flip accomplished was sending you two out of bed and onto the hard ground.

"Shit, sorry. Are you okay?" Bob asked, landing on top of you, pulling the blanket down as well.

"We should take this as a sign to not have sex in your childhood bedroom." You giggled, as he dropped his head in the crook of your neck, sighing out loudly.

"We should probably get up before someone come to investigate." He pushed up from the ground, biceps flexing in the process, offering you his hand once he was standing. "M'lady."

You took it gladly, pulling yourself up in the least sexy way possible, with the goofiest smile ever adorning your face. If this was life with Bob, you'd want it in this universe and the next, till you lived out an eternity kissing and falling.

"Why thank you very much kind sir."

----------------

Even after much convincing and persuasive kisses, Bob couldn't get you to ditch the days plans and just stay in bed with you. Through giggles and soft kisses, you finally made your way down to the living room, to find Mary sitting there alone, watching tv.

"Morning Ma." Bob greeted her, with a with a peck on the cheek, much chipper than usual.

"Morning? It's ten already." She taunted, pausing her show, turning back to look at the two of you. "I'm not sure how they do things in the navy, but in my house morning arrives much earlier."

"You'll have to forgive us." You spoke. "Someone here didn't want to get up."

"Can you really blame a man for wanting to get a few more hours of beauty sleep in?" Bob flicked back his hair in the most dramatic way possible, making you and Mary burst out laughing. If someone would have told you that quiet Bob Floyd was this chatty and funny when he got comfortable with someone, you wouldn't have believed them, but here you were, standing in his mother's kitchen, laughing your ass of at something stupid.

"What time are yall going to go pick up the dress?" Mary asked, as you two were stuffing your face with waffles.

"After breakfast." Bob mumbled the reply with puffed up cheeks full of food.

"Don't talk with food in your mouth." His mother reprimanded and then turned to you. "I can wait for you to see the dress, it is so beautiful."

"I don't doubt it for a second. Lucy has implacable taste." You nodded, getting up to put your empty plate into the sink.

"Ma, I wanted to ask you something." Bob started. "Would you mind of we ate out today for dinner?"

"Oh, not at all. Where are we going?"

"Um... we as in Sunny and I." He scratched the back of his neck while correcting his mother.

"Oh I see." She smile slyly at the two of you, who were going red under her hard gaze. "Don't be out too late." She permitted, making you snap your head up and grin at Bob, who was already doing the same.

"Pick you up at seven." He winked at you.

"It's a date." You winked back, getting giddy at the prospect of going on a date with the man you had been crushing on for forever.

"Just one thing," Mary stopped on her way back to the couch. "There will be no hanky panky in my house at night."

"Ma!" Bob gasped, as you chocked on plain air. If only Mary Floyd knew what was happening just moments ago in her house.

"What?" She shrugged, still smirking.

Soon enough, you were in thr passenger seat, headed to the tailor's shop as Bob showed you around his hometown. The more of it you saw, the more you felt closer to him. You just wished you could do the same, but that was all you could do, whish, because there was no way you were taking him home, at least not in the near future. You arrived at the quaint shop, the door opening with a little ding.

"Hello, how may I help you?" An older woman popped out of the back of the shop and greeted the two of you.

"We're here to pick up a bridesmade dress in Lucy Floyd's name." Bob answered, closing the door he had opened once you were inside as well.

"Ah, yes. Mary said you'd be here today." She nodded enthusiastically. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but you are Robert right? Her son kn the navy?"

"Yes ma'am." He replied with a blush, he knew his mother was proud of him, he just never thought she would tell the entire town about him.

"I thought so. My how you have grown." She gushed. "And who's the lady may I ask?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Bob beat you to it. "My girlfriend." He said proudly, grabbing your hand tighter. Hearing him introduce you as his girlfriend so proudly made your brain malfunction, because this time around, it wasn't a lie, and how you had managed to make it so in just a few days was beyond you.

"Aren't you a lucky girl." The woman teased and went to the back to get your dress out.

"Don't I know it." You whispered, grinning like a bashful school girl.

"Would you like to try it on once? See of we need to alter anything?" She asked.

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Oh not at all, come on back dear." She ushered you to the back of the and helped you out of your clothes and into the delicate floor length dress. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing you had ever seen, and upon wearing it once, you never wanted to take it off again. It hugged you in all the right places, and the back was just gorgeous. Few people could pull of the colour yellow, but you were sure anyone would look beautiful in this dress.

"Boy is he going to faint when he sees you." The woman gushed.

"Can we not show it to him right now? I want to surprise him." You asked.

"For sure. Why don't you get changed while I pack it up for you?" She smiled.

You thanked her and changed out of the dress very reluctantly. When you stepped outside, Bob who was leaning against the counter, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, snapped up his head.

"Where's the dress?" He asked, confused. "I thought you were trying it on."

"I did try it on and it fits like a glove." You replied.

"Show me then." He said, eager to see the dress.

"Nope, you've just got to wait till the wedding." You declared, as he whined.

"Come on Sunny, please." He pouted, pulling the same expression he did when he begged his mother for ice cream as a kid. The only difference was, his mother was more weak than you are and always gave in.

"No no. Put that pout away." You shook your head at his ridiculousness. "The wedding isn't that far away."

"Fine." He grumbled, but his frown quickly turned into a smile as your lips collided with his left cheek.

"There you go. You'll go crazy when you see her in the dreas." The woman came back out with a bag in her hand and a smile on your face. "Enjoy the wedding."

You thanked her profusely, complementing her skills and walked out the shop and towards your car. Bob tried peeking into the bag to get a look at the dress, but when you shoved him off a few times, he knew you weren't kidding.

After driving around the town for sometime, you went back home and lazed around the whole afternoon. If this was a dream, you never wanted to wake up.

---------------------

The night came quicker than you realized. While getting ready for your first date with him, you couldn't help but pinch yourself to see if this was actually happening or if you were hallucinating in the psych ward. Only yesterday, you were pacing around the room, ranting to your friend about how badly you wanted Bob and here you were twenty gour hours later, actually going on a date with him.

He had picked a fancy restaurant for the two of you to go to, somewhere close to home, yet for enough to give you the privacy you needed. Ever the gentleman, he had brought you flowers, pulled the seat for you and opened all the doors, making you swoon. You were waiting for your food to come, sipping on wine, when he spoke up.

"I can't believe this is happening. I'm going out with the girl of my dreams."

"The girl of you dream huh?" You were amused, and also giddy.

"Obviously." He replied. "I can't stress this enough Sunny, you're the most wonderful person I have ever met. The best person on this planet."

"Stop it, all these praises are going to go to my head and I'll be unbearable." Your eyes went wide to add some dramatic flare.

"Never." He scrunched his nose, smile never leaving him.

"I-I didn't get a chance to say this to you last night, but I really like you Bob. So much that the moment I met you, I knew there would be no one else in the world for me." You voiced. "I really, really, really like you honey, in fact I think I might just love you."

"I love you." Bob let out before he could stop himself. You froze at his confession as he stuttered, trying to cover up. "No I don't. I do. But I don't, not on the first date. But I do, but right now I-"

"I love you." You stopped his rant, gently placing your hand on top of his from across the table. "I love you too Bobby, on the first date and on every date."

Hearing this made him so happy he could burst. If it wasn't for the waiter bringing over your food, he would have leaped over the table and kissed you hard till you were thrown out of the restaurant. The night went by like a breeze, you said sweet nothings to each other with sprinkles of 'I love you' thrown into the conversation.

You should have known that life couldn't be this good to you, not with your luck. But in the haze of happiness, you seemed to forget all about it, and the universe reminded you in the most horrible way possible. You were sharing desert, almost about to leave, when someone called out your name, and the moment you heard the voice, all colour drained out of your face.

"What're you doing here?" The voice continued. Bob's eyebrows pulled together, trying to figure out how you knew the man standing behind you. You turned around slowly, hoping that it wouldn't be him standing there, but alas, it was.

"Michael." You closed your eyes, your worst nightmare coming to life. "What're you doing?"

"I asked you a question first." He replied sternly with a cold expression.

"I'm attending a wedding." The voice that left you sounded so foreign, so week, so scared.

"Who's?"

"Bob's sister's."

"Who's Bob?"

"I am." Bob spoke up, as you whipped your head to him, looking at him with an expression he could understand. "Sunny, who's this?"

You didn't want this to happen, not now, not ever. Michael had cut you out of his life years ago, and you had done the same. But as fate would have it, you two ended up under the same roof once again and it had to happen on what was suppose to be the nest night of your life.

You gather up whatever strength was left in you and spoke up. The words that left you were a total thunderclap to Bob's ears.

"He's my brother."

Taglist:

@4margaritasalex @futurecorps3 @thisisgracetrying @clairejpg @fangirlinc   @igotmajordaddyissues @m3laniehearts @mayafatimakhan @starkleila @itscheybaby-blog @spookycupcakepirate @dcamelia @americaa @paulina1998 @lgg5989 @datingbtr @thatchickwiththecamera @luckyladycreator2 @kanevill @dempy @saramaple @hockeyboysarehot @redhoodedtoad @nobody7102 @alexwinchester23 @unstablecaffeinatedmind  @teti-menchon0604 @my-name-is-baby @goth-detectives @ae-aeitch @articel1967 @fubbbubb @xoxabs88xox @msfirth @arriiieess

[a99jazzybean]

HIIIII! I just binge read your date everything fics and I love them! May i ask for yet another Chance fic, where y/n is familiar with g&g and used to play with their friends from time to time - using his dice of course! And... y/n used to kiss the piece for the "lucky shot", doesn't matter if it worked or not. So now, with Skylars help, y/n can speak with him and even play a session or two and it is so much fun! But she is completely oblivious to the fact that he remembers every time y/ns lips touched his dice-y form and each time he silently yearns for her lips to touch him once again... The rest is up to you, lots of love!

I love this prompt so much! Thank you for the request!

With a Taste of Your Lips...

synop: You and Chance decide to play another session of G&G. Little do you know, a special tradition of yours has him feeling all sorts of hot and bothered. i.e. You discover Chance can feel when you kiss his die.

words: 4.7K

includes: chancexfem!reader, ttrpg playing, making out, fondling an object?, cumming untouched kinda, smut

a/n: I might make a part 2 to this one, thoughts? Also, its got smut. No minors!

“You feel yourself growing weaker. The spell the lich cast on you drains your life force. All of your comrades are downed. You are their final hope.” Your GM stares you down, brow raised. “What would you like to do?”

Looking around the table you see all of your friends' faces are grim. All eyes are on you. Taking a look at the battlemap before you, your eyes widened. 

“Past the cliff, it’s the Abysmal Pit, correct?” You asked the GM. 

“Correct.”

“And anyone who falls in is erased from existence, right?

“Correct.”

“No!” Sam shouted. “I know what you’re thinking. You can’t do it!”

You give her a solemn look, eyes filled with sadness. 

“I’m sorry.” You pick up your red D20. “But you can’t stop me. I’m going for a grapple on the lich, then I’m dragging him over the edge with me.” 

A chorus of gasps erupts from your party members. Some are getting teary-eyed. 

Two years of a campaign filled with adventure, friendship, romance, and tears. This is how it ends. Perhaps it was destined to be. 

“Make your roll.” Your GM feels tears prick in their own eyes. Not knowing whether they want you to succeed on this or not. 

As is tradition on major rolls, you bring your trusty die to your lips. Pecking it softly, you pray that this works. 

“Lucky shot,” you hear Sam say under their breath. 

Cupping the die in your hands, you give a good shake. Then you release it onto the table. Everyone in the room is holding their breath as it rolls. Finally, it stops. Natural 20. 

Normally, the table would erupt with cheers. This time, it wasn’t proper to celebrate. 

“Prim,” your GM took in a shaky breath as he spoke your character’s name. Trying to hold back tears. “You muster up the final dregs of strength within you. Pulling yourself up with a groan. Everything hurts, but your mind has been made up. Pushing through it all, you start to run. Taking one final look at your fallen teammates. This is the last time you will see them. Tell me how this ends.” Their voice wavered. 

“As I run toward the lich, I let out a final ‘goodbye’. I grab it around the waist, then throw both of us off of the ledge. No matter what it does I keep ahold of it. It’s coming with me.” Your own eyes fill with tears. 

“As you fall, the lich tries to get you off of it, but to no avail. For a brief moment you can see a flash of its past humanity. Fear filling its face as it realizes the one thing that it tried to run from has finally arrived. Death in the shape of a half-elf rogue who risked it all to defeat it.”

Chance sighed dreamily, remembering your great sacrifice. Seemed like you frequently played characters that laid their life on the line. No wonder he was absolutely smitten.

While you weren’t able to see his personified form at the moment, he was able to see you. Back hunched over as you typed on Mac. The computer feeling pretty good about themselves as you cranked out your latest self-insert fanfic. What else were you supposed to do when an AI took over your job? 

Chance wasn’t able to see what you were writing, but could see Mac occasionally blush and chuckle at the words you were typing onto them. 

“Care to share?” He asked the computer. 

Mac glanced over at him, then back to one of the screens in front of them. 

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. She’s kind of mortified that I’ve even read this stuff.” Mac turned back to read what you had just typed out, red blooming on their face. “Yeah, no. You don’t need to know about this.” 

Chance grumbled to himself. It didn’t feel fair that Mac got to see the sexiest innermost thoughts of yours. Actually, he was kind of jealous of many of your objects. Betty slept with you every night, witnessing the limited sexual exploits of yours. Johnny, he wouldn’t talk about it, too much of a gentleman. But the massage setting on his shower head? He might have alluded to activities you had accomplished with that. 

It was frustrating to say the least. Seeing how much better the other beings in the home got to know you intimately. All Chance wanted was a taste of that knowledge. 

He hoped you’d put your Dateviators back on again. Now that you had been able to see him, all he wanted was your attention. It didn’t help that you enthusiastically offered to play G&G with him. Only feeding into the ever-growing obsession with you. 

It didn’t start when you put those glasses on, no. It started when you came up with that damned tradition. Kissing the 20 side of his die body. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, really. But he felt it, every single time. It was special, something you only did when making a major roll. And you always picked him. Your “lucky shot” for your “lucky die”. 

The thing was, you hadn’t ended that tradition. When you began playing with Chance, you continued to make your lucky shots. Not realizing that although the personified version was sitting in front of you, Chance was still very much connected to the object he was. He would have you roll on something difficult, and as if it were instinct, you pressed your soft lips right on the20 side. Thankfully, Chance had been able to maintain his composure as you watched the die roll. However, it was beginning to become too much. 

Each press of your lips to the die had him falling for you harder and harder. 

With a sigh, you pushed away from your computer. Eyeing the die beside you with a smirk. Tapping on the desk, your gaze flitted over to your glasses. It had been a few hours since you had them on, couldn’t hurt to say hi to your office. And there might have been a specific object that held your affections.

“You know. I can feel you looking at me, right?” You teased the die before putting on the Dateviators. 

Chance’s face was ruddy when you looked at him, caught red handed. Rubbing his neck sheepishly, he gave you an apologetic look.

“What can I say? You’re nice to look at.” 

Now it was your turn to blush. The damned man always seemed to fluster you in such innocuous ways. Somehow always polite with his flirting. 

There were times he could be fairly forward, but he never pushed. It was sweet. 

Thinking about it, you could go for something sweet now. But nothing that was consumable. 

“Do you have a session prepped?” You asked.

Immediately, he perked up. A bright smile on his face complimented by an enthused flush. 

“Of course! Ever since you’ve come along, I’m like ten sessions ahead!” He leaned toward you, bouncing on his toes. 

“I’m glad that you’ve been so inspired. I love your stories.” You gave him a soft smile. 

His eyes widen, practically sparkling at your words.

“Y-you love my stories?” He held his hand to his heart, feeling the muscle pump faster at your compliment.

“Why do you think I want to play with you so often?” You pulled his die over with a finger, rolling it around. “I have a lot of fun with you.” 

“We could have more fun.” He raised a brow suggestively, looking over his glasses at you.

Red in the face, you waved him off with a giggle.

“Do you have time to play now?”

“I always have time for you.” 

You were sure you heard Timothy scoff somewhere in the distance. That was no matter though, for now you had the full attention of your favorite die. 

“Shall we play, then?” 

Chance nodded enthusiastically, then proceeded to get his GM station set up. When his screen and notes were all in place, he gave an approved nod. Looking up, he beamed at you again. Feeling his heart squeeze at the content smile on your face as you sat on the other end of the table from him. Oh how he wished to always keep you happy. He would play forever with you just to make sure that smile never fell from your lips. 

“Alright, where did we leave off?” He glanced over his notes.

“I managed to talk myself out of being eaten by a giant.” You had your own notes pulled out. 

Chance felt his heart swell again. You took notes! Oh, you truly were the perfect player. 

“That’s right! My charismatic girl!” He chuckled as your face grew red. 

He was glad that he managed to make you as flustered as you made him. Equal opportunity flirting to make the other squirm. Again, perfect. 

“You’ve gotten away from the giant, but you still have yet to find the gilded egg laying hen.” 

“Thankfully, you have quite the wise girl as well!” You let out a satisfied huff. “Can I make a perception check to see where the chicken is?” 

“You may.” He motioned for you to continue.

Shaking the die in your hands you urged it to roll well. 

“C’mon D20, show me what you’re made of!” 

You released the die, it clattered into your dice tray. After a moment of circling, it landed on a 16. 

“Nice! And that’s a plus four to my perception!” 

“Wonderful!” He cleared his throat, continuing his tale. “As you look around the foyer of the giant’s castle, you aren’t finding any indications of where a hen might be roosting. However, after a moment of hearing silence, there’s a new sound filtering down the hallway to the north.”

“What’s the sound?” You ask with a knowing smirk.

“It’s soft harp music, almost dreamlike.” 

After your previous character died valiantly saving a village from a dragon, Chance asked if you would mind experimenting with a fairytale themed game. Of course, you agreed, excited to see what he would come up with. While some of the quests you have been on so far were a bit predictable, he had many twists and turns added in. 

Like Cinderella’s slipper turning out to be a baby mimic. When you had managed to aid the prince in finding his lost love, the mimic revealed itself, chomping down on her foot. However, she didn’t scream. It turned out, Cinderella’s ballgown had already consumed her and was using her head and limbs to blend in. The fairy godmother revealed herself as a demon looking to collect on the souls of the kingdom. All she needed was the prince to disappear so she could take his place. 

It was a lovely twist that ended with a fairly hard battle. Thankfully the prince that accompanied you turned out to be part of the bloodline of very powerful sorcerers, so he was able to aid in the defeat of the fairy godmother. 

The prince tried asking for your hand in marriage, but you had other adventures to go on. Instead, you left with a hefty amount of gold. A token of appreciation for saving the kingdom. The engagement ring hidden amongst the coins didn’t go unnoticed, Chance giving you a cheeky wink when he mentioned it. 

You had noticed the man had been throwing romance options at you throughout each of the fairy tales. Many of them were love stories, sure, but it seemed like he really wanted you to get with someone. Little Red Riding Hood, growing smitten with you after you saved her from the belly of a wolf. A huntsman asking for your hand after you aided him in saving the kingdom from a corrupt king. Snow White practically begged you to marry her after you turned out to be her “true love's kiss”. He was laying it on pretty thick, so to speak.  

Truthfully, the reason why you never accepted was because you wanted Chance to stop hiding his affections behind characters in your game. The two of you had constant flirty banter, but it felt like he could only speak through innuendo when hinting at wanting anything more. While it was endearing, it was starting to become tiring. 

Though admittedly, you were a coward too. It would be hypocritical to judge the man considering you couldn’t muster up the courage to do anything either. Instead, you sat in a flirtatious purgatory. Something that could be viewed as a comfortable platonic relationship, but in reality had very, very heavy overtones of desire. 

Neither you or Chance could be subtle. There were times where you could feel the hunger in his eyes as he ran your game. Usually when you did something quite clever. 

That time when you answered his Latin riddle? The man was very glad he had baggy pants on. 

Then there was you. Easily bending to his dominating whims when he was GMing. Something about him having that kind of authority over you often had you clenching your thighs and squirming in your chair. And don’t even get started on the villain monologues. He pulled one of those out, you left the gaming table with your panties soaked. Giving Betty quite the show when you couldn’t get to sleep. 

Back to your current game, Chance asked for your next move.

“I follow the sound of the harp.”

“You feel almost entranced at the music. Your steps pulling you to the north hallway. After about an hour of walking (remember, this is a GIANT’S castle) you made it to the room the music was coming from. Peering inside, you see a giant sitting on a bed. She appears to be much shorter than the one you first encountered, but still clearly a giant. You can tell she is related to the other giant, both sporting the same nose shape. The giant girl is playing the harp, her fingers delicately plucking at the strings. You look across from her and see what you’ve been looking for. A hen nestled in a nest of straw. Its body swaying side to side with the music. Below it you see a peek of gold. What would you like to do?”

“I’m not going to try and hide.”

Chance looked at you with wide eyes, surprised at your blatant move.

“I handled the other giant with my words, I can easily do the same again.”

Oh, he loved your confidence. Your willingness to dive in despite the consequences. He just hoped that it wouldn’t end with your bones ground up to make bread. Quite the horrific way to depart this mortal realm.

“If you say so. You stride inside with confidence. Hyping yourself up from your previous encounter with a giant.” He rolled a die, giving a grimace. “The giant girl doesn’t appear to see you. She’s looking right at the hen, swaying side to side as she continues to play the harp.”

“I try to catch her attention by clearing my throat loudly.” 

“You clear your throat, and she stops playing. A sour look grows on her face as she looks for the source of the sound. Looking down, she finally spots you. Crossing her arms, she gives you a pout.”

“You know, it’s quite rude to interrupt a performance.” Chance put on the voice of a little girl, making you chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“Chance, you know that wasn’t in-game.” You gave him a stern look. 

“I know, I’m just messin. Anyways… she looks at you, waiting for you to respond.”

“I apologize, your music is lovely.” 

“Then why did you interrupt me?”

“Well, I have some important matters to discuss.”

“Important matters? What’s important is that Bailey gets her proper rest.” Chance returns to his normal voice. “You follow her gaze to the hen in the nest.”

“Is Bailey your hen?” 

“Obviously!” The character voice returned. “And she won’t lay eggs unless I play for her.” 

“I see.” You ponder on that information for a moment, then ask. “Is the harp huge?”

“It’s giant, so is the hen.”

“Didn’t the asshole who hired me say he had been here before? Why send me up if there’s no way to bring the items down?” You huffed in frustration at the quest-giver.

“Who said there wasn’t a way to bring them down?” He clicked his tongue at you, admonishingly.

“Hmmm. I think I'll talk to the girl some more.” He motioned for you to continue. “I’m sure Bailey loves your music.”

“She does, she always lays an egg when I play! My daddy says I’m gettin just as good as my mama!” Chance goes back to narrating. “After she says that she goes quiet. Her eyes widening as if she’s just realized you were here. There’s a darkness in them that surprises you for a girl so young.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.” You bit your lip nervously.

“You’re a human. Humans aren’t allowed here!”

“Um, you’re dad let me go. At least I think it was your dad.” You give Chance a nervous glance.

“Roll on persuasion.”

Shaking the dice, you let it drop. Watching in fear as it lands on a three. Chance’s gaze grows dark.

“You only think you know? How can I know if you’re telling the truth?” Chance narrates again. “The giant girl stands up, towering high over you. A glare on her face as her eyes narrow. But you spot something odd, her eyes are watering.” The little girl voice is put back on. “All humans lie! I bet you’re no different!”

“I decide to stay quiet, letting her speak.” You say to Chance. Again, he’s surprised at your action.

“Your people killed my mom!” He switches back to normal. “You now see tears falling from her eyes. She’s going to reach for you.” He rolls a die, eyeing you expectantly. “Would you like to do anything to stop it?”

“No. I let her.” 

“A large hand grabs you with a crushing squeeze. You feel the air forced out of your body by the strong grip of her hand. She lifts you to her head.” He clears his throat, going back to the girl voice. “I should just eat you, show you how it feels.” He gives you another expectant look. “Are you going to try and do anything?”

“Nope. I’m gonna close my eyes and accept my fate.” 

Impressed, Chance sits back with his arms crossed. Pondering on what to do next. While you had managed to talk your way out of the last giant encounter, he thought you would at least try to fight your way out of this one. The giant child’s stat block was something that you could manage on your own. 

“Okay. I want you to roll persuasion, and I’ll be nice and give you advantage for what you’ve managed to do so far.”

Pumping your fist in the air, you reached for the die. This time, you brought the D20 to your lips, giving it a light peck. This was a roll that was gonna need it. 

“C’mon lucky shot, don’t let me down now.” 

The first roll landed on a 6. Again, you brought the die to your lips. The kiss to the dice slightly lingering, just for good luck. You shook it in your hand and released, crossing your fingers for a good roll. Slowly, it spun to land on a 20.

“Nat 20 babee! Let’s gooooo!” You stood up and cheered, your character saved.

Chance remained seated, face beet red. His breathing had become labored. For some reason, he couldn’t get himself to calm down. Maybe it was the fact that you had kissed the die in succession. Something he could feel burning through his body. 

Coming down from your high, you realized Chance hadn’t continued. Turning, you gave him a concerned look. Walking over, you eyed the state he was in. Face still extremely flushed. 

“Are you okay?” You leaned toward him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“I-I’m fine. We can continue!” He rubbed his neck nervously.

“Are you sure? Your face is really red.”

“What did you expect after kissing me like that!” He clamped his hands over his mouth, face turning another shade darker. 

“What? I didn’t kiss…” You looked over to the die, feeling a heat crawl up your neck. “C-can you feel that?”

Hands still over his mouth, he nodded. You realized you had been performing your luck ritual the entire time you had been playing with Chance. He could feel it. Every. Single. Time. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You felt terrible, doing that to him without asking.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He said softly.

“But then I kept making you uncomfortable! Kissing you without your consent, ugh. I’m so sorry, Chance.” You gave him a sad look that pierced his heart. That wasn’t what he meant at all!

“I never said I was uncomfortable.” He composed himself somewhat.

“Huh?” 

“I might have liked it…” He trailed quietly. 

“What was that?” You couldn’t make out what he said.

“I like it!” He blurted. “I really like it when you kiss me.” His face grew red again as he waited for your response.

“Y-you do?” 

He nodded sheepishly. 

“Yeah. It feels… nice. Really nice.” He bit his lip nervously. “You’re always so soft and sweet.” 

“Oh.” Your face was burning.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He gave you an apologetic look. 

“Chance…” This time you were nervous.

“Yes?” 

You leaned down toward his face. Arms planted on the headrest of his chair.

“Can I actually kiss you?”

“I-I mean technically you are ‘actually’ kissing me…” He stuttered out, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips.

You gave him an unamused pout.

“You know what I mean. How’s about this? Can I give you a reciprocated kiss? One that you also participate in?”

“Yes. Please.” 

With that, you pressed your lips to his. Chance froze up at first, eyes wide at the fact that this was happening. Leaning into the kiss, his eyes fluttered shut. You let out a content sigh at the feel of his lips against yours. Soft and plush, perfectly meldable with your own. 

With your tongue, you teased at his bottom lip. Gladly, he slightly opened his mouth for your tongues to intertwine. A low groan left him as he tasted you. So fucking perfect.

The man pushed the chair away from the table, letting you sink onto his lap. Your hand trailed up his neck, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. He moaned against you at the action. His own hands trailed over your body, mapping out your slopes and curves. Ultimately they landed on your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. You giggled against his lips, pulling away to get a good look at him.

Face still flushed with kiss bitten lips and blown out pupils. He stared up at you like you were a goddess that was granting him a blessing. That was sure how this encounter was feeling. Something that he had only dreamed of. 

“You’re so handsome.” You pressed kisses against his jaw and down his throat, making him shiver. 

“And you’re beautiful. So perfect.” He pressed a kiss to your lips. 

Leaning your forehead against his, you smiled. Then an idea came to you. Biting your lip, you wondered if the man beneath you would oblige to your whims. 

“Chance…”

“Hmm?”

“When I kiss your die, where do you feel it?”

“Oh, um, I guess on my face? Like a whisper against my cheeks and the corner of my lips.” He let out an awkward chuckle. 

You shifted off of him to grab the die, then returned to his lap. Holding the die in front of you, you looked over the numbers.

“So what would happen if I kissed the other numbers?” You asked, gaze hungry.

Oh, oh, this was hot. So fucking hot. Chance thought just kissing you was a dream come true. You wanting more from him? That was merely a fantasy.

“I suppose I would feel you kissing me on other parts of my body.” He answered. Truthfully, he had no idea what would happen. You only ever kissed the 20.

“So if I kiss the one.” You brought the dice to your lips, pecking the side.

Chance giggled at the feeling. Right on the bottom of his foot. 

“I take it that was your foot?”

He nodded, excited to see where this was going. Already feeling himself growing semi-hard in his pants as  he watched you in anticipation.

You pressed a kiss to the five, eyeing Chance’s response. He twitched under you with a whimper. 

“Where was that?”

“My left thigh.” 

Okay, so if five was the left thigh then… you pressed a kiss to the six.

“R-right thigh.” He groaned out. Having your lips on him like this was something else. 

It was probably a good thing you never kissed the other numbers. He was sure you would make him cum from just kissing him alone. 

“So if six is your other thigh then that must mean seven or eight is likely your-”

“What if we avoided that area?” He cut you off, a nervous sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“Why’s that?” You leaned in, giving him a deep kiss.

“I-I just…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. 

“Chance, would me kissing the dice equivalent of your crotch make you cum?” Wow, just right out with it. 

“Y-yeah, yeah. It would. I’m gonna be honest. With the way that you’re already going at it, I’d probably cum just from you kissing me.” 

“Really?” You sat upright, eyes sparkling. 

He nodded, blushing furiously. 

“Could we try it?” You bit your lip. 

The thought of having the man fall apart just from you kissing him had you riled up. You could feel yourself growing wetter at the thought. Seeing him squirm from your kisses before coming undone. Oh, that was very appealing. 

“You want to?” He was surprised.

“Yeah, I do. Only if you want to.” 

“You don’t have to ask twice.” He wrapped a hand around your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Your tongues tangled with each other as you moaned. 

Pulling away, you brought the dice back up to your face. Eyeing the numbers, you decided to go for the 19. You gave it a slow kiss, watching Chance as he shivered and moaned. The feeling reached a sweet spot on his neck that had him keening. He was pretty sure he was addicted to your lips now. 

You continued to press kisses to various numbers. Loving every whimper and moan you managed to get out of the man. Occasionally you would lean back in to give him a proper kiss on the lips, only to return to tease him with the die. 

Chance could tell you were avoiding the seven and eight. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“P-please.” He groaned through gritted teeth as he felt your lips on his chest. “I need you…”

“Need me to what?” You teased with a smirk.

“Kiss the seven and eight. Please.” He begged, squirming beneath you.

“Hmm. Good boy.” Oh fuck. That had his dick throbbing. 

Slowly, you brought the die to your lips. You pecked all over it, then finally pressed a kiss to the seven. Chance cried out at the feeling. Your lips right where he needed them. Feeling them press against his throbbing length. He was sure the next one would be the last he needed. You gave another slow kiss to the eight. It was his undoing. Cock twitching in his pants, releasing a sticky load into his boxers. His hands gripped at your hips as he rutted against the feeling of your lips. 

“Oh f-fuck.” He stuttered out. 

You pressed your lips to his, then kissed all over his face. The man melting into your affection. 

“How was that?” You asked softly.

“Amazing. Perfect. Wonderful. Perfect. Did I mention perfect?” He chuckled.

“I’m glad I could give you that.” You picked up the die again, giving it a peck on the 20. 

“Guess I’ll be keeping my lucky shot tradition for our other games.” You gave him a sweet smile. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Chance pulled you back to him, “did you think playtime was over?”

[mickyschumacher]

[SUMMER SUNSHINE! PT.1]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: after learning that oscar's coming home for the holidays, nothing could truly prepare for what you were about to learn! or in which you decide to give oscar the best summer ever.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, slight angst, poor humour, talk of a breakup, indirect mentions of mental health, reader is a uni student, set in nov/dec of '24

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x childhood bsf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.3k+

𝐀/𝐍: in case anyone was wondering why i've been so oscar-fixated recently.... this is why! my first offical series!!! i've been thinking about this for so long and i just had to get it out of my system!

tag list (lmk if you wanna be added): @kakashiislut @taetae-armyyyyy @satorinnie @at-a-rax-ia @op814kitty

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

You had been Hattie's neighbour and childhood best friend for what felt like forever. Despite being a year younger than her, you had done everything together.

Got your seconds done together. Discovered K-pop. Bungee-jumped after your last ever school exams. Even held a funeral for your pet fish named Rocky when you were five because what was the strength of friendship if not for minutes in silence as you watched Hattie's cat eat Rocky?

Point was... she was your ride or die. And you were hers.

Along with her two other sisters, Edie and Mae, who you got along with very well, was her older brother. Oscar.

Well, to you it was always Oscar.

Now it was Oscar Piastri, the famed Australian F1 driver.

He was the one sibling you could never really get on with when you were young. You weren't quite sure why. Most of the time he spent your childhood pissing you off and making you smile simultaneously. Because in the end of the day, no matter which Grand Prix he was winning, he was still the same boy who technically killed Rocky by putting him in the toilet (he thought it had already died). The same boy who tried to get you to kart instead of reading. The same one who teased you nonstop.

You also weren't sure when that effort had stopped. Perhaps when Oscar had moved to England to pursue racing even further. You vividly remembered how devastated Hattie was. It was you sitting on her front step, consoling her after you both dropped him off at the airport.

You remembered Oscar's voice clearly that day. The fifteen-year-old looking at you, a thirteen-year-old, brown eyes firm yet soft. "Take care of her for me," he murmured, referring to his younger sister.

So you did.

Oscar still visited here and there. And Hattie eventually got over it, understanding how important the move was.

Although, you barely knew the Oscar you saw now. You watched the races as you always did because what kind of a neighbour would you be if you didn't? But you couldn't recognise him. The essence of him was still there but... the light in his eyes, it had disappeared.

This summer holiday was going to be wildly different. Because for the first time in two years, Oscar was spending it back home instead of getting his family over in England.

"Holy shit," Hattie cussed, waltzing into your room without a greeting, eyes glued to her phone as you averted your eyes from your textbook.

You smiled sarcastically at your empty doorframe, the one she had just walked through. "Hi Hattie. Sure, come on in," you nodded, scrunching your nose mockingly.

Hattie gave you a pointed look, taking a seat on your bed.

You snorted, turning your body to fully pay attention from your desk. "What's up?" You asked, gesturing to her phone.

"They broke up," Hattie told you matter-of-factly and yet you couldn't tell what on earth she really meant.

You pursed your lips, raising a brow. Resting your chin on the back of your chair, you sighed. "Who broke up?"

Hattie tightened her lips, a grimace falling onto her face. She looked up from her phone and at you. "Oscar and Lily."

Your chin slipped past the chair in shock. You blinked, eyes wide, sitting straight. "What happened? I liked Lily," you exasperated with a frown.

Lily had always been sweet to you and Hattie. You knew her as one of the senior student's in school. Smart, pretty, and kind. All you needed to describe her.

Hattie gave a small shrug. "I don't know. Apparently it's been four months since it happened. Mum just found about it yesterday."

Four months? That was almost close to half a fucking year. No wonder Oscar had been looking so grim. A whole Constructor's championship and two race wins and he could barely smile.

"That's sucks," you commented idly, trying to avoid picking into the situation. It was better for your sanity if you didn't feed into your nosiness.

Hattie sighed, falling into your bed dramatically. "Now we have to take care of a broken baby when he gets home," she groaned jokingly, covering her face with her hands.

You rolled your eyes before looking at your desk calendar. "I'm sure he's going to love hearing that when he comes tomorrow.

Your best friend peeked through her hands. Clearing her throat, he opened her mouth. "Speaking of which... I need you to pick him up tomorrow."

"What?" Your head turned with a newfound speed. You furrowed your brows, confusion immediately crowding your brain. "I thought you guys were picking him up."

Hattie sat up, sheepishly smiling at you. "Mum's got pilates, dad's at work, Mae and Edie are, well, doing whatever they're doing and me and Ben have our two year anniversary. I can't subject Oscar to my absolutely perfect love life knowing what I know now!"

You stared at her in silence. You wondered if the incredulity was showing on your face right now. Mulling over her words, you sighed. "Why can't he just get an Uber?"

"Because it's a twenty-three hour flight from Monaco and I think the poor boy's forgotten what it's like to be economy!" Hattie retorted with a snort.

You blinked blankly, eyes back on your calendar.

Unbelievable.

Your plans for tomorrow included driving an F1 driver back home.

━━━━━━━━━━━

You weren't a fan of airports. They always made you feel like you were absolutely in the middle of nowhere. The air was always tempered with, artificial and crisp. And the waiting area was the worst. A bunch of strangers walking back and forth, hoping the person they were looking for was coming out. Of course, this was all second to the security check-ins.

You looked down at your watch, peeling your eyes away from the book you had been reading. 7:30 AM. That was when Oscar would land. That was the diabolical time Hattie had given to you. And it had been thirty minutes since then.

You could only sigh. Melbourne and their security.

Returning to the book, you looked up every few minutes, hoping the familiar face would register in your head. Perhaps, you should wait for a few screams of his name and you'd find him.

With every word of your book had been pulling you in, you hadn't realised you were so engrossed until a voice had broken your trance.

"Of course I come back to find you with a book."

Your eyes flitted up, honing in on the Australian boy and his suitcase before rolling them. "Why do you and your sister never say 'Hi' or 'How are you?'" You grumbled, closing the book before you put it away.

Oscar grinned, taking a step too close for your liking. "Hi ___. How are you?" He queried, brown eyes searching yours while he leaned in.

What the...

You quickly surveyed Oscar. In many ways, he still looked like the kid you knew. Except a bit taller and well, wider in the neck. Oddly enough, he didn't look like the guy on your screen. He looked... miserable, if that was the nicest way you could put it.

Bags under his eyes, fatigued, pale, posture drooping... all signs of an unwell F1 driver you supposed.

You blinked, bringing yourself back to reality. You curled your lips in distaste, taking a step back. You turned towards the exit and began walking. "If you're done with being an idiot, you'll follow after me and help yourself with your own suitcase," you called out.

Oscar watched you retreat and chuckled to himself. Pushing his feet to catch up to you, he nudged you slightly. "As generous as I remember," he joked.

You only smiled dryly at him. "What can I say? I gotta big heart," you retorted.

Finally arriving to your car, you sighed at the sight of the poor thing. It was a hand-me-down Volkswagen Beetle, once painted in a pretty baby blue and now chipped in a bit too many place and bordering on grey. You winced. "Listen... it's no McLaren but..."

"It was your mum's right?" Oscar asked, walking around the vehicle as he inspected it.

"Uh... yeah." You blinked in surprise, nodding slowly. You mended your brows. "How did you..."

"I remember how much you wanted it as a kid. And your mum told you you'd get it when you passed your full," Oscar mumbled.

You raked your head over the memory, only small chunks coming back to you. "Huh. I'm surprised you remember that. I barely do," you grinned, heading to open the side door, unaware of the small smile Oscar sported.

"Okay," you sighed, pushing aside your handbag. Looking back at him, you gestured to his suitcase. "Shove her in there and we'll hit the road. Do you need anything to eat?"

Oscar lifted the bag and put it inside your car, quickly shrugging off his backpack as well. "Depends," he said loudly as you walked to the driver's seat. "Hattie said you make a mean eggs bene." He raised a brow, capturing your sceptical expression.

"Oh come on." Oscar shut the side door, heading to the passenger's seat. "I just came from Monaco to Melbourne. A twenty-three hour flights," he exasperated, lips quirking in amusement as he looked over at you.

You put a hand on your hip. "And yet somehow I'm don't feel sorry for you," you smiled, opening your door.

Oscar rolled his eyes, doing the same as you. He relished the comfort of a soft seat after so long. Buckling his seatbelt, he turned to you. "You know I don't remember you being this mean as a kid."

You narrowed your eyes, not enjoying the grin on his face at all. "You get what you dish out, Osc," you shrugged.

"You're not still mad about Rocky?" He laughed, feeling slightly alarmed at your silence. "Right?" Oscar pressed.

Suppressing your smirk, you turned your key and felt your baby come to life. "Hold on tight, Oscar. You're about to see some true Melbourne speed."

━━━━━━━━━━━

Oscar looked around your house as you cooked in the kitchen. It looked the same and yet it didn't.

He smiled fondly. He could still see the small lines of pencil on your dining room wall where you, Hattie, and him measured yourselves. Hattie was always the shortest back then but it had seemed you had now taken that position.

Your patio, which was once full of paint stains when you and Oscar had gotten into a bit of a fight, was redone. Although if you looked closely, you could still see splotches of pink and orange try to bleed through the brown.

Your living room still had all the pictures and portraits he had once seen, although they had been extended with pictures of you growing up. The only brand new thing he could find was the glass case near your shelf of books.

Oscar furrowed his brows, inching closer. His eyes widened, scanning the familiar papaya colour, registering the '81' in the photos, the captured trophies, the newspaper cutouts... all of him.

It was like every single moment of his racing career had been displayed right in front of him.

"Mum and Dad like to keep trinkets. They're so proud so I always find something to add to the collection," your voice lingered in the air as you came out of the kitchen.

Oscar turned, swallowing hard, watching you place down his breakfast on the dining table. He gave you a grateful smile. "I... thank you," he breathed, voice feeling tight.

"You're welcome... for now. Once I graduate, I'm replacing the photo of your first win with my degree," you retorted, a grin playing on your lips.

Oscar smiled, amused at your words. He walked over to the table, taking a seat. He looked over at you as he grabbed the pepper shaker. "It was mechanical engineering, right? That's what you're doing."

"More like it's doing my head in," you mumbled in distaste, taking a sip of water.

Oscar listened silently as you explained your degrees, your problems, and worries. He wondered when you had gotten so old. Just yesterday, he could've sworn he watched you give a daisy chain to him. Now you were stressing about potential career options at twenty-two.

"How about you?" You asked.

Oscar raised a brow, blinking out of his trance. "Hmm?"

"Two-time race winner... a Constructor's champion. Life sounds good," you commented.

"Yeah I guess," Oscar shrugged, chewing on his lip.

You raised a brow. "You guess? If Lily was here, she'd–" You cut yourself off, eyes widening with horror.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

"Sorry," you murmured, wincing at your words. "I... I only heard about it yesterday. It sucks that it happened."

Oscar stared at you before giving you a tight smile. "It's okay," he said quietly. You both remained quiet for a couple of minutes, unsure of what to say.

He could see the struggle in your eyes. An internal debate. The words were on the tip of your tongue. What on earth happened?

"I think I fell out of love," he admitted, shoulders finally slumping as the weight dissipated.

You opened your mouth to say it was okay, that he didn't need to tell you but Oscar was speaking before you could even say it.

"We both did. We were fighting. We could barely look at each other. Everything was just so irritating. I... I don't know. One day it went too far. We both said some things we regret. And in that moment, we knew. It was over."

The silence was palpable. You could've reached for the air and like some sort of thick fog, you'd capture the quiet pain in your hands.

Your eyes softened. You reached for his hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "I'm sorry, Osc. I really am."

Oscar looked at your hand and back at you. He sighed, giving you a small smile. "It's okay," he reminded, "I'm excited to be home anyways."

You grinned, eyes sparkling. "Trust me. You're going to have the best summer ever."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[lettersfromangela]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬' 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬: intuitive pick-a-card reading

pick an image that makes you remember a fond memory. whichever holds the memory that is so close that you can feel yourself reliving it ー has your answer.

{ pile 1-4 starting from the left }

𝑁𝑜𝑤, 𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮, 𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓱, 𝓪𝓲𝓻 𝓸𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻...

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬.

Pile One: Fire

People believe in you. And you believe in yourself, too. Yet you fear that some day everyone will turn their back against you, and tear you into pieces. There is a gnawing feeling that grows inside of you, something akin to dread and decay. You think you aren't enough. You feel that you're living a life full of lies ー that the strength and charisma that you hold is a fire that is cold to the touch. But that is only within you. You feel that your fears will eat you alive and become your reality, but you choose to wake up everyday and face them with a head held high.

Competition and rivalry are recurring themes in your life. You feel as though you have no escape from the ones who envy and want to humiliate you. And all you want is peace. You want to be loved.

But the truth is, you already are loved. There are people around you who genuinely care. They wait for you to unravel yourself and speak your truth, not behind a facade ー just you.

You are not alone. If you wish to fight these endless battles, you must have a comrade.

It is okay to come undone, to be your rawest, purest self. There will be ones that will embrace you with open arms.

You know who they are. Go, seek them. They are always thinking of you.

Pile Two: Earth

You hold your treasures tight. You are a king who proudly sits on their throne, but you seek the world on who to share your novelties with. Perhaps you opened up to someone but they abandoned you in the end. Yet your soul craves community. You wish to dance under the moonlight, and adorn your friends with flowers in their hair, and sing songs that praise the heavens for giving you a bountiful harvest.

But you have no one.

You're not afraid of seeking connection, but it seems that the world is indifferent towards you. People think you're a show-off. No matter how much you give to people, they just take it and never come back.

There are just things in this world that cannot be solved by offering bars of gold. If you wish to be with a group of people, do not entice them like moths to a flame.

People are not jewelries for you to collect. To truly ignite a connection, you must be willing to listen to their hearts, and speak to their minds.

You will find your people. It might take long, but if you have the patience ー the same kind that you did for your prized possessions ー the connections you craved for so long will open their doors to you.

Pile Three: Air

Do you feel like you're standing on a ball that's going to tip you over any second? Walking on thin ice? You have the ambition and drive, yet the world feels unstable and uncertain. Despite it all, you still get up. You never give up, and you remind yourself that it will be worth it in the end.

When was the last time you had good sleep? One that has the night breeze kiss your frame from the open windows… is it a distant dream now? Or is it not?

You are capable of doing things you've set your heart to do, and your existence reminds everybody you come across.

Despite the challenges of life, you push forward. You balance yourself on that ball and move it towards the future. You glide your shoes on the ice and take the risks that can lead you somewhere brighter, happier, and better.

You are a trailblazer quick like the wind. But remember to pause for a while.

There is beauty in taking a moment to stand still and feel the earth breathe with you.

Get some rest. You deserve it.

Pile Four: Water

You don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Though it's easier said than done when you're the only one being depended on.

But, are you truly alone?

Sometimes, the only way out is through. And when your heart says it can't take it anymore, let it all out. Scream. Cry. Speak profanities. It's never a good scene to watch, but you must remember your worth. Your dignity.

You are not a sponge meant to suck up everyone's mess. You're human. You have feelings. You have thoughts. If you're afraid of destruction by lashing out, write them all down. You can even burn it after.

You can also pray. Even if you don't believe in a god. Because trust me, someone will always have your back.

In times where you just want everything to be over, ask for a sign. It will come to you. Have faith.

Remember that there is always light at the end of the tunnel. You will always see the brilliance of dawn after a long, dark night.

You got this. Take care.

thanks for reading! i hope it resonated with you. let me know what pile you picked, and if you have suggestions, leave it in my inbox!

𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵𝓪 ♡

[tinytalkingtina]

Tales of Eddierotica Chapter 1: Argh me matey

Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. One day, Steve finds out exactly what's been going on inside the mind of his roommate all these years.

Rated E | 4.3k words | Ao3 link [Chapter 1] | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 Overall tags: crack treated seriously/porn with a plot, modern/no-UD AU, friends to lovers, bisexual Eddie AND Steve, steddie as roommates, switch Eddie/Steve, vers Steve/Eddie, Eddie has a crush on Steve (and is horny about it), writer Eddie, the prose is so purple it has passed out from a lack of oxygen, friend fiction/erotica, so many bad puns and word play Chapter-specific tags: pirate AU, pirate Eddie, sailor Steve, pegging, rope bondage, non-con bondage, sexual frustration, orgasm denial, edging, and penis sword fighting (mind the tags but the erotica is at all times silly)

Written for the @switcheddieweek event, fulfilling the "art" prompt!

Find the full chapter on Ao3 to read it in all of its comic sans glory, but enjoy a snippet below the cut (as well as tags). Pink is Eddie's writing below.

“Theodore!” Stevenson growled manfully, as a man might. “You’ve gone too far this tiiiiiiimmmoohhhhh, too far this time! I demand you release me at once. Let us settle our differences as men of honor might.” The raven-haired roguish rascal grinned. “Why Commander, are you asking little old me for a duel? Your weapon is certainly impressive, but I promise, my own morning wood is far more dexterous in the afternoon!” Stevenson craned his neck. From where he was bound, he could just make out the captain’s trouser sword, the red tip shining merrily in the half past two o’clock sun. True to the captain’s word, it bobbed and waved in the breeze with quite agile ease. Still, what choice did Stevenson have? This unceasing torment would surely be his undoing. Even if he managed to reach his peak, la petite mort would be far too great for his tired body and overcum soul. “Yes, I do challenge you to a duel, you dastardly fieeeeend!” Anything to ease the ache in his pale twinned coconuts. The more Steve read, the less convinced he was that this was revenge. It was way too silly. Definitely weird and fucked up. But ‘pale twinned coconuts’ was something guys would say in like, a comedy porno. And now that he thought about it, Eddie had left the notebook where Steve could find it by accident. Maybe this was why the two of them got along so well, his roommate would turn his annoyance at whatever Steve had done into stupid porn to laugh at. Which was in fact very Midwestern of him after all. Mercifully the pirate captain holding him captive decided he’d had his fill of watching the commander writhe and groan. His loyal crew mates pulled Stevenson back onto the deck, giving him a much needed reprieve from the peg he’d been impaled upon. Though blood flowed back into Stevenson’s limbs, his body still spared some to hold his mighty spear aloft. For Stevenson’s johnson was truly a weapon to behold and envy. Even under clothes, its size and girth served as a source of distraction for those who shared the room with it. Steve glanced down at his pants and the super obvious outline of his dick. Okay so maybe these sweats were a little too tight to wear in public, but in his defense, Eddie had walked into a wall or tripped over his own feet every day since the two of them had met. How was he supposed to know some of those accidents were dick-related? Once the commander recovered his strength, he stood to his full height. Standing but one inch over his opponent only due to his stupidly attractive voluminous hairTowering over his opponent, he grasped his Not So Lil’ Stevie[son] and prepared to fight.

Read the rest on Ao3!

Tagging folks who have been scarred by wip weekend snippets:

@hbyrde36 @pearynice @eriquin @queenie-ofthe-void @yesdangerpls

@fkinkindagauche @helpimstuckposting @augustjustice @apomaro-mellow

@onirislanding @sidekick-hero @shares-a-vest @dreamwatch @stellarspecter

@zombiethingy @wynnyfryd @griefabyss69 @stevesjockstrap @runninriot

@sourw0lfs @dame-zoom-a-latte @pentapoctopus @soaringornithopter

[demonic0angel]

Welp! 'Tis time! My brain won't let me rest without reading more Dragon AU Dick x Dan 🐉🐦👻 Have mercy on me!! 🙇🏻‍♀️🙏

Richard waited in the treetops, watching Dan snarl and claw the other dragon's eyes. He was a little exasperated at how often Dan found opponents to fight.

It was like every other day that a dragon came over to provoke him and Dan never relinquished a fight.

Richard sighed to himself and continued to watch.

Despite being blinded, the other dragon was still fighting with every once of strength. It screamed and blasted Dan with a burst of fire. Dan spread his wings, flapping once to disperse the flames and then shooting forward to wrap his teeth around the other's throat.

They both wrestled on the ground, clawing and flapping their wings to gain momentum to overtake the other.

It was when Dan got flipped onto his back, dazed for only a split second that Richard finally darted forward and out of the trees.

He grabbed the opposing dragon by the horns with his talons, flapping his powerful wings to fly into the sky.

The other dragon was too shocked by the sudden yank of their horns to react before Dan slipped out from underneath them and then gutted them with a slice of his claws.

Richard let go of their horns as they wailed, slumping to the ground.

Dan immediately surged forward to put them out of their misery.

The interloper finally died and Richard gently flapped his wings, lowering himself to the ground. Complaining, he whined, "Why do so many dragons come to your territory? I just want some peace and quiet!"

Dan's maws opened in a yawn, revealing razor sharp teeth stained with blood and a long forked tongue. He shook off his tiredness and answered, "Do you know of the spring competition within the west? I once participated 3 winters ago, and now dragons occasionally come to my territory to court me."

The spring competition from the west? That was one of the most competitive, violent competitions where dragons would come from all over to find the strongest, most powerful dragons to mate with.

Richard blinked several times. "Are you saying that all of these dragons are trying to get to you to court you?"

He suddenly looked down at the mauled and gutted dragon below them. Staring at their dead eyes, he couldn't help but shiver.

Dan bared his teeth in amusement. He reached over and nuzzled the top of Richard's head, spreading his scent and making their scales spark together.

"Worry not, little bird. I only accept your courtship now. Do not worry about the interlopers."

Richard nodded numbly. That wasn't anything close to what he was now extremely worried about.

Ever since then, Richard couldn't help but be a little more wary of his very, very scary mate's fangs.

[azzifudd10]

Somewhere To Land

Chapter 26: For The Record

Dallas Family Court – 8:46 AM

Azzi sat beside Paige on the hard bench outside the courtroom. Her fingers were woven tightly in Paige’s, her free hand resting on Eli’s stroller handle. He was wide awake, tiny feet kicking in little cloud-print socks.

Katie and Tim sat just down the row, quiet but rock-solid.

Paige leaned over. “You ready?”

Azzi exhaled. “I’ve never been more scared.”

“But also?”

“…also, I’ve never been more sure.”

Paige smiled and kissed the back of her hand. “Then let’s go make it official.”

In the Courtroom

Judge Ramirez, mid-fifties and famously no-nonsense, entered with a purposeful stride.

The Wrights sat on the left side of the room, their lawyer rigid beside them. Azzi sat on the right, Paige close, her parents behind her.

Opening arguments were fast and clinical.

Then the Wrights’ attorney stood and said, “Your Honor, our concern is not only stability but environment. While Ms. Fudd is undeniably caring, her unconventional lifestyle raises valid concerns about the long-term welfare of the child.”

Azzi’s jaw tightened.

Judge Ramirez blinked slowly. “Be specific, counselor.”

The lawyer didn’t hesitate. “Ms. Fudd is unmarried, cohabitating with another woman—who is not biologically or legally connected to the child. She is, by self-admission, in a same-sex relationship. There is no traditional family structure to offer Elijah security.”

A hiss of disbelief escaped Katie behind her.

Azzi stood.

“Objection—Your Honor, I need to respond.”

Ramirez nodded. “I’ll allow it.”

Azzi stepped forward, voice steady but fierce. “I am not cohabitating with Paige. We live in separate units across the hall. But even if we didn’t, that wouldn’t matter. I’m not raising Eli to fit into a ‘traditional mold’ that rejected his birth mother. I’m raising him in a home that’s safe, where he’s loved, and where he knows he will never be shamed for being different.”

Ramirez nodded. “Continue.”

Azzi turned to the courtroom. “Tasha—Eli’s mom—chose me because she didn’t want him raised in the same environment she was. She didn’t want him taught that love was something you had to earn. She knew her parents wouldn’t accept her. And she was right.”

She pulled the printed message from her binder and handed it to the bailiff.

Ramirez read it quietly.

“This is a message from Tasha?” the judge asked.

Azzi nodded. “Yes. It’s in her handwriting. We also have a notarized journal entry and multiple witnesses who can testify she named me guardian.”

The Wrights’ lawyer stood again. “That’s not a legal will.”

“No,” Paige said, rising now, fire in her tone, “but it is a mother’s clear and written intent.”

Ramirez leaned forward. “Ms. Bueckers, you’re not a legal party to this case.”

Paige stepped back slightly. “Understood. I just want the court to know—I've watched Azzi raise Eli with more strength, tenderness, and responsibility than anyone I’ve ever seen. If this court takes him away, you are not putting him somewhere better. You’re ripping him from the only real family he’s ever known.”

A long beat of silence.

Then Judge Ramirez looked to the Wrights.

“Do you have any evidence that Ms. Fudd has neglected, harmed, or endangered Elijah in any way?”

“No, Your Honor,” the lawyer replied stiffly.

“Any indication that the child is not thriving in her care?”

“No.”

Ramirez closed the folder slowly.

“Then let me be clear: this court does not—and will not—penalize a guardian for their sexual orientation, marital status, or nontraditional family dynamic. If this case were truly about the child’s well-being, it would never have come this far. This feels like punishment. Grief weaponized.”

Sharon flinched.

“Elijah Thomas Wright will remain in the full legal custody of Azzi Fudd. Petition denied. This court is adjourned.”

The gavel came down.

Outside the Courtroom

Azzi sank to her knees in the hallway and pulled Eli into her arms, sobbing — this time from relief.

Katie bent down and hugged them both. Tim stood guard behind them like a wall.

Paige knelt too, resting her forehead against Azzi’s shoulder.

“You did it,” she whispered. “You did it.”

Azzi looked up, face wet, and cupped Paige’s cheek.

“No. We did.”

Later That Night – Azzi’s Apartment

Azzi sat on the floor of Eli’s nursery, him nestled against her chest in striped PJs.

“Hey, baby bear,” she whispered. “Mommy won.”

Eli blinked up at her, drowsy and safe.

“They tried to say we weren’t a real family. That I wasn’t enough. But guess what?”

She kissed the top of his head.

“They were wrong.”

A soft knock tapped the open doorframe. Paige leaned in, eyes gentle.

“Mind if I say goodnight?”

Azzi nodded, and Paige crossed the room, kneeling beside them.

She pressed a kiss to Eli’s forehead. “Sleep tight, champ.”

Then she looked at Azzi. “And you?”

Azzi gave a quiet laugh. “I’m exhausted. But I’ve never felt more certain.”

Paige pulled her into a slow, grounding hug.

“Good. Because he’s yours. Always has been.”

Text from Paige to Nai

Paige:

Custody battle’s over. Azzi won. He’s officially staying with his real mom.

Nai:

I knew she would. So… when are y’all getting matching Christmas jammies?

Paige:Mind your business 😒 (Also probably November)

[ilovesoapandnotthebar]

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚141 Foundations- A Rocky Foundation ༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Omg i did it, this shit is 1,730 words, that's a fucking lot for me and i really hope you like this chapter of 141 Foundations, There's two chapters left, omg the endings going to be so sweet.

cw- feelings of sadness, and depression, but there is a lot of fluff so don't worry.

Okay have fun reading and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!!

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

As you were standing there watching them Graves kissed you on the cheek—barely—and grabbed his keys. “Early site meeting,” he mumbled, tapping his watch like he had somewhere so important to be. “Gonna be a long day. Don’t wait up.” You offered a tight smile, the one you’d perfected over the years. “Text me if you need anything.” He didn’t answer. Just adjusted his collar, gave himself a once-over in the hallway mirror, and was gone.

You watched them for longer than you meant to. From the doorframe, sunlight spilling over your bare feet, you took in the strange serenity of chaos—bulldozers groaning, gravel shifting, muscles flexing in time with each swing and lift.

One of them caught your eye first. Not because of his mask—that in itself was startling—but because of the way he moved. Precise. Quiet. He didn’t waste a step, his strength coiled rather than flashed. The name stitched in faint thread along his vest read Ghost. He glanced up once, locking eyes with you just for a beat too long before turning away.

 Another tanned, cocky, hair shaved into a ugly ass mohawk (not that you cared though) hauled lumber into place with a grin that screamed trouble. Soap, according to the back of his belt. He cracked a joke to the others, voice bright like the sun, then flung his shirt off over his shoulder, showing off far more than just confidence.

 The one leaning casually over blueprints near the truck had a beard as commanding as his voice. Price. You hadn’t spoken to him yet, but there was a kind of old-soul weight in the way he gestured to the others—someone used to be followed, but never needing to raise his voice.

 And then there was Gaz, whose name was scrawled on his thermos in blocky handwriting. He offered you a small nod when he saw you watching. Not flirtatious. Just real. Grounded. The kind of man who wouldn’t let a fence post fall crooked. You stayed there another moment, heart strangely full. Then you stepped inside—and all that warmth evaporated at the sight of your phone.

 It was blowing up.

Not with messages from Graves. He rarely texted unless it was about bills or dinner reservations. No—these were from another number entirely. Unknown, but the pictures were clear enough. In one, Graves was laughing at a bar you’d never been to. In another, his hand rested on the thigh of a woman younger than you, her lipstick nearly identical to the smear across his collar in the wash you saw yesterday, that you had brushed off. So that’s where he was. So that’s why he’d been so eager to leave the house while the project was underway. You didn’t cry. Not this time. You dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned you and steadied your breath. Out the window, Soap was balancing a plank across his shoulders while Ghost adjusted levels nearby. None of them knew. None of them saw the flicker of pain that passed across your face like a shadow before you pressed it down where no one could reach it.

By noon, you stepped onto the porch with a tray of cold lemonade and clinking ice, your bare feet brushing the warm wood. You’d made it strong and tart—just the way your mother used to—and hoped it would hit like a breeze.

Soap was the first to notice. His whole face lit up.

“Holy hell,” he said, tossing down a plank and jogging over. “Is this for us, or did I finally start hallucinating good karma in this heat?”

You smirked. “Guess you’ll have to be nice if you want a second glass.”

“Oh, I’m always nice,” he said, taking a cup and brushing his fingers against yours just enough to make it deliberate. “Just… selectively.”

“Is that what you call it?” you teased, arching a brow.

Soap leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “With you? It’s my Sunday best.”

You gave him a pointed look, but your smile tugged upward anyway.

“Don’t mind him,” Price muttered as he stepped up behind. “He flirts with his own reflection when no one’s watching.”

“That mirror loves me,” Soap said proudly.

Price took a glass with a quiet, “Cheers.” His fingers were rough, his nod small—but the appreciation in his gaze felt solid, like rebar in concrete.

Gaz arrived next, sweat slicking his forearms, and accepted his glass with care. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“You didn’t have to tear my yard in half,” you shot back.

He chuckled. “We’re being gentle. For now.”

“Gentle, huh?” you said. “That’s new.”

“Only when it counts,” Gaz replied, and his eyes lingered a little longer than they had that morning.

Then, last—though you suspected he made sure that Ghost walked over.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just took the cup, his gloved hand brushing against yours, and tilted his head slightly.

“Thanks for the lemonade,” he said, voice low and gravel-worn.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sweet. But it landed.

You blinked, then gave a quiet, “You’re welcome.”

Soap was already halfway through his drink, but he caught the moment and pounced.

“What’s this?” he called, eyes wide in faux surprise. “Ghost finally saying words again? Must be your charm.”

You laughed, soft and warm. “Don’t get jealous, Soap.”

He gasped. “Jealous? Never. But if Ghost gets to talk to you, I’m filing a complaint with HR. I demand equal flirting privileges.”

“HR’s just a folding chair and a cooler,” Gaz added. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’d still win my case,” Soap said confidently, then turned back to you. “Though... just to be safe, I’m gonna keep laying it on thick. You deserve a proper distraction.”

You tilted your head. “From what?”

Soap’s grin softened, just a little. “Whatever’s weighing on you.”

And for a moment, nobody spoke.

Price cleared his throat and broke the stillness. “Concrete goes in two days. She’ll be solid.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

Soap chimed in before Price could answer. “If it’s not, I’ll make it one. Solid. Stunning. Stubborn, probably—but I like that in a woman.”

“Stubborn’s generous,” Gaz murmured to Ghost, and you caught the glint of amusement in Ghost’s eyes even as he stayed quiet.

Soap had already flopped down near the porch step, stick in hand, sketching lazily in the dirt again. “You know what? Forget the recliner. I’m building you a whole throne.”

You laughed—genuine, this time—and they all seemed to pause at once. Like your voice hit something soft inside each of them.

“Thanks,” you said, quieter now. “Really.”

The moment settled like dust, warm and unspoken. And somewhere in that stillness, you could feel it—each one of them carrying a different version of care for you, even if no one dared name it yet.

Price ran a hand over his beard and glanced up. “You need anything inside?”

“Just a break from all these egos,” you joked.

“Mine’s the lightest of the bunch,” Gaz offered.

“Speak for yourself,” Soap said. “I’ve got just the right amount of confidence—and an unused back porch swing with both our names on it.”

You tilted your head. “That right?”

He grinned. “Give me ten minutes and one power tool, I’ll make it official.”

You shook your head, smiling into your glass. But something in your chest felt easier now. Lighter.

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, you weren’t just holding it all together.

You were being seen—flawed, funny, maybe even beautiful again.

And as they drifted back to work, calling to one another and moving like the practiced unit they were, you stayed on the porch, watching and wondering:

Which one of them was going to break first?

And if it was you… would that really be so bad?

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Yipeeeee, you made it to the end, i hope you enjoyed if so please like and reblog, and see you in the next chapter pretty ✦ʚ♡ɞ✦.

Taglist- @beautifuleaglealpaca

( btw look at me two uploads on day. )

[clumsydolly]

Don't forget to drink plenty water so your body fully recovers!

Stay well fed to the best of your abilities :3

Actually, as I read your Trey Clover!Reader post, I couldn't help but wonder how a Riddle!Reader and Lilia!Reader would be, especially with Barbatos...

On one hand, Riddle is very similar to him, but more outwardly strict.

On the other hand, Lilia is responsible but has learnt to let loose and be fun.

I guess I was just wondering how your wonderful writing would make either of those scenarios play out, having Barbatos know and care for a reader that is so similar to him yet so different at the same time ( ・－・)💭

Thank you, dearest! You're so kind! 🩷 I will make sure I drink plenty of water please don't worry about me~.

I will have your request out soon, dearest! I'm just a bit backed up! But as always requests are open!

Now when I thought about a Trey!Reader dynamic with Barbatos, the first thing that came to mind was how calm and steady Trey always is. He’s not the loudest person in the room, but he’s the one you trust to handle everything when it all goes wrong. I think a Reader based on him would have that same quiet strength. They’d be someone who naturally takes care of things without needing to be asked. Like if Barbatos was stressed or running low on energy, this Reader wouldn’t ask if he was okay, they’d just quietly bring him tea or adjust something small to make his day easier. I feel like they wouldn’t try to impress Barbatos or push for his attention. They’d just exist in a way that fits so easily into his rhythm that he wouldn’t realize how much he relied on them until they weren’t around. I think Barbatos would really appreciate someone like that. Someone who doesn’t demand space in his life but still becomes a huge part of it. I thought that maybe this Reader makes him feel safe, not by solving things for him, but just by letting him rest for a change. They’d both understand how it feels to be depended on all the time, and that’s what makes the connection feel honest. No need for grand gestures or dramatic confessions, just shared moments that mean more because they’re quiet and real.

Then I thought about a Riddle!Reader and how totally different that would be. Riddle’s whole vibe is about structure, control, and doing things the right way, and I feel like a Reader based on him would carry that same intensity. This Reader would probably be someone who holds themselves to a really high standard, maybe even too high. They’d try so hard to be efficient and smart and perfect, mostly because they’re afraid of being seen as weak. I think they’d try to match Barbatos, maybe even challenge him without realizing it. Not out of ego, but more like they’d want to prove they’re good enough to stand beside someone so competent and composed. And Barbatos? I think he’d find it kind of amusing but also impressive. He’d recognize that they’re trying to keep up, and I feel like he’d admire that effort without making them feel small. But I wondered if this match would have a lot of hidden tension. Like neither of them would be totally open at first. The Reader would keep everything behind perfect posture and big words, and Barbatos would just calmly wait them out, never showing if they were getting to him. But over time, I think he’d gently push them to let go of that control. Maybe not with words, but with consistent actions that show them they don’t have to prove anything. I feel like it’d be a slow burn where the Reader starts to realize that being cared for isn’t the same as being weak. And Barbatos would respect their strength without ever using it against them.

Now with a Lilia!Reader, it’s like flipping the whole thing on its head. Lilia’s that playful, unpredictable energy that makes everyone nervous but also kind of charmed. So I imagine this Reader would be chaotic on purpose, the type to joke constantly, act like nothing matters, and always keep people guessing. But I also think that’s a mask. Underneath all the jokes and teasing, there’s something a lot more serious going on. Maybe this Reader has lived through a lot or seen more than they let on, but they cover it up with laughter. I feel like Barbatos would pick up on that right away. He’s too observant not to. And instead of calling them out or trying to analyze them, he’d just let them keep their game going while quietly reading everything they don’t say. I wondered if that would throw the Reader off a bit. They’re used to being the one in control of the mood, but suddenly there’s someone who plays their game just as well as they do. And not only that, he sees through them without trying to fix or expose anything. I think this would be a really interesting dynamic because it’s not about comfort or power like the others. It’s more like two people who know how to hide behind masks but find a weird kind of honesty in each other anyway. Barbatos might actually enjoy the challenge this Reader brings, and the Reader might finally feel like someone sees them for real, even if they never admit it out loud. It’s playful and clever and weirdly deep.

Thinking about all three, I noticed they all share something under the surface. No matter how different they are on the outside, all three Reader types carry a lot internally. Trey!Reader hides it through care, Riddle!Reader hides it through structure, and Lilia!Reader hides it through chaos. And I feel like Barbatos would connect with that in different ways, since he’s someone who never really shows much of himself either. Each Reader would bring something different out of him, whether it’s peace, challenge, or curiosity. And I just thought it was interesting how much the dynamic shifts depending on what kind of strength the Reader leads with.

Thoughts?... 🤔💭

[the-heron]

absolutely sucks when youve gone out of your way to watch as many movies as possible and find interviews and read books from your favorite actor and yet all anybody knows about you is the guy who spam reblogs and barks in the tags of pictures of him. its a shame. none of you know i am even less normal than you already think i am

[wildflowercryptid]

barely 2 chapters into a semi-charming kind of life and i'm already screaming over the parallels i'm seeing between darling and apple, oh my god...

[sajagz]

🌸 From One Mother’s Heart – Please Read 🌸

My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.

But life had other plans.

War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.

There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.

I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.

Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.

This is my life.

This is my daughter’s life.

And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.

Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.

That’s why I keep going.

I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.

How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war

💛 If you can, please support our journey here:

If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.

From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.

Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.

With love and endless gratitude

[atlabeth]

bend an ear

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: your boyfriend doesn't listen to you. good thing your friendly neighborhood spider-man does.

a/n: there's just something about him idk. andrew garfield spidey bc of course! look at him! this came from me playing the spider-man game after it went on sale and yearning for peter parker (will prob have to rewatch the movies bc of this) anyways hope you like it

wc: 3.6k

warning(s): reader's bf is shitty -- they argue for a while and he lowkey slut shames her. but this is basically all fluff otherwise bc childhood best friends to lovers babby!!! real yearning loverboy hours!!!

Peter just wants to go home. 

It’s been… a day. He got his ass kicked by an English test (he doesn’t have time to do the readings when he’s fighting crime), got his ass kicked by Flash Thompson (it’s not like he can fight back with his super strength and pulverize his ribs), and has spent every second since his final class ended fighting petty crimes around the city. 

Stopping ATM thefts and minor muggings feels good, sure, but on days like these, it doesn’t really make up for failing intro literature classes and getting absolutely zero sleep. He’s just thankful May is still letting him live with her while he studies at ESU—if he had to do all of this in addition to trying to make his rent? He doesn’t really want to think about it. 

So he swung his way to the roof of some random building, and he’s taking a break. Sue him, but Peter thinks he deserves it. What’s the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t have a second to yourself every once in a while? 

He’ll go home soon. Grab a bodega sandwich, maybe stop another crime, and then get home for some much needed rest. But for now, he’s just going to sit on this rooftop and relax for a second. Even Spider-man needs some peace and— 

“Babe—” 

“Why are you following me?”

Peter winces as the door slams open, an argument following close after as a girl storms out onto the roof followed by a guy speeding to keep up with her. His first instinct is to swing away as soon as possible, but for some reason, he stays. 

“Because I want to talk!”

“God, do you even hear yourself?” 

“You keep talking over me, so I really—” 

“You don’t get to babe me right now!” 

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now he’s accidentally made himself privy to some couple’s dispute. He’s about to web himself out of this third wheeling nightmare when the girl turns around with a groan, revealing her face, and Peter realizes who it is. 

It’s you.

This is your apartment complex. Peter came here without even realizing it, but can he really be surprised? Your name is synonymous with peace in his brain. Comes with the territory of being friends for so long—it still calms him, even when you’re being the opposite of peaceful. 

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this!” the guy exclaims, frustration clear in his voice. 

Of course. Why wouldn’t your shitty boyfriend be here too? The only reason you live here is because you scored this place together; said he didn’t want you living on campus anymore. Ethan Frey might be the bane of Peter’s existence after two and a half years of him being your boyfriend. 

“Because you and your posse are acting like complete jags in front of all my friends!” you shout back. 

He laughs in disbelief. “I’m just being myself, babe. Besides, you’re the one who said I could invite them!” 

“Because you complained about it just being my friends,” you grind out. “You weren’t even supposed to be here, Ethan! You just can’t handle the thought of me being around guys that aren’t you!” 

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, huh?” He gestures wildly. “You spend every second with that geek and I’m supposed to believe you’re not into him?” 

And now he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your boyfriend about him. How could this get worse? 

“God, it isn’t like that at all!” you exclaim with a mirthless laugh. “Peter is my friend— my best friend since elementary school. You knew when we got together that wasn’t going to change.” 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding lazily, “but that was before I knew how obvious his hard-on for you was.” 

Peter feels his face heat beneath the mask, wants to wipe the sweat off his palms. That’s how it could get worse. 

Your nostrils flare as you turn away, your hands flexing while you shake your head. “Get out of here, Ethan.” 

“Oh, of course that’s where you draw the line,” Ethan mocks. “When I bring up fuckin’ Peter Parker.” He pauses then chuckles. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

Peter nearly intervenes right then and there, wanting to stop this mess before Ethan does anything to hurt you. But revealing himself sounds like the worst possible thing to do, so for once he listens to the rational part of his brain over the emotional. 

“He’s not even here!” you retort. “I live with you, not him. I’m dating you, not him. Why are you bringing him up?” 

“Because I’m not blind.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Y’know, I thought you’d get over this little thing after you let me take you out, but for some reason, it’s exactly the same. I swear you spend more time with him than me.”

Your hands clench into fists. “Get out of here.” 

He scoffs. “You want me to leave you up here?” 

“Yes,” you nod. 

“God, you’ve been acting crazy this whole night!” he complains. “You’ll freeze up here. Just get over it—we’ll go back down, I’ll get you a beer—” 

“I hate beer.” 

“Then I’ll get you a fucking apple juice,” he spits. “Just stop being so dramatic.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” you shout. “I want you to leave me alone!” 

This time he says your name, and you shake your head. 

“Go back to the apartment,” you interrupt. “Because if I have to spend another second with you, our relationship might not make it through the night.”

For once, Ethan is silent as he stares at you. You stare back with no sign of giving up. Eventually, he just huffs and shakes his head. 

“Whatever.” He starts walking towards the door. “You better cool off up here, because I’m not dealing with this shit when you come back down.” 

You stare at the door for a good twenty seconds once he closes the door—slams it, rather—before you angrily kick a stray soda can. Your childhood days of rec soccer must still be in you, because you get an arc on it. Just before it can go over the side of the building, Peter shoots a web to catch it wholly on instinct. 

Your eyes widen as you dart around, and Peter is finally spotted from his place on top of the roof door building thing. What is that even called? He doesn’t really have time to think about it. The aluminum can crunches as it flies into his hand, and you stare at him in complete shock. 

“Uh,” his mouth suddenly feels very dry, but he has to make some excuse for why he’s up here, “littering is bad.” 

Good one, Parker. 

“You’re Spider-man,” you say, eyes still wide. 

“The one and only,” he nods. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble, finally seeming to break out of your shock as you cover your mouth and turn away. “Oh my god, Spider-man just heard my relationship falling apart.” 

“I didn’t hear anything!” Peter exclaims. “I—”

You shoot him the withering look he loves so much, that was able to get his bullies to shrink on the spot in high school—it feels weird being on the receiving end of it. 

“I’m not stupid,” you say. 

“I kn—” He has to stop himself from saying I know, because realistically Spider-man has no idea who you are. “I’m sorry.” 

You huff and cross your arms. “Do your superhero duties include eavesdropping on failing couples?” 

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I was up here before you were. So technically, you were eavesdropping on my actual superhero duties.” 

You laugh, and he smiles just at the sound of it. One benefit to wearing the mask, because it would expose him right on the spot. “Oh yeah? And what are those?” 

“Patrolling the streets,” he says. “I’ve got a very good vantage point from up here.” 

You hum, your mood turning a bit more morose as you glance away. “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear all that during your patrol.” 

“I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he says. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole.” 

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine, most of the time. Just had a little bit too much to drink.” 

Peter will never understand why you defend Ethan so much. You’ve been together since freshman year and he’s only gotten worse since then—maybe he hides how he is around you, because he hasn’t really shied away from showing Peter how much he hates him this past year.

“He looked pretty sober to me,” Peter says. “And trust me, I have plenty of experience fighting guys that have had too much to drink.” 

You huff. “What are you, a spider-therapist?” 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says. “And I’m always good for bending an ear.”

“Surely you have better things to do than listen to me complain.” 

Peter shakes his head. “My schedule’s pretty clear right now, actually.”

“Really?” you marvel. “There’s no crime in New York City at,” you check your watch, “11:37 pm?”

“Absolutely none,” he says. “I solved it all. At least for now.”

You laugh again at that and gesture with your head as you walk over to the edge of the roof. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Peter jumps down and follows you over. You hoist yourself on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, and he feels himself frown as he leans his back against the wall and looks up at you. 

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” 

“You’ll catch me if I fall,” you say. 

“Obviously,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to encourage safe behavior in New Yorkers, though.” 

You laugh and tilt your head up towards the night sky. The moonlight reflects in your eyes and Peter knows he could get lost in them forever. “Just this once, then.” 

“I think I can let it slide.” 

“Good.” 

A comfortable beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Peter finds himself smiling. No wonder he ended up at your place out of instinct. There’s nothing else like your company. 

“I always think it’ll be different,” you murmur. Peter glances up at you, your expression shifted to something more melancholic. “We’ll have a good day, which’ll turn into a good week and a good month, but he always does something to mess it up. It’s like it’s in his DNA.” 

He stays silent as you think. Most of the time when you rant to Peter, you just want to be heard, not given advice. At this point, he’s an expert at listening to you. It’s not like he minds. 

“I want things to work out. I— I still love him. I mean, I think I do. But everything is a fucking struggle with him. If I don’t do things the exact way he wants, if I try to do something for me instead of him, if I can’t read his fucking mind, then he loses it and we argue. And I’m so fucking tired of arguing!” 

Your voice has risen by now, and you bite down hard on your cheek. Peter doesn’t realize he’s started reaching towards you to comfort you until you look back down at him, and he runs his hand over his head in an effort to cover it up. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I promise, I’m a much nicer person than this. You just caught me at the worst time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know.”

Your brows rise. “Spider-man knows I’m a nice person?”

“I can just tell,” he rushes, trying to save himself. He’s doing a real good job at not revealing his identity. “I’m good at reading people.”

You chuckle and shake your head, then adjust your position so your back is towards the open air. It makes Peter nervous, he can’t lie, but it’s not like he’s not a superhero. 

“So, spider-therapist,” you say. “Any advice?” 

So this is one of the rare times you do want answers. Peter wonders if you’ll leave your boyfriend if Spider-man tells you to. 

“He doesn’t sound great,” Peter says, inclining his head. “How many times have you argued this week?” 

“Four,” you say. “Five, if you include tonight.” 

He whistles. “And it’s only Wednesday.”

You tip your shoulder. “We’re efficient.” 

“And unhappy, it sounds like.” 

“We’re not unhappy,” you defend. “We’re just…” 

“You’re up here talking to me instead of down there with him,” Peter says wryly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy couple’.” 

You shake your head with another sigh. “It’s because he can’t get over Peter.” 

He tries to act as nonchalant as possible when you bring him up. Is this an invasion of privacy? Letting you talk to him about all this when you have no idea who Spider-man actually is? 

Instead of floundering over moral qualms, he just clears his throat. “And who’s he?” 

“My best friend,” you say. “The one person who’s been by my side since the second I moved to New York. He means everything to me.”

Peter feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” 

“He’s like— like the opposite of Ethan, and it’s wonderful. I guess that’s why Pete irks him so much. Y’know,” you pull out your phone and start typing in your password, “maybe I should call him. He always knows what to say.” 

“No!” Peter exclaims with a bit too much force, causing you to give him a look. “No— I mean, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. And— and it’s a school night?” 

You tilt your head, and Peter exhales when it seems to work. “True. He’s probably studying for that biochem test.” You grimace. “I should be doing that too.” 

He watches you type out a few texts and send them, and Peter’s never been more thankful to have his phone on silent. What a way that would be to blow his cover. 

You shove your phone back in your pocket with another sigh. “I just hate that my boyfriend and my best friend don’t get along. I love them both—why can’t they like each other?” 

“I mean…” Peter trails off when you look at him, and he gestures with his head. “It seems pretty obvious why they don’t get along.” 

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “Because Ethan thinks Peter likes me, and he probably thinks I have some secret crush on him too. I swear, he’s always looking for a reason to fight.” 

God, could the universe be calling him out any more? It’s honestly ridiculous how this is going. 

“Do you?” Peter asks, because he can’t help himself. “Like him, I mean.” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I love Pete, I do. It’s always been the two of us no matter what. But I…”

He holds his breath as he tries not to look at you, tries not to make it too obvious that he might have stumbled his way into his simultaneous dream and nightmare scenario. 

He’s had a crush on you for what feels like forever. Since you stood up for him against his bullies in elementary school, honestly, and it’s only grown over the years as the two of you have grown. From recesses spent together and bike rides through the city; spending the night in Peter’s apartment because it was easier for your sister to let it happen than try and drag you back home; endless nights with heads bent over textbooks trying to study for tests, over college applications trying to get into the same place, and now studying and researching near every damn weekend together because you’re both unfortunate enough to try for ESU STEM degrees. 

You were there when Ben died. He’s there on every anniversary of your parents’ accident. Without knowing it, you were there when he got bit and his whole life turned upside down. 

You and Peter have been there every step of the way for each other, and it’s why he’s content with just friendship—Peter wants you in his life no matter what. But he can’t lie and say he doesn’t hope. 

No, actually. He yearns. He’s doomed to be a yearner for the rest of his life because he’ll never stop loving you. How could he? 

“I’m not sure,” you finally say with a sigh. “All I know is that I’d rather be with Pete tonight than Ethan.”

Peter wonders if your chest compressions are still as good as they were in high school, because he feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. 

You’d rather be spending tonight with him than your boyfriend of two years and seven months, and Peter isn’t even supposed to know. 

You mistake his silent freakout for nonchalance, and you clear your throat as you jump back onto solid ground. 

“Well, I’ve spilled my soul to you,” you say wryly, crossing your arms. “Anything a superhero can spill in return?”

Peter thinks for a good, long second. His hands itch to take off his mask, to do what he’s wanted to do since he got bitten by that stupid spider and show you who he really is. 

How many times has he been a total asshole, canceling plans on you because he had to go stop some supervillain from wreaking havoc in Times Square? How many times has he been late to something important to you because he was caught up stopping dime a dozen muggings? He still remembers the look on your face when he showed up just in time to miss the entirety of Les Mis’s opening night with your first lead role. 

You were a better best friend to Peter than he was to you because of this stupid mask. If he took it off, it wouldn’t make every mistake fade away, but it would sure help explain some of it. 

But Peter has been doing this since high school, and he has seen far too many times what happens to the loved ones of heroes. They’re used as leverage, used for ransom, sometimes just straight up killed.

You’ve been friends with Peter since you and your sister moved into the apartment next to May’s thirteen years ago. It doesn’t matter if you never share Peter’s feelings. You’re one of the only constants in his life, and he’s not going to lose you because he’s too selfish to keep a secret. 

Losing you would be the last straw. He couldn’t take it. 

So Peter pushes all thoughts of secret identities revealed out of his mind and tries to chuckle convincingly. 

“I’m allergic to peppermint, believe it or not.” 

You stare at him, deadpan. “That’s nowhere close to all the shit I just gave you.” 

“It’s true!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “Happened after I got bit by the spider. They’re repelled by peppermint oil, and I guess I am too.” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Spider-man is a coward.” 

“A superhero’s gotta have some secrets,” he says, and he taps the side of his head. “Otherwise this thing doesn’t do much good.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Whatever.” 

A chill suddenly goes up Peter’s spine and he whips around—he can hear a distant scream followed by a distant gunshot, and he mentally curses. 

“Duty calls?” you ask, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t be.” You smile, and it’s genuine. A nice change from the state Ethan effortlessly puts you in. “You went out of your way to cheer me up. Pretty super of you.” 

“I hope it makes up for the eavesdropping,” he says. 

“More than,” you nod. “Now get out of here. Your city needs you.” 

Peter nods too, and he backflips onto his original spot. “Have a good night. You’re real special to somebody.” 

He’s gone before you can say anything else, already zipping across the rooftops to get to the scene of the crime. Peter can only think of your face as he swings through the air—all the things he’s too scared to say to you. 

The crime, which turns out to be yet another petty theft, is resolved easily enough with some punches, kicks, and a snappy one-liner. Once he’s retrieved the woman’s purse and alerted the police, he’s back in the sky. 

Peter only stops once he’s swung a couple miles away, perching on the edge of some rooftop for some actual peace and quiet. He checks around once or twice to make sure he’s not somehow back at your place, and when he’s sure it’s all clear, he pulls his phone out. He swipes past all the notifications he’s racked up until he finds the one he’s looking for: the texts from you. 

hey pete, I know you’re prob asleep rn but you were right. I really need to study for that test lol

wanna meet me at the library tomorrow after QM? I’ll buy the coffee this time i promise <3 

as long as you use your roomie’s dining dollars to get me a croissant lol 

Peter can’t help but smile, larger than anything tonight. This is why he’s okay with being nothing but your friend for the rest of his life. 

Deal. Anything to get you an A 

lol

asshole 

Never 

Try to get some sleep. No good studying on a tired brain 

Three dots appear for a good long second, enough to constitute a decent paragraph—then they disappear. In its place: 

I’ll try just for you 

night boy genius

(How could he not love you?) 

Night, girl wonder

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

rafe gets baby fever, breeding kink with rafe.

❛ RAFE AND HIS BREEDING KINK ❜

girlfriend¡reader . . . rafe cameron

“Alright, Miss Lily, what’s the plan? Are we playing dolphins or reading about turtles?” You stood up carefully, hoisting Lily onto your hip with a little bounce that made her giggle for the thousandth time that night.

. . .

Ever since Sarah Cameron and John B welcomed their daughter, Lily Routledge, into the world eight months ago, the couple hasn’t had a single evening to themselves. Between late-night feedings, diaper changes, and the joyful chaos of new parenthood, their time as a couple has been put on the back burner.

When Sarah let slip during a lunch date how much she and John B were craving a night to reconnect—just the two of them, no interruptions—you didn’t hesitate. You’re absolutely smitten with babies, your heart practically bursting with baby fever every time you see a tiny onesie or hear a giggle.

Your boyfriend, however, is a different story—he’s never shown the slightest interest in kids, or just never shown it in public. Without a second thought, you offered for you and Rafe to take Lily for the night, giving them a chance to breathe.

You admit part of it was selfish- wanting to see Rafe, a man who’s only ever shown his soft side to you, taking care of his angel of a niece for a whole evening? That thought alone could impregnate you.

. . .

You turned to Rafe, catching the way his gaze lingered on you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You in, tough guy?”

He smirked, stepping closer, his boots scuffing the hardwood. “Yeah, I’m in. Just don’t expect me to do the voices.” He reached out, letting Lily grab his thumb, her tiny fingers wrapping around it with surprising strength.

She looked up at him, all wide-eyed wonder, and he chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that softened his usual edge. “She’s not half bad, huh?”

“She’s perfect,” you said, beaming as you swayed with her, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell Sarah, but I might steal her.”

Lily squealed as if she understood, and Rafe’s smirk widened, though his eyes stayed fixed on you—on the way you glowed in the fading light, cradling her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, Lily cradled in the crook of your arm, her head resting against your chest as she sucked lazily at the bottle.

Her tiny hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt, and every so often, she’d pause to look up at you, her eyes heavy with trust and contentment. You brushed your fingers through her curls, humming a disjointed tune—something soft and half-remembered, maybe a lullaby your mom used to sing.

“There you go, sweet girl,” you murmured, adjusting the bottle when she squirmed. “Nice and easy.”

Rafe sprawled in the armchair across from you, one leg kicked over the side, his phone resting forgotten on his thigh. He’d meant to scroll through it, maybe check the score of the game or shoot a text to Topper, but his eyes kept drifting back to you.

The way you tilted your head to smile at Lily, the gentle patience in your movements, the way you seemed to glow under the warm lamplight—it was hypnotic.

He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight, trying to ignore the unfamiliar ache building in his chest.

When Lily finished her bottle, she started to fuss, her little face scrunching up in that telltale prelude to a cry. You didn’t miss a beat, sliding off the couch to stand and rocking her against your shoulder.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” you whispered, swaying in a slow, instinctive rhythm. You paced the room, one hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other cradling her head as you murmured reassurances. “You’re just sleepy, huh? I’ve got you, baby girl.”

Within minutes, her whimpers faded, replaced by the soft, even breaths of sleep.

Rafe watched, transfixed, as you tiptoed to the nursery, disappearing for a moment to lay her down. He heard the creak of the crib, the faint click of the mobile switching on—a tinny rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” drifting through the baby monitor on the coffee table.

When you came back, you flopped onto the couch with a triumphant grin, tucking your legs under you. “Mission accomplished. She’s out like a light.”

“You’re unreal,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be as he sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. “Seriously, you’re like… Mary Poppins or some shit. She didn’t even fight you.”

You laughed, brushing your hair back, still slightly disheveled from Lily’s earlier grabby hands. “It’s not that hard. She’s a good baby. Plus, I think she likes me.”

You stretched your arms over your head, your shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin above your waistband, and Rafe’s eyes tracked the movement, heat prickling along his spine.

“She’s not the only one,” he muttered, half under his breath, but you caught it, your cheeks flushing as you dropped your arms. He stood up, crossing the room to sit beside you on the couch, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.

The contact was deliberate, and he felt the way you shifted slightly, your breath hitching just enough to notice.

“Rafe Cameron, are you going soft on me?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow, but your voice was softer now, playful but searching.

He turned to face you, his arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers brushing the nape of your neck. “Maybe. Watching you with her—it’s fucking with my head.” He paused, searching your face, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“You’re so good at this. Like, good good. Makes me think shit I never thought about before.”

You tilted your head, studying him, your lips parting slightly. “Like what?”

He swallowed hard, his hand tightening on the couch cushion. “Like you with a kid. Our kid. You’d be so fucking amazing—running around after some little hellraiser with my eyes and your smile. I can see it, you know? You pregnant, all glowy and pissed at me for something dumb, but still so damn beautiful.”

His voice dropped lower, rough with an edge he couldn’t hide. “It’s driving me fucking crazy.”

Your breath caught, eyes widening as you processed his words. The air between you thickened, charged with something electric, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you leaned in, just a fraction, your knee brushing his as you whispered, “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his hand sliding to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “I didn’t know I wanted that ‘til tonight. But fuck, I want it with you.”

. . .

The drive back to your place was a study in restraint. Rafe kept one hand on the wheel of his truck, the other resting heavy on your thigh, fingers flexing against your skin like he was anchoring himself.

The radio played low, some country song about love and loss, but neither of you paid it any mind. The tension from his confession simmered between you, unspoken but palpable, thickening the humid night air that seeped through the cracked windows.

His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road, but every so often, he’d glance at you, and the heat in his gaze made your stomach flip.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Rafe was on you, his hands gripping your waist as he backed you against the wall. His lips crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, tasting faintly of the beer he’d sipped earlier at Sarah’s.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as his body pressed flush against yours—all hard muscle and coiled energy.

“Fuck, you don’t know what you do to me,” he growled, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck. His teeth grazed your pulse point, sharp enough to make you gasp, and he soothed it with his tongue, sucking lightly until you were arching into him.

His hands slid under your shirt, calloused palms rough against your soft skin as he shoved the fabric up and over your head, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. “Seeing you with her—all sweet and perfect—it’s been fucking with me all night.”

You tugged at his faded grey Henley, desperate to feel him too, and he obliged, yanking it off with one hand, the movement fluid and impatient. His chest was broad, tanned from endless days on the water, a faint scar under his right pec from some fight he wouldn’t talk about.

He loomed over you, breathing hard, his eyes dark and wild as he dragged you toward the bedroom, kicking the door open with a thud.

You hit the mattress first, the springs creaking under your weight as he followed, pinning you beneath him. His hands roamed, possessive and greedy, peeling your shorts down your hips until they joined the growing pile of clothes.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly as he took in the sight of you sprawled out in just your bra and panties—soft curves and flushed skin, chest heaving with every breath. “So fucking gorgeous. Gonna make you mine in every way.”

His mouth was on you again, kissing down your throat, your collarbone, nipping at the swell of your breast as he unhooked your bra with practiced ease. It fell away, and he groaned, cupping you in his hands, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked under his touch.

“Rafe,” you whimpered, hips lifting instinctively, and he smirked against your skin, dark and dangerous.

“Patience, baby,” he rasped, but there was no patience in him either. His fingers hooked into your panties, dragging them down your thighs, and he didn’t bother teasing—just spread your legs wide and settled between them, his breath hot against your core.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet for me,” he muttered, almost to himself, before dipping his head to taste you, his tongue flattening against you in a slow, deliberate swipe that made you cry out.

He didn’t relent, licking and sucking until your thighs trembled, his hands pinning your hips to keep you still. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he growled, pulling back just enough to shed his jeans and boxers, his cock springing free—thick and heavy, the tip glistening with need.

He stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours as he lined up between your thighs. “You want this? Want me to fill you up?”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice breaking as you reached for him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, Rafe—need you.”

That snapped something in him. He thrust into you in one brutal stroke, burying himself deep, the stretch burning and perfect all at once. You cried out, back arching off the bed, and he groaned, low and guttural, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck, you take me so good. Always do,” he panted, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking against the wall with every snap of his hips.

“Gonna fuck a baby into you,” he rasped, voice dark with intent, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. “Wanna see you pregnant with me—my kid, my mark on you. You’d look so fucking hot like that, all round and full.”

His words were filthy, spilling out in a rush as he lost himself in the fantasy, in the feel of you clenching around him. “Gonna keep you like this—pregnant, mine forever.”

You moaned, overwhelmed, the heat of his words igniting something primal in you. “Yes—please, Rafe, do it,” you begged, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper, the pressure building low and tight.

He shifted, angling just right, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you shattered, walls fluttering around him as you came with a scream.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, chasing his own release, his thrusts turning sloppy and desperate. “Gonna fill you up—gonna cum so deep inside you, you’ll feel me for days. You’re mine, all mine.”

He buried himself to the hilt one last time, his body shuddering as he spilled into you, hot and thick, a primal sound ripping from his throat. He stayed there, pulsing inside you, not pulling out, like he was sealing his promise.

When he finally caught his breath, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his chest, his hand splaying possessive over your stomach. “You’re gonna be such a good mom,” he murmured, voice soft now, reverent. “I’m gonna make damn sure of it.”

You lay there, tangled in the sheets, the afterglow heavy and warm, and for the first time, you let yourself imagine it too—a future with him, with a family, with a piece of both of you forever.

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[sajafamily0]

🌸 From One Mother’s Heart – Please Read 🌸

My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.

But life had other plans.

War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.

There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.

I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.

Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.

This is my life.

This is my daughter’s life.

And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.

Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.

That’s why I keep going.

I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.

How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war

💛 If you can, please support our journey here:

If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.

From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.

Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.

With love and endless gratitude