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gangplanksorenji · 2 days ago

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Her (Risky) Invitation.

Pairing: Chuu x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,432

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This fic was supposed to be out as a BFH but I got busy so whatever haha. I feel like this should out in the draft hell since my folder's getting stacked and dusted (rip) but anyways, hope you guys like this pretty quick bit.

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The ebullient sounds of the audience roars around the stadium, and you contribute to it with a single percentile. The match is getting exciting at this moment, considering how a single home run changed the course of the game yet someone isn’t in the same boat as you.

“This is pretty boring, argh—” The girl is unfiltered, not giving a care on who may hear her despite her opening pitch earlier that made the crowd erupt in cheers.

“Don’t say that—a wrong word that comes out of your mouth could get you in trouble, Chuu.”

“So?” She raises an eyebrow, following a coy smile as you sigh in little disbelief.

She doesn’t care, and you couldn't care less—her pettiness is something you despise, an attitude worth removing with teaching her a lesson but that won’t even make her learn anything.

“What do you mean ‘so’?”

She brushes you off, looking at the distance, reeking with boredom, and with nothing much for Chuu to say right after, you just avert your attention back to the game where it’s getting spicy.

“You know what—whatever, I’ll go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” You couldn’t care less even if she leaves the stadium (metaphorically, you do, yet realistically, you won’t let her) knowing how you’re getting more hooked with the game in front of you.

Letting Chuu by, you nod to her as she just looks at you and flashes out of your sight, through the door, then averted your attention towards the possible climax of this stupendous game.

“Hope this delivers an exciting ending.” You hope it does, and you’re looking forward to what happens in the next minutes.

---

Almost a home run, and the waves of cheers erupt as the pitcher poises himself to throw the ball until a buzz in your phone piques your attention.

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “come at the restroom rn plsss”

You at 5:59 PM - “why am i gonna go there with u?? something wrong?”

jiwooya__ at 5:58 PM - “yeah, just come over pls pls”

The ephemeral conversation sums up: her needing your help on something, an immediate call for you, and possibly another game from her—you know how this can end and whatever the outcome may be, you would welcome it with open arms because it’s Chuu and you can’t resist her.

You’re quick to get off your seat and excuse yourself, not giving a damn if the game’s getting spicy or not.

“This better not be a waste of my time...” You’re optimistic it won’t be, rather suggestive or not, you’re in positive spirits with what trick she may have up her sleeve.

---

You’re an easy bait and no one can blame you for that—like earlier, you can’t resist Chuu, not even in public places like this and you doubt anyone would care if something may happen here, the eruption of cheers that quakes the stadium says otherwise.

“It’s pretty compact here, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t look like it—” Chuu’s eyes wander around the bathroom, sensing possible dangers to unveil such profanities. “Besides, this is the perfect place.”

It was all part of your plan, and hers—it was all an act out there, because deep inside, the both of you want to discover the thrill of the underlying threat of being observed, but you’d love to keep all of what’s bound to happen for you and you only.

You’d make it clandestine, a secret that will be locked just between the both of you.

“Can’t wait any longer~” Chuu’s tone teases you, legs uneasy as you could sense her wetness beneath such a hot pair of jeans that accentuates the fine build of her ass. You can’t let yourself die out of impatience, a cruel death that’s not worth as your hands did an audacious move—gripping her ass and pulling her closer to you.

“Me neither.” It’s simple, enough for Chuu to receive the message with clarity as your lips lock hers. An entangled mess comes right after, hungrily exchanging torrid kisses with tongues dancing around gracefully with the aim to taste each other.

She’s insatiable and you can’t wait to just do the unthinkable. Knowing her patience is running low too, she knows this isn’t the reason why the both of you are alone together in a restroom.

“Been wanting this for a while.” Her breath blesses your face, just inches away as her seductive barrage of words comes after, not without her hand finding its way onto your clothed bulge that’s growing with every second that passes.

“Elaborate, Chuu.”

“Huh, you wanna hear the things I want to do with your cock?” She chuckles as you nod, Chuu then fixing her hair and tucking it behind her ear just to whisper these words: I want to stroke your cock until it leaks all over my fingers, then, I’ll suck it sloppily just like you always wanted, and then, you’ll cum all over my face, and it’s not just going to end there, because you’re going to pound me in front of this mirror until you drain your balls into me.

You’re fucked, and you love it. Chuu doesn’t just say it all because she wants to, because she’ll mark her words and she’ll fulfill her needs whatever it takes.

“So, you in?” Simples words as a smirk paints your face, then nodded knowing how much you fucking liked the dirty talk she’s escaped.

She doesn’t need to be commanded, because it’s in her nature to know what she’s an expert at, and she’ll show you why you won’t find a girl like her—she’s just that type of girl. She drops down to her knees, dexterous fingers coming right after, unbuckling your belt and undressing what fabric that just hinders her to her deserved reward. She can undress you with her eyes closed, and with just your boxers as the last bit of defense, she exhales and drops it down with one, swift motion.

Her eyes glimmer in lust and admiration, your erect shaft in sight for her to savor for the umpteenth time. She places her hand around it and brings shivers down in you, the coldness of her hand rivaling the emanating heat of your cock.

She strokes it, you wincing with that hint of pain until she spats on her hand and continues her expertise. “Just want it slow? Give you some room?”

As much as you want to tell her to pacen up her strokes, you want to savor every second of her dexterous talent, a pleasurable drive that’s downright commendable. “Like t-that, Chuu—god, your hands are a blessing.”

“Already stuttering? Oh my, I really did turn you on, hm?” Those doe-eyes that only have innocence as its façade, begs for your answer as she continues her work until the base of your shaft.

“What do you think, hm?” It’s rhetorical and you know it as her laugh says otherwise. She averts her eyes onto your already throbbing cock, leaking such a minuscule amount on the slit where her tongue laps the gifts, making your knees weak.

“I fucking love you—and this cock, god.” Her handjobs are just the side dish, because the main course is being delivered immediately, lips enveloping on a tight snug that earns a moan out of your lips. Her strokes on your base are continuous, massaging the hardness where it stands tall yet you crumble, and it's evident with her lips venturing deeper, almost taking half of your shaft to really test you.

If she’s not careful, she’ll knock down the architecture of your legs, and she’ll pick up the pieces once she’s done.

She just swirls around your sensitive crown, dethroning your attempts to resist her utter control. She licks with passion unwavering, moreso, her lips sucking you off like a lollipop with a suction that rivals even a vacuum. It doesn’t end there, because she’s just starting this, and she’s not even bobbing her head frantically to the point where the both of you become a mess.

Well, speaking of that, she’s fulfilling her promises, one by one.

“Shit—that feels good, Chuu.” You’re hissing, a hand cradles her head, then your fingers running through her locks as she bobs with a pace that’s moderate, yet her experience shows evidently—her absence of gag reflex, her tongue licking wherever it lands, her hands fondling your balls and her lips that’s wringing out the best bits of pleasure from you. Her bobs are in this recurring pattern to die out the inevitable building inside you—slow, fast, slow—and it’s just perfect, because you’re moaning like you mean and encouraging her that she’s doing great.

“Keep sucking—shit, you’re really a filthy cocksucker, aren’t you?” You taunt her but it falls deaf onto her ears, continuous with her pace and what she’s great at.

Saliva seeps out of her mouth, dripping onto your balls that she’s taking care of, until such a hot pursuit was hindered, ejecting out and looking at you with delight. “I am your filthy cocksucker.”

Then she continues, only this time, she’s locking eyes with you as down she goes, relentless with her oral pursuit of greatness.

Her nails are digging deeper, gripping your thighs harshly yet not enough to mark you, as she’s bobbing more furiously, the saliva staining her orange top and the puddle of worthless clothing of yours—rather rendered as worthless, the intention of the commotion says otherwise. She’s slobbering all over your length, gawking with the succulence as her actions are repeatedly dangerous and rightfully audacious—she doesn’t care if her mascara runs rivulets onto her cheeks or she messes the clothing full of saliva, because all that matters is the fulfillment of the need.

She’s just bringing you down slowly, piece by piece until you break as she’s relentless, but she knows what her limits are, and releases such warmth out with a loud pop.

“Are you close? You’ve been throbbing more than before—like my mouth that much?” She’s igniting you, words that unlock a safe that’s your reservoir, slowly filling in and nearing the end. You’re not going to be under her spell, not this time, and as much as she thinks you’re lying, there will be a single answer to her rhetorical question.

“No and yes, Chuu.”

She’s stroking, wringing it out leisurely and you inevitably grunt as she does so, a mischievous smile directed towards you as she seems appalled with your answer. “Elaborate, please?”

She knows she’s fucking you up, barely got any space to genuinely articulate a sentence, what more about a simple elaboration? Well, it doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because your earlier reply is enough to stroke her ego, and she’s giving it all, stopping the feverish pumps and letting her mouth do the job.

Let’s be honest, with the suction Chuu provides, the plumpness of her lips and her mouth complementing the shape of your cock, you’re not going anywhere far as the inevitable builds up quick on par with her pace. Albeit the lower ground, she keeps your lower body in check, ultimately powerless to move as all you can do is embrace the warmth she brings. You’re gripping those dark locks as a leverage, not restraint and decelerating her pace because this is the outlet you have to combat the pleasure she delivers.

You want to thrust and fuck her throat just to suffice the filthiness that’s orchestrated at your end, and with those doe-eyes glimmering with lust, she’s quick to assess the situation and nods as her lips just puckers at the tip of your cock.

“Do it—” She laps the drool that dribbles onto your underside, licking fervently as she continues her verbal approval. “—fuck my face—I know you’re dying to do that.”

With her disheveled look begging to get your job done, you know it’s the green light. She doesn’t need a breather even if you ask her to have one, because she is that addicted to your taste that she can’t bear the vision of being depraved by it even for just a second. Your pace is immediately ruthless, and you wouldn’t give such an introductory act considering how she slobbered all over your length earlier without giving a damn with the mess she can make.

The pace dictated didn’t render herself useless, being used like a toy, but instead battled against your roughness as she bobs repeatedly alongside your thrusts, which makes her falter a little, gagging onto the rapid actions of filth. Your thrust, do a couple and she gags—it’s beautiful, all that pretty countenance just to be ruined within minutes as your control dominates her. Chasing the nearing high, your hands grip a handful of her hair, a leverage to muster greater pace, skin clapping and her repeated gags reverberating around the restroom.

At this point, someone may suspect something suspicious between the both of you, and thank god her mouth is shut thanks to you because you know how much noise she can create in such a filthy session with you.

“Fucking like t-that, hm?” You tug her hair as she looks up at you with glee beneath the dishevelment, nodding with just those eyes as you continue your assault, yet she never resisted, only carving more.

You’re dying to paint her body with your cum, you really do—nobody can blame you for that, not when her outfit perfectly accentuates a godly figure. Despite that, you can’t just do that immediately when she’s still all dressed but just a mess.

Just a mess. Well, you should really fulfill her needs and add up to the monstrosity.

You pull out as the saliva-sheathed cock is throbbing relentlessly, as Chuu catches her breath but her words contradict her visible struggles.

“Hah—hah, I c-can—can take more of it—fuck me more, please.”

Her grip on your thighs weaken and ultimately, you’ll do what you need to do.

“But I can’t, Chuu.” Your hand raises her chin, as she smiles and anticipates what you’re about to do. What she had in mind might be right, and you’d know it’s imminent. “Stay fucking there and make me cum.”

She does what she’s told to and does it with eagerness. You’re on your wit’s end as Chuu’s fingers wrap around them and muster a velocity unparalleled, slick with her drool and messing her up. She closes her eyes as she knows what’s about to come, and she embraces it.

White, pearlescent streaks paint her porcelain skin, splattering and coating almost every feature of her face as her awaiting mouth receives plenty of her reward. She hums in satisfaction with what you’ve given her, the warmth complementing the hotness the both of you are in and the succulent taste that she’s been yearning for quite some time.

This is far from over and she knows it, but for now, you marvel at the fruit you bear—an outstanding sight, her face covered with your cum and it’s filthy in all of the right places.

She parts her lips, hitches a breath and opens her eyes just to meet yours painted with utter satisfaction. Sweat forms on your forehead and it’s worth effort, ruining her in a space where risk lingers around the corner.

Even with the marvelous sight, you’re still not done with her, and she knows that.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” You didn’t hesitate to outpower her, grabbing her by the wrists and flipping her over, facing the mirror. “And I’m fucking you up to get the job done.”

You meant it, and she gets herself ready.

Your eyes just darts onto her fine ass accentuated by those tight jeans (thankfully), its scrumptious volume allowing you to really test its integrity with a single, harsh spank that makes her yelp, and bite her lip. You see it in the mirror, a clear vision that she’s genuinely enjoying this and so you did another until you know to yourself that you shouldn’t play with your food.

You tug, she wiggles and you spank. It repeats for another time as the lust emanates the air the second that inviting face of hers exactly points out her reasons to fuck her—it doesn’t get any better than this and you know it, you’re damn impatient as much as she is. You undress her pants slowly, down to its ankles as your cock throbbed to the sight of a monumental wonder of nature and you’re glad to see it firsthand, nobody being blessed as much as you are.

“Red ones, hm?”

“Like what you’re seeing? It’s your favorite shade.” Chuu knows you well, and you can’t lie. You just can’t help the fact that this looks like she orchestrated herself for you to fuck her publicly, anticipating with the right moment of the possible embarrassment to come and risk of being caught.

“You’re really a fucking slut—you did this intentionally, didn’t you? You wanted me to fuck you at this very day, hm?” More spanks wrings out cries at her end, a sweet disposal of the masked pleasure. She laughs and kept that gleeful face on hers, nodding because you debunking her sole reasons was just a piece of cake.

“You alwa—o–oh! Fuck, t-that’s great…” She grows weak, the second finger teasing the cameltoe formed onto those panties, feeling her wetness evident as her hands grasp the concrete of the sink and close her eyes.

“Keep d-doing that—oh!”

“Grab the sink, Chuu.”

“What—ow!” You spank as your command renders deaf on her ears, the pleasure finally getting into her and she’s submitting slowly to you faster than you’ve expected.

“I’m fucking you with my fingers—be ready. Grab the fucking sink.” She does what she’s told to, gripping tighter as you plunge a finger, half with its depth and she moans in reply—that alone is the driving force to tease her, plunging another just to elicit that same, sexy moan you love hearing.

You thrust in and out, a repeated process that orchestrates sounds in such a rhythmical and discordant pattern even with such a benign way of introducing yourself into her clit. You swipe and slowly make her descend down to her carnal desires, and your eyes sparkle with each passing second that passes, drooling with the fact how much it turns you on to see her dripping, glistening under the lights and her legs shuddering due to your own actions.

Guess you need to really start the show, for the better for both worlds.

Chuu knows you can’t contain it anymore, unleashing the beast, setting up the pace and going to “home-run” all over her backside—

“Fuck!” She swears at you, laced in goodness of what she’s feeling as your exposed lengths envelops another eventful paradise, plunging in deep and withdrawing with just the tip resting in it. The pace is sluggish, much intended for your comfort rather than hers, getting accustomed to her tightness that still surprises you until this day. You hold her hips and she holds the side of the sink tighter as your thrusts grow harsher and deeper, the profoundness driving you into insanity as Chuu spews profanities that reverberate around the puny restroom. It’s not just her dulcet tone that is an ear-candy, but also the clapping of your bodies against each other, a sound that adds to the erotic soundtrack that’s purely an abomination, your greatest creation.

She grows louder and it alerts you, so with an immediate action against it, the domination truly shows and it starts with you reprimanding her. “Shut y-yourself or we’re going to be fucked and you’re not gonna like it—do you understand?”

It’s surprising how articulate you could still be even with thrusts nigh-unbearable. Your other hand is occupied shutting her mouth up, letting her muffled screams vibrate on your hand as her eyes portray the sight of being satisfied, and it’s all shown in the mirror just to fuel you to take it into the extremes. It will be, but you’re still having the semblance of humanity left to just fuck her in a pace that she can take but if she talk right now, you know that she’ll beg for more and she won’t break—the former, an absolute chant yet the latter can be debatable.

Thank god the cheers and the sounds outside rivals the absolute sinful cacophonies the both of you muster, and you’re thanking the blessing in disguise with that. With the climax of the game being evident outside thanks to the sounds of the audience, now brings the opportunity to bring spanks onto her butt that makes her grit her teeth in pain and pleasure.

You let go of your hand on her mouth to let those beautiful moans out for your ears to be blessed again, and she wails in pleasure with your pace and the harshness your hand makes contact with her ass. The sight of a rosy hue is the fruit of your efforts, and the events occurring in such a stingful session is a sight to see—a jiggle of her ass was enough to make you riled up even more.

You’re gripping her hips and you can foresee what can be her—

“Shit! Fuck, more, more! G-god, just fuck me real g-good…” Chuu is utterly fucked and she’ll thank you for it. She snapped and there she goes, you reading her like a book—she’s going to beg for more and with her numerous pleas that isn’t even registering in her head totally, you fulfill it anyways knowing it’s the route that you’ll inevitably pass.

“Fuck m-me—my ass—shit, more!” Your hips muster a velocity that is uncertain, but ultimately frantic and in for no-return. Her juices just stain the tiles and thank god you still have some time to discard her pants away to the sinful scene where her nectar will fall into, and at that point you know you’re breaking her apart slowly. At this point, Chuu is just blabbering with nonsensical jumbled pieces of existing words that will soon be more incoherent when you put the final in the coffin.

“You fucking like that, huh?” She nods in the mirror, those cum-glazed lips smiling after as she closes her eyes, savoring whatever that’s stimulating her and the pleasure you’re bringing all over her body.

“God, fuck! Ah, you’re crazy!” You pull her hair and make it as a leverage for you to fuck her truly. The pain stings but is translated as pleasure the second she feels it, and it’s evident because she’s been secretly talking about it and with the live reaction, oh, it’s all right there for you to hear.

You spank her and she bites her lip, you hissing at her remarks. “What did I say? Shut your fucking mouth.”

You’re vulgar and she didn’t care, even dropping the honorifics when you’re dropping her pants. You thrust repeatedly until burying it deep in her, making her moan so sultry and cry in pleasure, as lean towards her and whispered, “You want my cum again, hm?”

You slowly oscillate your hips, kissing her nape and ear as she replies an audible yes that enables the green light for the denouement of this spectacular show—spoiler: you did this before and you’ll never get tired of doing it again.

You pull yourself back, grab Chuu’s waist and run your hands towards her clothed tits, caressing it as she moans with your actions and cries once you return to your original pace. It went for possibly twenty seconds that felt like minutes on how heavenly she feels until you lean towards her again, this time, announcing the very thing she wants to hear again.

“I’m going to fucking cum, Chuu.”

You’re nearing the end and it won’t be in her pussy.

Well, here are the reasons why: firstly, you don’t want people to see your reward marked onto her pants and that would be unhygienic; second, she haven’t earned that luxury yet as per the situation the both of you are in; third, it’s a damn risk to it knowing it’s a sudden invitation by Chuu because you don’t want to risk these things; and lastly, you might just need to add up to the mess on her face you plastered all over her earlier.

Reasonable arguments, and it’s easier to be done than being said.

She doesn’t argue with your principles and wants, but eagerly obliges as she brings herself down to her knees again, stares at you with anticipation and her mouth agape. You know she really does know what she’s doing when she’s initiating the actions, stroking your cock frantically as your knees shake a little due to the pleasure her hands bring.

“Come on—cum on my face, right he—” She doesn’t need to finish her sentence when yours does, spurting strings and strings of cum on her already disheveled face, flinching whenever it gets on her forehead and savors with her hums when it gets on her tongue and lips. With the final orgasm that possibly lasted about ten seconds, she still wrings out the leftover cum in your slit, even licking it clean to savor your succulence, then smiling towards you because of the gratification.

“God, you still came a lot…” She still grips your length, admiring it as she slowly strokes it for good measure as an ending.

“It’s all your fault, Chuu.” You reply back, chuckling as the both of you exchange smiles. Chuu licks her lips and wipes her face full of your cum, the messy liquid being tasted by hers and she commends that taste, and you roll your eyes because of that.

Now, with the adrenaline diminishing slowly, the both of you are grasping the situation as the both of you get dressed up quickly, and Chuu is cleaning up the mess you’ve made on her face.

“Shit—I’m sorry, Chuu—was I too rough? Sorry if I came too much—”

“No, no, it’s fine—I can retouch and reason with them later. You got me pretty sore though.” Her bubbly smile takes effect and reassures you, and you trust what she can do to reason herself out of this mess. You got her ready and you know it’s still a risk even going out, even with the busy atmosphere around the stadium.

Chuu just smiles at you, smirking even with a single sentence that follows. “We should do these things again, I never knew it would be this fun…”

You’d be truly damned if it was to be fulfilled but you’re foreseeing the inevitable, and it’s just about when would be the next time such sin would happen.

#chuu smut #chuu x male reader #loona smut #loona x male reader

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rawme-price · 2 days ago

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So...healer!reader pt 5, shes already healed the guys individually, where will they go from here?🤭

It becomes a bit of a routine. The guys try not to ask for ur healing too often, they value u as a genuine member of the team and would hate for u to think ur just here for that. But, you do notice they all perform much better after you heal them. Plus, it kind of gets on ur nerves when they try to 'tough out' some of the minor pain, bc u can feel it radiating from them and now that you have healed them before there's really no reason for u to be shy about it again.

So, you make sure to heal them all at least once a week, sometimes more if they actually are hurt. Ghost goes all soft and pliant, simply enjoying the fact his chronic pain is gone for a bit. Price tends to take the time to smoke, hes learned that ur healing with smoke in his lungs feels devine. Soap doesnt have much constant pain besides mild tinnitus, so he and gaz tend to work out like hell beforehand bc it feels alot better when the magic has something to focus on.

But you never seem to ask anything in return. Its frustrating. Especially considering soap has explicitly offered you to bed and all you've done is turn him down with a small smile. Needless to say, the guys are concerned. Gaz calls a team meeting between the four of them, a furrow in his brow.

"Do you think we're taking advantage?"

Its a long and serious discussion. Price thinks they are, they all have some sort of power dynamic over you (some more than others). Ghost doesnt think so, hes seen you punch a guy's lights out for looking at you the wrong way, if you didnt want to do something then you wouldnt. Soap seems mixed, he trusts your decisions, but he doesnt want to have accidentally coerced you into anything. The discussion gets them nowhere, so finally gaz calls you in.

U give them a confused look, but seem overall relaxed. "Uh- everything okay?"

Price doesnt mince words, "if you dont want to heal us. You dont have to. If you dont feel comfortable working in this team, give me the paperwork and ill approve it, no questions asked."

"What?" Youre honestly baffled, looking between them like they're crazy. "What on earth makes you think i dont want to heal you?? If I didnt then I wouldnt??"

So they explain they're reasoning, finally leading to the last point of u never seeking out ur own satisfaction. They don't want to make u heal them if u dont get some sort of satisfaction in return, it feels predatory or whatever.

You cant help it, you laugh. A bit from nerves but also from relief bc you thought you were being kicked out. "Oh my god- thats it?" You try to cover ur grin with a hand.

"the hell do you mean thats it?!" Soap retorts, a bit put off by ur sudden mirth "this is serious!"

"God! No- its- you dont understand-" you take a few deep breaths before calming down. Looking them in the eyes you shrug "im asexual. I uh- dont feel sexual desire. Like. At all."

Before they can freak out, you strike down whatever fears u know they're thinking "whatever sexual moments did occur were totally my choice. I may not get satisfaction like you guys do, but I like to see you guys happy, I like to help. Besides, all this healing has given me alot of practice with my magic, I really dont want to stop."

You and them have another, quite long discussion, and decide to keep up the arrangement. You get to practice magic, and they get to have the best damn orgasms of their lives. In fact, this probably means you can heal them more often now that you have permission to really experiment with ur methods.

(HA YALL THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A FIVESOME HUH??? WRONG!! anyways happy pride to all my fellow asexuals!! Also dw guys this is NOT the end of the series lol)

#cod #cod smut #johnny soap mctavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john price x reader #tf 141 x reader #healer!reader

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yan-randomfandom · 3 days ago

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umm hi! wanted to ask if is ok yandere rumi with gn!reader or yandere rumi and yandere jinu if it's ok

Yandere!Rumi x GN!Reader

a/n; HOORAY YANDERE!! #iloverumi thank u anon😙 | warning; dependency

— 💜

You found out about her patterns by accident.

And at the time, instead of feeling fear and panic as she should be, all Rumi could feel was relief. Relief that it wasn't one of the girls. Relief that it was a complete stranger. Relief that someone else knew about it.

When you asked, Rumi explained it was tattoos in frantic desperation. But you knew.

"Those are demon patterns," you say with confidence. You meet the singer's eyes warily, being careful in your expression.

Something crazed lights up in Rumi's face. "How did you—"

"I learn about myths and legends in my free time. But..." you pause, glancing over her patterns again, "I've never heard of a human-demon before. Unless, you aren't human...?"

Rumi breaths. The kind of breathing that made you believe she's relieving through something. "I— I am."

— 🪻

It's become a habit for you and her to meet up every now and then. She'd ask you what you know about the demons, the Honmoon, Gwi-Ma, and she'd tell you her experience about being a hunter. (You asked for anything fan-related things too, of course. Picture, autograph — it's awesome!)

How curious that demons truly do exist.

You didn't expect her to want to meet you so often. First of all, she's a famous idol. You're a casual fan of Huntrix, but you already know how hard they work for their art. Second, she's a hunter! The legendary three-part harmony protectors of the Honmoon!

A sigh escapes you. You can't imagine bearing all that responsibility — let alone being a demon herself.

Rumi likes to text you a lot, always planning the next hangout. You'd think that she would have to keep changing schedules, but on the contrary, it seems like it's you who always has conflicting schedules.

— 🎶

"The Saja Boys are demons," she says one day, suddenly, her face falling heavy. "Avoid them, okay? The girls and I will fix it as soon as we can."

You stare at her in awe, your eyes narrowing in curiosity. "Demon boy band? Of course..."

She places her hand on your shoulder. You give her a smile, gently brushing your hand against her patterns.

"Don't worry, Rumi," you nod. "I'll help too, in my own way. Thanks for telling me."

"Thank you," Rumi parrots, meeting your eyes. "But you don't have to do anything. Let me handle all of it. Just stay safe."

— ❤️‍🔥

"Don't leave. Don't leave!"

Just like that.

Rumi's patterns were revealed to the whole world. Her own friends raised their weapons against her. Jinu yelled at her, brushed her off, denying everything she believed in him. Celine, to this day, this disaster—

She will never be accepted, will she? Everyone turned against her—confused on who she is, disgusted on what she is, afraid of her.

"Rumi!"

You call, tears blurring your vision as you firmly grip her shoulders. "Please. Your patterns don't make you who you are. I—"

Rumi watches as you let go of your hold on her, turning instead to clutch your aching head. She watches you tremble, watches you cry as the voices take over your mind.

She watches.

"Rumi," you gasp, trying so hard to ignore his voice. "Rumi. Help. Stop, stop it, stop it, stop it! Rumi!"

Rumi watches with quiet satisfaction. You need her. You're not pushing her away—you call her name—despite everything, you tried to comfort her—

A few moments of silence from her, a few moments of sobbing from you. Eventually, she kneels beside you, leveling with your glassy eyes, and offers a weak smile.

"Thank you," she mutters, gently pulling your forehead to her lips. "I'll make it right. I will."

With those final words, Rumi watches as you finally give in to Gwi-Ma's voice and stand to follow him.

She watches as you walk to the stadium.

She trails behind, everything and anything raging through her mind.

— 🔥

"That whole thing felt like a nightmare," you mutter, holding one side of your head.

You look up, seeing Rumi stare at you with a smile. Ever since that doomsday of an event, she's being acting different, somehow. Extra clingy, extra paranoid, extra... happy?

At least she's happy now.

She hasn't been wearing long sleeves, free enough to be wandering with her scars.

You unconsciously place a hand on her cheek, feeling the texture of her skin. She melts instantly into your touch, leaning to chase it closer.

"I'm proud of you," you smile. "Thank you for protecting us."

Rumi blinks her tears away. It's not everyday someone thanks them for doing their duty.

"I'm never abandoning you," she smiles back. "As long as you don't... abandon, me."

— #iloverumi

#yandere kpop demon hunters #yandere kpop demon hunters x reader #yandere kpdh #yandere kpdh x reader #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere rumi x reader #rumi x reader #iloverumi #kpdh x reader #huntrix x reader

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nekonaps0 · 1 day ago

Text

The mood is gone

✦gn!reader

✦ characters: Trey, Leona, Floyd, Jamil, Idia, Lilia

✦slightly smut

✦how the boys would react when things are just about to get heated with their beloved… and then bam! someone barges in, killing the mood.

Trey Clover

Everything was perfect. The kitchen was quiet, the air thick with sugar and tension, and Trey had you backed against the counter, voice low and teasing as his lips brushed your ear.

“You taste sweeter than anything I’ve ever baked…”

His hands slid around your waist, lips ghosting along your jawline when—

 CRASH.

“YO TREY! Did you put those tarts in the oven—”

Ace burst through the door, freezing when he spotted the two of you tangled together like frosting on warm cake.

Trey jolted back with an awkward chuckle, eyes wide.

“Ace—!”

“Oh. Ohhh. My bad. Real bad. Continue. Or not. I’ll just—bye!” slams door

You sighed, untangling from Trey’s arms.

“Yeah… the mood’s gone, thanks Ace…”

you muttered and left, cheeks flushed in irritation.

Trey stood there, stunned for a second. Then, quietly:

“Ace is never eating anything I bake again.”

Later that night, he showed up at your dorm with a slice of your favorite pie and the softest apology kisses you’ve ever tasted.

Leona Kingscholar

The sun was setting over the sands of Savannaclaw’s yard, but inside Leona’s dorm room? The heat was from something entirely different.

You were pinned beneath him, his voice low and growly as he nipped at your throat, smirking when you shivered.

“Told ya I could make you purr, herbivore…”

But then—

 BANG

“Oi, Leona! You left your stupid practice schedule out and now Vargas is—”

 Ruggie’s voice froze mid-sentence.

Leona slowly lifted his head from your neck, and Ruggie turned a delightful shade of oh no.

“...My bad, boss.”

You wriggled free, cheeks hot and mood completely dead.

“Well, that’s ruined. The mood’s gone. Good bye Leona.”

You left with a sigh. Leona blinked once.

Then:

“Ruggie.”

“...Yeah?”

“You’re cleaning the training yard alone for a month...”

“Yeah… I know that’s coming… shit…”

Later that night, Leona tracked you down and wordlessly pulled you into his lap, whispering against your collarbone:

“Let me fix the mood. Right now.”

Floyd Leech

You were breathless, half-laughing and squirming beneath Floyd on his bed. His fingers grazed your thigh, teeth just barely nipping your earlobe as he growled:

“Shrimpy looks so biteable tonight…”

Your fingers tangled in his shirt. His knee nudged yours apart—

Knock knock. Door opens anyway.

“Floyd, Azul wanted to remind you to—”

 Jade blinked. Stared. Blinked again.

“Ah. You’re... busy. My bad.”

Floyd turned his head slowly.

“Jade...”

“Just passing through.” click Door closes.

You groaned, shoving your face into Floyd’s chest.

“Mood’s gone,” you muttered. “Completely gone.”

You stood and left. Floyd looked betrayed.

“But shrimpy...! We were at the good part… nooo…!”

Later that night, he pouted on your bed, peppering you with annoyed kisses like a sad eel.

“Stupid Jade. Mood killer. I’ll get you back in the mood, Shrimpy... even if I gotta start from scratch~”

Jamil Viper

The music was slow, the lights low, and Jamil had you caged against his room wall, voice husky with restraint as his thumb traced your bottom lip.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me…?”

He kissed you, hot and firm. Your hands slid under his shirt—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK—BANG.

“Jamil!! Are you in here?! I learned a new trick with the flying carpet and—OH!”

Kalim stood in the doorway, eyes wide with genuine innocence.

You gasped, pushing Jamil back.

“Kalim!” You both screamed.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! You two looked busy!” door slams shut

You straightened your clothes, flustered and groaning.

“thanks to Kalim…Mood’s gone. Se you later Jamil.”

You left. Jamil stood frozen for three seconds.

“...I’m going to hex that carpet.”

Later, he cornered you in the hallway, muttering

“Im sorry for what happened, I’ll triple-lock the door next time.”

Idia Shroud

You were in his room… yes, the room. The glowing screens, and Idia looking like he might combust from how hard he was trying to be smooth.

“Uhh... so... if you wanted to, like, maybe... take this to, um, level 18?”

Your lips were already on his. His hair flickered neon pink as his hands trembled on your waist—

DING DING!

 Ortho's voice chirped from behind the closed door

“Big Brother! You said you’d test my new program pack today! Should I come in—?”

“NOOOOOOO—!!”

Idia dove off you so fast he might’ve phased into the digital plane.

You blinked.

“Yeah. That killed it. Mood’s gone. I think it would be better if I go now.”

And you walked out. He groaned into a pillow, hair now a dull blue.

“I’m gonna fake my own death. Then I’ll haunt the server room and live in eternal shame.”

Later, he shyly tapped on your door with snacks and a very nervous

“I promise… it’s never gonna happen again…”

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia had you right where he wanted you—against his chest, your breath shallow, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Careful, my love. Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have to bite…”

You squeaked. He smirked.

“So delicious when you tremble.”

His hands wandered lower when—

 SLAM.

“LILIA-SAMA!? I HEARD STRANGE SOUNDS—!”

Sebek burst in, wild-eyed and shouting.

“Sebek!” you both yelled at once.

You scrambled away from Lilia, flushed and fuming.

“Mood’s gone. I’m done! Bye.”

You stormed out while Lilia slowly turned to Sebek, a twitch in his brow.

“...boy… we gonna have a really fun training tomorrow… I hope you’re ready.”

Later, Lilia showed up at your window, upside-down, charming as ever.

“Now... where were we, my dear~?”

..............................................................................................................................

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cressidagrey · 3 days ago

Text

The Red Notebook

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary: Every season, Felicity Piastri keeps a red notebook—meticulously filled with race notes, corner analysis, and tyre data—not for the engineers, but for Oscar.

Warnings and Notes: This adds much needed context to a mention of the Red Notebook in the eventual Silverstone one shot. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar knew every driver had their rituals.

Some tapped the side of the car before lights out. Some listened to the same playlist before quali. Some wore lucky socks. He wasn’t one for superstition. (Unless it was Felicity’s notes tucked into his gloves.)

Oscar was calm, calculated, precise. But if there was one thing in his world that carried the same sacred weight as a prayer before battle, it was this:

The red notebook.

Felicity had been keeping one since he was fifteen.

Oscar had never asked her to do it.

But she did it anyway.

Every season of his career, starting in 2016, from karting to F4 to now, had its own red notebook. Same brand, same size, same weight. Always red. The kind with a soft leather cover and a ribbon bookmark. He’d once asked why that colour.

Felicity had blinked. “Because Racing is in your blood.”

Every year, a new one. Lined up in a quiet row on the shelf at home. 2016. 2017. 2018. All the way through now.

The season’s notebook started the day before pre-season testing. She’d jotted down tyre compound data while he was still learning the steering wheel settings.

She never missed a race.

Even before they’d been married, even before they’d been anything more than best friends, she’d been the one watching grainy livestreams of karting races at three in the morning. She’d pause, rewind, scribble something, frown, rewind again. Always in pencil first. Always rewatching later with a cup of tea and writing with black ink.

Oscar still remembered when it started. One day he’d come back to Haileybury from a junior series race, his helmet still damp with sweat, and found her at the kitchen table with a notebook open beside her laptop. She’d been watching his onboard, pausing it at the exit of Turn 9.

"You were lifting earlier here," she’d said casually, as if they weren’t fifteen and chronically exhausted. "Were the rears giving out or was it just the balance shift?"

He’d stared at her. “How do you even—”

She’d shrugged. “I rewatched the last three races. Thought maybe it was setup. But I think it’s tire fatigue.”

She hadn’t been wrong.

She never was.

He’d protested, at first. Told her she didn’t have to. That she could sleep in. That she didn’t need to rewatch every one of his races in painstaking detail. But she’d just looked at him, calm and matter-of-fact.

“I like watching you work,” she said. “And I like knowing how to help.”

Since then, every race season had a notebook.

She’d never stopped. Not in F4. Not in Renault Eurocup. Not in F3. Not in F2. Not even now, when the races were streamed to millions, and Oscar had an entire team of strategists and data analysts and performance engineers.

By the time he got to F1, the habit was ingrained.

Every season had a new red notebook.

Neatly labeled with the year on the inside cover. Oscar – 2019. Oscar – 2020. Oscar – 2021.

All the way up to Oscar – 2024, tucked beside her laptop, the pen clipped to the side like always.

Each race had its own section—track map hand-drawn in the corner, weather data scribbled in the margins, key overtakes underlined in green, mistakes circled in blue.

Notes on setup balance, driver behavior, tire drop-off. Observations from free practice. Quali patterns. Sector deltas compared across weekends.

One red notebook for every season.

Lined pages, neatly labelled.

Her handwriting somehow managing to be both clinical and caring.

Oscar sometimes thought about all those notebooks. How they formed a silent record of his life—not the headlines, not the points on a screen, but the real story. The choices. The nuance. The growing.

Oscar had once asked what she’d do with them all.

She’d just smiled and said, “Maybe I’ll give them to you. When you’re old and don’t remember why you did all this.”

But he thought she was wrong.

Because all he’d have to do was look at her.

And he’d remember.

Every Monday night—after every race, whether he won, DNFed, or trundled home in P9—they’d debrief.

Not officially. Not in a team room. Just the two of them.

Over the phone. Or curled up on a couch somewhere. He’d grab a water bottle. She’d open the notebook. And they’d go through it—one sector at a time.

“You want the good or the bad first?” she’d ask.

And Oscar would always say, “Start with the bad.”

She never softened it. That wasn’t her style. But she never made it cruel. Just observations, always grounded in care.

“You were oversteering into Turn 4,” she might say. “You hesitated on the switchback in Lap 36. And you always get a little sloppy after safety car restarts.”

Then she’d pause. Let him breathe.

“Your tire management in the middle stint was beautiful, though,” she’d add. “And your dive on Lap 21? That was perfect.”

She always ended on that. Something kind. Something true.

It wasn’t just racecraft. She tracked patterns— behavior, tyre drop-off curves, pit wall communications.

She never shoved it in his face. Never acted like she knew better. She just… saw him. All of him. His driving, his instincts, his cracks, his triumphs. And she held it with reverence. She had, always.

That was Felicity.

Not loud. Not flashy. But constant. Fiercely observant. Quietly all in.

Oscar had always known Felicity was the kind of person who remembered things.

Not in the casual way, either—this wasn’t *oh yeah, I think you mentioned that once* kind of memory.

This was weaponized recall. Pattern-tracking. Observation to the point of quiet obsession.

She always said it wasn’t for coaching. She didn’t have the right license for that.

But they both knew—Felicity’s mind was the license.

Oscar hadn’t missed a single debrief with her since he was fiteen.

Even now �� full McLaren kit, media commitments, a dozen engineers and strategists surrounding him — he still came home after every race and sat at the kitchen table with her, red notebook open between them, a cup of tea cooling by her elbow.

She’d never push. Never judge. Just turned a page and say, “I think you started lifting earlier here. Did it feel different?”

And she was always right.

He didn’t know what he’d do without her voice in his ear. Her notes. Her calm, razor-sharp logic that made him better every single season — not by force, but by faith. She believed in him like it was a given. Like his success was a shared equation they were solving together.

That notebook was sacred now. A quiet, red witness to every win, every loss, every hard-earned point.

Felicity never missed a race. Never skipped a page. Never stopped showing up, quietly and completely, with the kind of devotion that made him ache.

And Oscar knew how lucky he was to be loved like that. To be studied and understood and quietly backed with a red notebook full of margins and maybes.

By 2023, the red notebook wasn’t just Felicity’s anymore.

It was still hers in the way rituals are—quiet, sacred, consistent. But now it had new fingerprints on it. Smaller ones.

Bee had started watching races more intently after the summer break that year. Not just to cheer for “Papa’s car” or to spot “the man who always says ‘box box’ in the funny accent.” No—she started paying attention. The way Felicity did. The way Oscar did.

It began with questions.

“Why did the other car pit sooner than Papa?”

“Was he happy with that last lap?”

Oscar hadn’t thought much of it at first. Just curiosity. The kind of natural interest you’d expect from a kid who was surrounded by racing. And who could identify tyre compounds before she could spell tangerine.

But then, one day after the Dutch GP, he opened the notebook and found a sticky note wedged between Lap 28 and 29. Bee’s handwriting was still wobbly, more squiggle than letter, but it was there. Carefully written in her purple glitter pen:

“I think Papa was fast in the twisty bits. The Red car was slow. Tell him?”

He’d laughed. Soft and stunned and warm all over.

Felicity had just smiled. “She asked if she could help.”

After that, it became a thing.

Usually marked with a tiny star, or Felicity’s added annotation: “Bee’s call. She might be right.”

And the thing was — sometimes she was.

Bee had an instinct for rhythm. For flow. She couldn’t articulate it like her mother could, but she felt when something was off. Her feedback wasn’t technical, but it was honest. Raw. Oscar had learned not to dismiss it.

After the Japanese GP, she had scrawled, “Car sounded grumpy today.” Turned out there had been a small issue with engine mapping.

Bee’s contributions were scattered throughout the pages like little bursts of joy — added while Felicity reviewed footage with her on her lap or at the table. Sometimes Oscar came home to find the notebook open beside a half-drunk juice box and a crayon drawing of Turn 4 with a heart around it.

He never took them out.

Felicity never corrected them either. Never scolded Bee for scribbling in what had once been her own sacred system. If anything, she looked quietly proud.

“She watches with me now,” Felicity had told him once, her voice soft as she passed him the notebook. “She wanted to write something after Suzuka. Said she thought your car was sliding more than usual in the esses.”

Oscar had blinked. “She said esses?”

“Specifically. She said ‘I think it’s the bit where the car goes whoosh whoosh left right left really fast.’ So… the esses.”

Oscar had laughed. Then paused.

Bee was three.

Sometimes she asked questions that made even him pause — about racing lines and brake bias and why tyre wear seemed worse on warmer weekends.

Sometimes, when Oscar flipped it open after a race, he’d find a different kind of note squeezed into the margins — messier handwriting, uneven spelling, sparkly gel pen in place of Felicity’s precise script.

“You did really really good at the overtake!!” “I think maybe you were sad in the middle. Was it because the tyres were bad?” “Next time try even more zoom!!”

There was one he’d never forget — a page where Bee had stuck a neon orange post-it and written, painstakingly, in huge capital letters:

“I WAS SO PROUD I DID A LITTLE JUMP.”

Underneath, in smaller, steadier handwriting:

Same. – F

Other times she just wanted to draw pictures of his helmet and write “GO PAPA” in shaky block letters across the page. But she was watching. Really watching.

And the red notebook had become a shared ritual.

Oscar would come home after races and find them curled together on the couch, the replay paused mid-turn, Felicity with her pen and Bee with her toy car in hand, mimicking every motion.

And when the notebook was passed to him, it felt heavier. Fuller. Like legacy.

Because in those pages—lined with analytics and corrections and glittery three-year-old commentary—was something unshakeable.

A family.

A home.

And the quiet, unspoken truth:

They saw him.

Every lap. Every decision. Every tenth gained or lost.

They watched. They learned. They remembered.

And in between the margins and the tyre notes and the childish stickers that said "GO PAPAYA GO!!", Oscar Piastri could read something else:

He was never doing this alone.

And after all these years, Oscar still found himself sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in his hand, watching the girl he loved scribble something in the margin of the notebook — the red one, the current one — and thinking:

She knows me better than telemetry ever could.

He didn’t need a strategist when he had Felicity. He didn’t need a publicist, a hype reel, or a season highlight package.

He had a girl with a red notebook and a brain like fire — and a heart that chose to use it for love.

And when he won—really won—it would be written there, too.

In pencil first.

In ink, later.

With love, always.

Written down. Every season. Every race. Every lap.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x reader #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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peachywonnie · 2 days ago

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emo!ni-ki x hyper fem!reader 𓈒 ❤︎︎ ࣪ ˖

masterlist

- this man just goes soft for you like no doubt. he probably would be in an all black outfit, black hoodie on, but anyone can spot the little my melody keychain from a mile away that hangs from a loop off his jeans

- pink isn’t his favorite color, in fact he hates pink, but because of you he learns to love it

- would LOVE doing your hair with little bows or clips that you have. definitely learned how to braid just so he could see you all cute in a hairstyle HE did!! would def just pass it off as “you take too long so im tryna help” but we all know the real reason

- literally 2 days later he has a basket full of bows and ribbon he bought in his room just so he could do your hair at his place

- ok and don’t forget the skin care!!

- he acts “forced” to put on a face mask with you but secretly enjoys it

- he def has a little skin care section in his bathroom dedicated to you after you guys start dating and if one of your fancy moisturizers or serums are low you best believe he is purchasing you a new one!!

- will complain about how long you take getting ready

“ni-ki you can’t rush perfection”

“but you’re already perfect”

and proceeds to shower your face in kisses despite your complaints about “ruining your makeup”

- speaking of getting ready, this man will get ready in 2 seconds while you take 2 hours

- sighs when he sees you in a cute skirt when it’s cold out

“god forbid a girl wants to look cute”

“god forbid your boyfriend wants you to stay warm”

- yeah you already know he’s either grabbing an extra jacket (that’s his) or he will end up giving you his in the middle of the date

- and this man probably about dies if you ever wear any of his clothes

- his clothes aren’t exactly your style, so when he sees you wearing one of his shirts one day he goes insane

“oh my goodness princess you look so good in my shirt”

“you think so? i forgot to bring pajamas”

“i hope you forget everytime”

- yeah needless to say even if you brought overnight clothes they would “magically” go missing

- when he’s over in your room he kinda clashes a little with all the pink and mountain of stuffed animals on your bed while he wears some dark outfit

- he’s just casually laying on your bed, feet hanging over cause he’s a little too tall, just cuddling a bear plushie you have as he waits for you to finish applying lip gloss

- but he contributes to this mountain of plushies you have as whenever he’s out and he sees something pink or sanrio he buys it with a simple “it reminded me of you”

- he definitely gets made fun of by his friends just because he is so whipped for you but he wouldn’t have it any other way

#nishimura riki scenarios #enha #enhypen #ni-ki #ni ki fluff #niki scenarios #ni ki scenarios #nishimura riki x reader #niki x reader #ni ki x reader #enha scenarios #enha fluff #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enha imagines #enha x reader #enhypen x reader

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crazy-pages · 14 hours ago

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The thing about Aragorn is that he's actually a really stock fantasy character, but he's usually done as an angsty teenager. The rejection of the heroic destiny and overcoming that is usually an expression of adolescent or young adult anxiety, or a narratively performative rejection of authority to demonstrate one's worthiness. It's a story about coming into the world from a place of powerlessness to a place of immense responsibility. It's a coming of age story.

Aragorn isn't a teenager. Hell he's not even middle-aged by typical human standards, he is old enough to have watched every single human in his life grow old and die. And he grapples everyday with having lived through that side of immortality and knowing that if he doesn't condemn the elf he loves to a mortal death, that she will one day experience that about him. Aragorn isn't even moving from a position of not having responsibility to a position of responsibility, he's out there as a Ranger getting. shit. done. This guy charges all nine ring wraiths with a torch and a mundane blade because that is his godsdamn job description.

Aragorn isn't a kid growing up. He's the veteran World War I officer coming back for World War II.

There's no lesson to be learned in that. There's no moral about accepting responsibility even, he already did that in his role as a Ranger. Even as he rejected the kingship, he never rejected responsibility, he just did it in the way he thought he was best suited to and he was damn good at it. His story is just that of a person who has earned their rest a thousand times over, who is still serving his community anyway, being tasked with enduring a whole new set of trials. Not because he needs to learn something from it, not really. Had Sauron not been coming back and corrupted Denethor, it would have been a fine call to make.

Honestly, even his decision to love with Arwen isn't even really narratively aligned with it. Him taking the crown is an act of selflessness, but asking an elf to love him is incredibly selfish. His decision to seek in the time he has is in a way polar opposite to his decision pick up the burden of leadership. It's not part of his grand narrative lesson, it's just a guy figuring out shit about his personal life even as the world falls apart.

But that's the thing, the world did fall apart. The great war came back, and so it's back onto the front lines for Aragorn. He volunteers, because the kids need him.

Which I think is what makes his story so incredibly moving, and is the source of the something that so many of his analogues in other stories lack. The world and its story isn't built around teaching him a lesson. He's just ... a guy in it. An amazing one, who is desperately needed, but the conflict isn't for him. The world isn't ending so an audience can experience grappling with responsibility vicariously.

It's just talking saying that this is what a great person looks like. The world has those.

And because he doesn't have to hit specific beats of growth, he's allowed to just be a complex and well developed person when he enters the story. So we get this good person, a great person, and he's incredibly fleshed out. So he doesn't just end up being an archetype of greatness, he ends up being a person who is great. But he's also not a character you're supposed to identify with, that's not the purpose of his humanity, those would be the hobbits. Lord of the Rings doesn't say you're supposed to aspire to be Aragorn who becomes a king, it says you're supposed to aspire to be the poor bastards in over their heads who get to go home.

What it says about Aragorn is that when shit gets rough, when things are at their worst? There will be people who are equal to it. That when everything is lost and the best you have left is a suicidal delaying action, there will be someone who can make you believe that it's all worth it.

It's not always true. The young lads all come home in this story too, and that's certainly not what happened for Tolkien. But it's a dream about what should be.

And it's a beautiful dream.

after a lifetime of hearing about aragorn but not reading the books or watching the movies, genuinely nothing could have prepared me for his actual introduction. the hobbits picked this man out of a dumpster. he is a textbook softspoken angst prince and he is covered in dirt and he probably smells so bad. he’s the coolest man alive and is so casual about it. his number one skill is Knowing Where They Are and his number two skill is Having A Horrible Destiny That Torments Him. tolkien got it in one i’m afraid aragorn son of arathorn you are the guy of all time

#lord of the rings #I fully cried writing the end of this #I've got some feelings right now #about facing the end of the world #and doing so under Denethor leading the opposition #but that's part of the point of stories isn't it?#even when reality is dark and won't give you a light #you can carry stories with you #a tiny ember in your heart #that provides a little light

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simpforrooster · 2 days ago

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i fucking knew it.

aaron hotchner x f!reader

summary: you and aaron have secretly been dating for a while—and the team is starting to suspect it.

t/w: 18+. MDNI. light smut (plz don’t come for me, it was my first time writing something like it), a mention of an age-gap, some cursing, mentions of criminals. i don’t think there is too much gender identifying language, but i did imagine a female while writing.

a/n: i had no idea where this one was gonna go. i hope you enjoy!!

aaron hotchner catches your gaze over the manila folder he’s holding. to the average person, they wouldn’t think twice about this action.

but, you know better.

his eyes hold yours for a few seconds longer, before he resumes reading the details of the case.

the lowlights of the jet’s interior mask the flush that’s appeared on your cheeks. hotch feigns a stretch, his shoe tapping yours slightly as he crosses his leg.

“sorry,” he mumbles, not taking his eyes off the folder.

you wave him off, knowing your voice would betray you.

i saw that, your phone buzzes with a text from jj.

it was an accident, you reply.

yeah right, emily shares.

what! what’s happening? gosh, i hate that i’m stuck in the lair, penelope adds.

hotch smirks at his folder, affirming he knows exactly why your phone is blowing up.

the two of you have managed to keep your relationship under wraps for the past couple of months, but the girls have started to suspect something. rossi too, but you can’t be certain.

aaron caught your eye as soon as you started at the bau. you’d learn that you’d caught his almost instantly. but he was your boss, and there was the age difference.

several late nights of him helping you with your reports and chinese takeout, you fell for one another.

oh, nothing. just hotch thinking he’s being subtle, jj tells penelope.

“three rooms?” hotch asks the tired man behind the desk.

“take it or leave it, man. it’s 2 am,” the clerk says on a yawn.

“i call reid and rossi!” derek sticks his hand in the air. emily reaches out to jj’s arm and pulls her into her side.

rossi shakes his head and exchanges a look with aaron. “which one of you boys are sleeping on the floor?”

hotch looks at you apologetically, but you see the underlying want behind those brown eyes.

“i guess that leaves us,” hotch murmurs to his bag, trying to remain unbothered. he grabs your duffle and starts toward the elevator.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

one bedroom trope! emily sends to the group.

epee! penelope replies.

he grabbed her bag, pen! jj shares.

aaron has never once carried anyone’s bag to a hotel room. his gaze catches yours over his shoulder telling you he realizes the implications. his stoic expression returns as you all enter the elevator.

the girls, reid, morgan, and rossi get off at the third floor, leaving you and aaron in the elevator alone. not before jj shoots you a wink. hotch visibly relaxes, and gives you one of those smiles he reserves only for you and jack.

"we're on another floor? that's really going to set the girls off," you comment. aaron shrugs like the duffle bag gave it all away and yall should just fuck the secrecy. he takes a step closer to you. back-to-back cases have kept the two of you from any quality time that wasn't outside of a police precinct and the tension radiates off him.

aaron leads you down the hall once the elevator doors open on the fourth floor. his giant hand engulfs yours, and you can't wait to get into the room.

"this is us," he gestures toward the door. dropping your hand, he pulls the keycard from his pocket. swiping y'all in, he pulls you into the room.

as soon as the door closes behind you, you're being pushed against it.

"god, I've been dying to get my hands on your for days," hotch groans against your mouth. you answer him with a small moan you tried to keep in.

you push his suit jacket off his shoulders, then grip his tie. using his tie, you pull him completely flush against you. his tall body is all over you. there is no spot where his body isn't touching yours.

“tell the criminals to take a break,” you breathe. “you almost blew it at the precinct in the last case.”

aaron moves his kisses along the side of your neck. “that officer was getting a little too friendly with you.”

“but a couple hair flips had him on our side, yeah?” you’re breathless with the work aaron is making of your neck. at the mention of your harmless flirting, his arms tighten possessively around you. his mouth moves lower along your collarbone, sucking lightly. he’s learned where most of your shirt collars lie so he can hide the marks he leaves on you.

aaron pulls you from the door, kissing you like you’re his lifeline. he walks you back until the back of your knees hit the bed. “no more work talk, baby,” he says against your mouth. heat pulls in your lower belly at the pet name and a sigh escapes.

the first time aaron called you anything but your last name, you could have climbed him right then. he still uses your last name, or just agent, in the field, but it’s softer than it used to be.

as aaron pushes you back on the bed, you make quick work removing his tie and dress shirt. the white shirt he wears underneath pulls across his chest. your arms move over his biceps reveling in just how nice they are.

“you like what you see?” aaron smirks, his hand slipping under your top.

you answer him with a hand on his chin, guiding him to your lips. “always,” you breathe.

he smiles against your lips. “why don’t we get you a little more comfortable,” he says, pulling your top off and throwing it to the other side of the room. you’re pretty sure it lands on the lamp. this earns a laugh. aaron checks over his shoulder and chuckles along with you.

“i told you, i need to get my hands on you.” he reaches behind you, unclasping your bra. which follows the same trajectory as your shirt.

“hmm, this isn’t quite fair,” you murmur. you push aaron back until you’re sitting up in his lap. your thighs settle on either side of his, and his hands fall to them, giving them a light squeeze.

“tell me.”

“you still have your shirt on,” you tell him, running your hands along his chest. aaron reaches back with one hand and pulls the undershirt from his body. it’s so insanely sexy, your mouth drops open. how is this guy real?

aaron chuckles again. “you never cease to amaze me.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re practically an adonis.”

he rolls his eyes and pulls you flush against him. “you’re talkative tonight.” he presses a kiss under your ear. you crane your neck to give him more access.

“i always talk a lot when i’m nervous,” you admit. truthfully, there is nothing to be nervous about. you and aaron have slept together plenty of times since you’ve gotten together. this is, however, the first time while you’re on a case.

aaron pulls back and studies your face. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, baby.” his brown eyes search yours. the want in his is palpable. you’re certain the same is reflected in yours. your hands knot in his hair and you guide his mouth to yours.

“no, i want to. i need to,” you say, rolling your hips into his, his erection has your cheeks flushing. “i just still can’t believe it’s happening. you and me,” you admit.

aaron kisses you. it’s full of wanting and urgency, as if he’s afraid you’re going to disappear right beneath his fingertips.

“you and me were destined the moment i laid eyes on you,” he says, laying you back and settling between your legs.

the next morning, there is just enough time to grab some continental breakfast before meeting the local pd. normally, you don’t like to waste time on something as menial as breakfast, especially with a serial killer on the loose, but you and aaron had a lot of time to make up for and you’d built up quite the appetite.

you left aaron with a chaste kiss on his cheek in the room, before joining everyone in the lobby sans duffle.

“well, you’re glowing,” jj comments as you join her and emily at the table. derek turns from where he’s sitting with rossi and reid. “what’s that?”

emily points to you with her fork. “look at her. a literal ray of sunshine.”

“she looks normal to me,” reid comments. “if not a little worn down. are you feeling okay, y/l/n?” your eyes fall closed, trying to keep your emotions regulated.

“that, reid, is post-coital bliss,” derek says.

“yall have no idea what you’re talking about,” you tell them, praying your cheeks haven’t turned pink, because they’re exactly right.

rossi jumps in to save you. “come on boys and girls. let’s not make claims of our unit chief breaking fraternization rules on a case unless we’re sure,” he chides. he gives you a knowing look. aaron has definitely let rossi know what’s been going on. hell, if you didn’t know any better, rossi was probably the one who pushed aaron to finally make a move. you shoot him a grateful look.

“who’s breaking fraternization rules?” a deep voice sounds from behind you. just the sound of his voice has you wanting to drag him back up to the room. “baby, you’ve got to have more than that,” aaron comments on your lone piece of toast.

your face jerks towards him at baby. aaron curses lightly under his breath. a rare slip up from mr. professional himself. he stands there with both your duffels in his hands, his shoulder slumped in defeat.

derek smacks the table, cause the front desk workers to look over. “i fucking knew it!!”

your head falls into your hands. aaron’s laugh reverberates through the lobby. his real, earnest laugh. “well, i did good for a while there, huh, babe?” he says to you. leaning back in your chair, you tilt your head back to see him. the grin on his face could cause world peace. it’s not everyday the team gets to see aaron’s real emotions.

“you did,” you agree. he leans down and places a quick kiss on your lips before walking over to the desk to turn the room keys in.

as you reface the girls, their eyes are sparkling.

“i fucking knew it,” emily echos derek under her breath.

masterlist.

#criminal minds fic #criminal minds #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch imagine #ssa aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch x you #criminals minds x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you

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dmitriene · 16 hours ago

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Maybe something with poor birdie having an anorgasmia (unable to cum or it taking a long time) and price (or whoever you want to write for) trying to fix it

i apologize it took me so long to finally write, but i do hope you'll see this and enjoy!

cw: anorgasmia, some stress and mentions of unhealthy relationships, john doesn't cures reader but they find a way to work, sex and comfort, strangers to lovers or something similar, my knowledge of the disorder comes from internet.

any disorder can make a person feel different, broken, wrong — not like everyone else, not as expected, and even if it is a trifle that can be cured, worked out, or just needs more effort, it will still make many people treat you with a kind of hostility, consider you as if you were an object of study under a microscope, and you are no exception.

anorgasmia shouldn't have been the problem that it really turned out to be, because there's nothing unusual or really terrible about having difficulty having an orgasm, you need a little more time, a little more attention, understanding, because the pleasure of sex doesn't go away, it's just that your body's reaction is slightly different.

or so you thought, but all your relationships collapsed like sand towers, washed away by the tide as soon as you failed to give your partner the expected reaction, sobbing moans, rolling, wet eyes and shaking from the spasms of a strong orgasm thighs, no, with most of them it either did not exist, or it was not so expectedly grandiose, a small splash, a little trembling all over the body, then silence and a dissatisfied grimace on the face, looming over you in anticipation.

dysfunctional, they spat bile and animalistic hisses, as if it was kind of an insult to them, although you never threw it on them, you know it's just your problem, let them know, looking at the sparkling eyes and proudly puffing chest — when they said that you slept with the wrong people, that they will definitely be able to make you drown in your climax and unearthly pleasure, but in the end, everything is the same.

you didn't let it parasitize your mental health, but you stopped looking for sex and turned away any attempts to start a relationship, preferring to therapy and numerous consultations, learning different techniques of self stimulation, erotic media and countless sex toys, and little by little, it became easier, but still, you were different, your pleasure more imperceptible, easy flowing, a short flicker, until you met john at another boredom night.

johathan price, as he introduced himself, is a charming man — a type that is found in romcoms, easy going, charming, a man big and strong, adorned with his age in the form of gray hair the color of cigarette ashes, neat beard and a mustache, deep wrinkles in the corners of his purest blue eyes, softness in the once steel strong muscles, which are now protected by a small weight, smoky laughter, scars on his arms and body that speak of the years spent on the battlefield, and yet he lost neither his beauty nor his sanity.

a natural, he communicates with a special ease that attracts the attention of everyone around him, as if a charm has been unleashed in the room, tactile, and his physical contact most likely confused more than one innocent young lamb, and you are no exception, not in front of him, not when he has already managed to see all your innermost secrets, seep through locked doors and rusty keyholes, undressing you layer by layer, sweet speech, warm drinks, a heavy and warm hand on your knee until you give in.

you promised, but john's kisses are as tart as whiskey and cigars, sweeter than honey and candies that burn the palate, his touches are deep, digging nails and fingers into the softness of the flesh, and at the same time stroking along all the curves, softening, he smells of something woody sea, tickling the nose and neck, where his beard scratches sensitively, chasing the kisses and bites, blossoming flowers of hickeys left behind, making you arch towards him pliantly, cling to his broad shoulders and strong forearms.

john lays you out in front of him more easily than poker cards, puts you back together easier than tetris, looks at a naked, vulnerable body with an undisguised, smoldering desire and a clear plan, not allowing himself a drop of pleasure until he satisfies you in the first place, no matter how hurting his cock looks, swollen and blazing rudy, beading pearls of leaking precum, heavy between his hairy legs, bracketing yours, as if to cage.

even when you pull at his hair, sighing languidly and moaning softly — telling him that it will take too long, it's not worth it, his growl shuts you up with a shudder of your spine, his calloused fingers running through the sopping mess of your cunt, stroking the folds, slippery and wet, fluttering at the touch along with the clench of your hole, needy and pulsating, eager for his hands and mouth as he get's to his work.

slick smeared all the way up to your labia, glistening all over your flesh, your thighs, as john's thumb runs up your sex in wonder, assessing, staining sticky and salty, savoring your tiny reactions, little twitches, shudders, sensitive keens from above, relaxing you to the point where you slip along the edges of your bubble, hazy and malleable, and only then he gives your cunt his mouth.

licking hungrily up the seam of your cunt, the savory taste coating his tongue right away, pulling a thundering groan, as he laves over, sucking at the hardened little nub he bumps into, slurping in his hot, drooling mouth, as your slick starts matting his messed beard, while you throb beneath his swelling lips, making him alternate between sucking and lapping up what slick gushes from you in shining rivulets, your body brimming with need, pleasure rolling in, arousal so sudden and strong your blood feels thick with it.

it's comes harder, this time, maybe because you denied yourself a person's sexual contact for too long, but this time, you cum with your legs clamping tight from being unable to fight this electricity, zapping through your whole body as you flood john's mouth with your slick, your back bowing, crumpling the sheets below as you almost hit your head against the headboard, his warm palm settling over the top, shielding, as you hiccup a chorus of moans, under the rasping coo of his voice, no note of being full of himself, cocky, just sweet encouragement of you.

only then, when sure that you've been at the throes of your pleasure, john acknowledges the bobbing weight of his painfully engorged, hard cock, wrapping a calloused palm around the length, slicked from the amount of pre his skin is coated in, jerking once, twice, thumbing against his slit with a huffed grunt of pleasure, before lining towards your gaping hole, the messy curls of his pubic hair brushing against your tingling, now sensitive skin, as you stretch around the girth of him, feeded gently till he's bottoming out.

mind still sluggish with lust, you push your his hips down, trying to take more, to make the deliciously slow thrusts turn into something more, rougher, as your blood sings for it, so john pulls back, lifts your hips, grip more bruising, and blessedly pumps you deep, crowding, cocooning you with his big, brawny body, snapping his broad hips harder and harder, the force echoing as a slaps of skin on skin, the wet squelches, the once again growing pressure inside your stomach is immaculate, heavy.

bodies flush together, john rocks gently into your tight heat, trying to prolong this pleasure, feeling, how you get closer again, so much quicker than any usual, the feeling of it overwhelming you, making your body trash, head hitting the pillows beneath, but he's heavy over your body, and it's comforts you, in a way, as chapped lips kiss your shoulder, and then he nuzzles against your temple.

breathing you in, smearing away your sweat, as you tremble with the need to cum, gasping for it, rocking, clenching with a shuddering twitch of your hips, sensitive and primed for another orgasm, and when your head rolls back with an arch of your kiss bitten neck, white hot pleasure blurring your vision, your every muscle tenses and then you come again, erupting in what feels like a torrent, and john whispers only lulling comfort and proud syllables, groaning deep as he cums himself, shuddering with you.

you're left feeling spent, muscles going lax, sagging into the mattress and crumpled bedding below, it's like your mind gotten into submission, too knocked out by onslaught of all the feelings that your system shut down, and you won't even move to rise up, john's breath coming up close, hard and puffing, as he kisses the marks over your throat as you recover, white spots still dotting the vision, legs unresponsive, so you just curl, and he drags his mouth over your warm skin, each kiss as a reward.

he won't say too much, wouldn't even bring what happened during sex, he has no permission to, no control over your body, it's only your merit that you trusted, relaxed, let the pleasure slip through your fingertips and climb higher, even if slowly, john just happened to be there at the right time, and he won't oblige you to anything, as you slowly fall asleep in his arms — but if you'll linger in the morning instead of disappearing away, he won't mind cooking you breakfast.

main masterlist. quidelines.

#𐔌 . 𝘫𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 .ᐟ #john price smut #john price x female reader #john price fluff #john price x f!reader #john price comfort #john price x reader #captain john price fluff #captain john price x reader #captain john price smut #captain john price x female reader #john price drabble #captain john price x you #captain price smut #john price x you #captain john price fanfic #john price cod

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 3 days ago

Text

Something constant. | joel miller x f!reader, 9.1k

Summary: You are Tommy’s best friend, Joel’s constant complication- the one woman he can’t touch without breaking. But when years of tension finally snap, Joel has no choice but to face what he’s been running from: the fact that you’ve always been his, whether he deserves you or not.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST (like- I'm putting them through it like my life depends on it)(it does.), SMUT, reader is 5 yrs younger than Tommy, so that leaves a 10 yrs age gap with our man, emotional and physical abuse, toxic dynamics: mentions of abusive family but nothing descriptive or graphic, mentions of abusive boyfriends and unhealthy relationships in general but nothing descriptive or graphic, substance use: mentions of gambling and intense sexual content: grinding, nipple play, fingering, cum eating, unprotected PIV, dom!Joel. Please be aware and read responsibly.

A/N: Well, well, well- what do we have here? It’s been almost a year since I last posted anything of mine. This is not some breakthrough, or something you haven’t read before. For some reason, I decided to forgo dividers and use titles instead. Where did that come from? Lord knows. The writing and rhythm feel a bit different, especially in the beginning- don’t ask me to explain, I’m not a trained professional. I also think I used dashes more than I ever have before, maybe I'm addicted, who knows. (They made sense, ok?) Anyway, I don’t know why I’m rambling; I don’t even know if you still remember me, but hey-(oh look, another dash!) I'm still here and I’ve missed you guys!

P.S.: Oh- oh and please don’t forget, as always, I hate summaries!

Dividers by @cafekitsune

They say you only get what you think you deserve in this life.

They must be gravely wrong then, because you don’t think you deserve Joel Miller. Not for one second. And yet, somehow.. here you are.

But let’s take things from the beginning.

The past.

You and Tommy met when you were young. Well, he was young. You were young..er. Which, by default, made Joel the old..er brother.

You and Tommy became fast, inseparable friends. You were both drawn to mischief and that made you almost instantly thick as thieves. He’s always been like a brother to you. You spent summers at the Millers’, crashed there during rough times.

You didn’t have a stable home life. You learned from a young age to adapt.

Actually, you learned a handful of helpful things: how to read faces, microexpressions, words unsaid and gestures unmade. When to activate your sympathetic or parasympathetic systems. When to freeze. When to hide. When to run. Especially where to run.

The destination was always the same, the Millers’ house. Tommy and by extension Joel, became your lifeline.

The one person you could never read to save your life though, was Joel Miller.

Joel, always wiser, quieter, intense. You called him “sir” jokingly. He called you “kid.” Typical.

He wasn’t warm, but he was reliable. Always picking Tommy up from trouble. Always fixing things. Always there.

You admired him before you even understood why. He never faltered. Never drifted.

As you grew up, that admiration turned into something deeper. But beyond that, all you could ever figure out was that he didn’t like you all that much. You guessed you were used to that. You’d had your whole life training for it.

The hidden love.

You never said anything. Joel treated you like a kid.

Even as you matured, he stayed distant, protective, but formal.

You kept it to yourself, how you felt about him and tried to date others. No one ever measured up. Of course they didn’t. They didn’t even give you the bare minimum.

But even when they did -rarely- your heart was singing only for Joel.

What a stupid fixation, you thought.

To crave the safe. To long for the normal. To love the constant.

But he provided. So you did.

Truth be told, you’ve never shared much with Joel. He was always orbiting your friendship with Tommy, anyway. He was the big brother. He was always around, mostly to keep an eye on Tommy, if you had to guess. So, inevitably, he ended up getting to know parts of your life, of you.

Like right now, when you wish more than anything that he never knew you at all.

You see, you’re in a bad relationship. You don’t tell Joel as much. You never would.

But Tommy knows.

And if Tommy knows, Joel does too.

Because Joel is observant. He always watches. He always has.

Like you said, to keep Tommy straight. Wasn’t his fault if you were always around. So it wasn’t that hard to figure you out. To notice things.

Like you, clinging to people who give crumbs of affection, because you grew up without real support.

Like you, staying with your boyfriend after he apologizes, crying, believing it meant change.

The sleepover.

Tommy lets you crash at Joel’s place. You don't even need to ask; it’s practically a given. He thinks it’s casual, just like always.

You feel safe there, even with Joel being standoffish. He never kicked you out, though. His door was always open when you needed it and that meant something. It had to, right?

But when you settle into the familiar room and mattress, you have a confession to make. You admit to Tommy that you forgave your boyfriend because “he cried and I thought maybe he deserved another chance.”

“Jesus..” Tommy sighs, his brows pinched in frustration. Not at you but at the lucky bastard who’s havin’ it easy.

He doesn’t know what else to say to make you see; you are enough. Enough to stand on your own. You don’t need anyone else to feel whole. Complete. Relevant. Seen.

But who is he to talk? He’s always carryin’ his own demons, makin’ his own same mistakes; always havin’ Joel anchor him to reality, like you’re havin’ him.

Tommy sits on the bed next to you, searching your eyes. “What are you not tellin’ me?”, his voice soft and caring like a knuckle brushing against a cheek.

Goddamn Miller brothers and their ability to read you like an open book.

You avoid his gaze, looking anywhere but him.

He calls your name now, sternly. Serious. Patience was never really his strong suit, but then again, you already knew that. “Done playin’ games, darlin’.”

Tommy pinches your chin, forces your eyes on his. “Spit it out.” He speaks like he’s scolding you, but his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles.

You start stammering, the words to admit your level of failure elude you, like smoke curling in the air. You pick at a loose thread on the blanket. Your knee bounces once, then twice. You suck in a breath like it’ll help you speak. It doesn’t.

“I- I-” you exhale loudly. You rehearse the sentence in your head but it comes out wrong every time. Too much. Too small. Too pathetic. You hate that it’s even real. “I think he spent all of my savings on gambling.”

Silence.

It hangs there, thick and heavy, filling the room like smoke. You don’t dare look at him. You regret saying it already. It feels too real now, like speaking it out loud makes it official.

Tommy doesn’t respond right away.

You half-expect him to curse, maybe yell. You’ve seen that version of him. Loud, angry, Miller.

But when he finally moves, it’s quiet. Gentle.

He rubs a hand down his face, exhales slowly, the kind of breath that says I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Then, softer than you were ready for- “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Your eyes stay glued to the worn edge of the blanket you’re gripping. “I dunno.” Your voice is small. Pathetic. “Guess I didn’t wanna see it.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor for a moment before glancing your way. “You gonna tell Joel?”

That makes your head snap up. “What? No- no. I don’t want him to know. He’ll just-”

You stop. You don’t even know what exactly you’re afraid of. Joel being disappointed? Joel being right? Joel looking at you like you’re one of those strays he has to keep out of the yard?

Tommy narrows his eyes just a bit. “He ain’t like that, you know.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know how he looks at me.”

Tommy gives a little snort. Amused. Tired. “Pretty sure you don’t know how he looks at you.”

Your breath catches. And now you have to look away.

He sees it. Of course he does. Goddamn Miller brothers.

Tommy doesn’t press. He just shifts closer on the mattress, hand resting lightly on your shoulder. No pressure. Just there.

“You’re not stayin’ with him anymore,” he says. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”

That “we” shouldn’t hit you in the chest the way it does.

But it does.

You nod once, quietly. You don’t say thank you. Not because you’re not grateful, but because you’ve learned that some kindnesses are too big for words.

Joel’s Judgment.

Sunlight’s starting to crawl into the kitchen. Joel’s already up, nursing his coffee, sleeves pushed up, working a stubborn hinge loose on the cabinet door.

Always fixing what breaks, never what’s breaking him.

He’s got that tired, focused look, the one he wears when there’s too much on his mind and nowhere to put it.

Tommy walks in after a while, hair still a mess, rubbing sleep from his eyes. You’re not around, maybe still in the spare room, maybe hiding from the weight of everything.

Joel doesn’t ask, not directly. He never does. But he eyes the hallway, then glances at Tommy.

“Everything alright with her?”, he asks almost indifferent while still working on the cabinet door.

Tommy runs a hand over his face. Hesitates. Then shrugs.

“She always ends up with assholes, doesn’t she?” Joel mutters under his breath.

Not angry. Not cold. Just.. detached. Like he’s trying to put you in a box he can label and keep at a safe distance.

Tommy’s halfway to the coffee pot when he freezes.

His voice comes out sharper than intended.

“Jesus, Joel.”

Joel looks up, brows raised. “What?”

Tommy slams the pot down harder than necessary. “She thought she could trust him. He cried, said he’d change, you know how that goes.”

Joel watches him now, more alert. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Tommy exhales through his nose, pacing once. Shit. Then- too late to take it back- “..The bastard drained her savings. All of it. Gambling.”

Silence.

Joel blinks once. Sets the screwdriver down slow, deliberate. Like he actively accepts he’s capable of murder right at this moment.

“You serious?”

Tommy just nods, jaw tight.

Joel doesn’t say anything at first. His face hardens, not with judgment, but with something else. Something Tommy has seen too many times before. That cold, calculating kind of quiet. Like when a storm’s just out of sight but already coming.

He glances back toward the hallway.

And for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller looks like he might actually break something.

The confrontation.

“Is she really that stupid?”

Joel’s voice cuts through the air, low, gritted, sharp like broken glass.

You weren’t even trying to eavesdrop. Just happened to walk toward the kitchen, bare feet soft on old floorboards, the kind that creak at the worst moments.

But now you’re at the doorframe.

And you’ve heard it.

They both freeze when they see you.

Tommy’s mouth parts like he might say something -anything- but Joel gets there first. He takes a step forward, guilt blooming all over his face.

"Wait-", time fractures; each fraction of a second splitting into aching pieces, stretching into eternity, as he struggles to find the right words. "That’s not-"

You flinch back. Not from fear, from instinct. Like touching him would burn.

Your eyes are glassy, breath stuck somewhere between your chest and throat.

You tried so fucking hard. For years.

To believe he didn’t despise you. That it was just the way he was, guarded, quiet, rough around the edges. Maybe, just maybe, under all that brooding, he gave a damn. Not enough to love you, but enough to keep you torturing yourself. Hoping.

You clung to scraps. Glances. The open door. The silence that wasn’t quite rejection.

But now- now you have your answer.

He reaches out and you step further back, hand half-raised like a warning.

“Don’t.”

Your voice cracks.

“You’re cruel, Joel.” His name tastes foreign, like something you were never meant to say out loud. Not in this kind of sentence. Not aimed at you.

He flinches.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be alone and still try to believe people can be good. That they’ll change. That you matter enough for someone to try.”

You laugh bitterly. Short, sharp.

“I used to think that was my strength, it gave me hope, nurtured my heart.”

You shrug, mouth twisting.

“Now I just feel stupid.”

Joel opens his mouth and this time his voice is soft. A crack in the armor.

“Sweetheart-”

It halts you.

Like something forgotten and fragile just cracked open in your chest.

He’s never called you that. Never reached for softness when it came to you. You were always kid, background noise, someone tolerated.

But this- this name, heavy with something almost gentle- it lingers.

Uninvited warmth in the middle of a wound. A wrong word at the worst possible moment.

And just like that, you falter.

Your footing slips, like the floor forgot how to hold you. You hate that it gets to you. You hate that part of you still wants it to mean something.

You snap.

“No.”

You shake your head, fast, like you're trying to physically push the word away.

“No, Joel. You made what you think of me very clear.”

You take another step back, voice trembling but strong.

“You sorry you said it or just sorry I was there to hear it?”

He looks like he’s on the verge of breaking. But you don’t let him. A quiet kind of peace settles over you- cold, final. It’s all done now. Sealed. Clear. Maybe hope was never meant for you. Maybe it ruined more than it ever gave.

“I’m sorry. Sorry for having a heart. For seeing the good in people. For thinking maybe, just maybe, I could believe in something better.”

A beat. “For thinking you’d ever see me as something more than a burden.”

Then the final twist- “But hey- I guess if anyone knows what it’s like to be an asshole, it’s you.”

Silence.

You turn around.

And this time, when you walk away, you don’t look back.

The void.

The door doesn’t slam. He almost wishes it did, something loud, something final, something that could match the sting in his chest.

But no.

It’s the quiet that kills him.

He stays there, frozen. One foot half-forward like he still thinks maybe he can catch you.

Maybe call you back.

Maybe undo it.

Too late.

Tommy doesn’t speak. He’s seen this side of Joel before, the kind that hits hard and then stands in the wreckage, not knowing how to fix what’s left.

Joel drags a hand down his face, slow. Tired.

He feels like he just handed a loaded gun to someone he swore he’d protect and it went off in his own damn hands.

He sinks down onto the edge of the kitchen chair, his elbows digging his knees. Staring at nothing. Staring at the space you occupied moments ago.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters defeated. “Not like that.”

But there’s no one there to hear it.

The room stays still.

Tommy leans against the doorframe. Crosses his arms. Watches his brother fall apart without making a sound about it.

He wants to say I warned you.

Wants to say You crossed a line you can’t uncross.

But what good would it do now?

Joel doesn’t need a lecture.

He needs a time machine.

Tommy sighs, low, deep; rubs the back of his neck.

“You love her,” he says simply. Not a question. “You just don’t think you deserve her.”

Joel doesn’t look up. Doesn’t argue.

Tommy nods to himself, jaw tight.

“Then I hope to God you figure out what you do deserve, before she’s too far gone to look back.”

He pushes off the frame and walks out, boots heavy on the floorboards, leaving Joel alone with the quiet and what he’s done.

The conversation.

Tommy stepped out onto the back porch with two beers. Joel was already out there, sitting in silence, the lamp behind him casting long shadows across the wooden floorboards. He didn’t say anything when Tommy handed him one.

They sat for a while.

“She didn’t mean to hear it, y’know,” Tommy said eventually. “Was just.. bad timing.”

Joel didn’t react. Took a sip. His expression remained flat.

“Maybe it’s better she did,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his thumb as it peeled the label off the bottle- then drifting back up again, straight into nothingness.

Tommy bent forward slightly, fingers laced together. “Jesus, Joel. What the hell’s goin’ on with you?”

Joel’s eyes stayed lost in the dark. “She’s the kind of woman who believes in second chances. Believes people can be better. Damn, she forgives the unforgivable like it’s just another Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said softly, almost in awe. “I know.”

“But me?” Joel’s fingers tightened slightly around the neck of the bottle. “I’ve run out of people to prove wrong. And if she ever looked at me the way I look at her.. God help me, I’d take it. I’d take it and I’d never let go. Which is exactly why I can’t.”

Tommy went quiet for a moment.

“You really think you’re that far gone?”

Joel gave a hard smile. “You see the man I am now. But she didn’t see who I had to be. Who I chose to be. I’ve done things, Tommy. Not the kind that sends you to jail- the kind you do when you look out for your own. I walked away from people who needed me. I picked you over them. And I’d do it again, but that don’t mean it didn’t mark me.”

“You did what you had to do,” Tommy said sharply. “For me. For us.”

“That don’t make it right.”

“Doesn’t make it wrong either.”

Joel’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “She thinks people can change. I know they don’t, not really. And I ain’t gonna be the one to prove her wrong.”

Tommy studied his brother for a long beat. “You ever think maybe she sees who you are now ‘cause that’s who you are?”

“She’s not like us, Tommy,” Joel said flatly. “She’s strong, but not cold. Got this light to her that-”, he stopped, sighed. “I ain’t got no business even standin’ near.”

“Bullshit.” Tommy said. “You love her.”

“And that’s the goddamn problem,” Joel snapped. “I need her. And if I let myself need somethin’ that good and I lose it..”, his face shifted, darkening into something grim and unyielding, “-Lord have mercy on anyone standin’ in my way.. I don’t think I’d come back from that.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, head tilted up toward the sky.

“She’s not gonna break you, Joel. She’s already holdin’ your pieces together. You just too scared to admit it.”

Joel took another sip as silence settled over them once again. There was something fragile in his voice now.

“I have a brother, you know,” he said with a dry quip. “He trusts me with everythin’. Even her. I can’t give him a reason not to.”

Tommy laughed bitterly. “I think he’d be more pissed if you kept hurtin’ her just to protect him.”

Joel stared off into the night, beer forgotten in his hand. Another beat of quiet. His resolve was cracking slightly. Not entirely. Not enough. Not yet.

Then, barely above a whisper-

“A man like me don’t get to want things like her.”

The explotion.

It’s been weeks.

No word from Joel.

Tommy checks in from time to time, but he doesn’t say his brother’s name. Not once.

And you don’t ask.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That the silence doesn’t ache.

Then one afternoon, Tommy texts you:

"Swing by Joel’s place. Left some stuff for you in the garage. I’ll be back in 10."

You don’t think twice. You go. You assume Joel’s at work. He always is.

But when you step inside, the air is too quiet. Tommy’s truck is gone. And then you hear a key turning in the front door.

Joel walks in.

You both stop in your tracks. He blinks, like he’s not sure if you’re real. Your heartbeat drums in your ears. You mumble something about Tommy. He nods; says nothing at first. Just sets his keys down on the table.

He glances at you. There’s a hesitation, like something’s been living in his throat for too long and he’s finally decided to let it out.

"Tommy said you.. broke things off."

You nod stiffly, eyes dropping to your feet, like they could carry you away from him. Like they ever would.

He shifts his weight, almost uncomfortable. His voice is low, a little rough, when he dares-

"That guy ever lay a hand on you?"

Your jaw tightens.

Not this again. Not from him. Not when he’s the one who shattered you last.

"Not everyone’s lucky enough to have Joel Miller in their corner." you bite out before you can stop yourself.

His brows twitch and you don’t wait for him to respond. The words keep spilling now, bitter, broken, sharp.

"I don’t let people touch me or talk to me like that. Not anymore."

Your eyes flash, not with anger, with hurt.

"But you? I made an exception for you. God knows why."

He flinches. Not dramatically. Just a subtle shift in his jaw, his breath caught wrong.

Like it’s only now hitting him that being let in -truly in- came with weight. That he held something fragile in his hands and dropped it anyway.

And you?

You hate that your voice breaks on the next part.

"You were the only one I thought I didn’t have to protect myself from."

He takes a step forward. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something wounded and wild.

You don’t move- not back, not forward. Just watching him, tight-lipped and trembling like you’re holding yourself together with spit and thread.

"Don’t," you say, low and hollow.

He stops. Hands hovering like he might reach for you and thinks better of it. Again.

"Kid-"

You flinch at the nickname. Just slightly, but enough. He notices. Of course he does.

That damn observant look of his. It used to make you feel seen. Now it just makes you feel exposed. Like he sees the ache he put there and doesn’t know how to address it.

He doesn’t know what to fix first.

The way he spoke to you?

The way he looked at you after?

The way he didn’t come after you when you left?

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

"That day, I didn’t mean-"

You cut him off, voice like stone, "You never mean to. That’s the whole problem."

The silence after is raw.

He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t step back. He just stays there, suspended in regret.

Like, he finally understands the difference between being in someone’s corner and being someone they can truly rely on.

The tension is suffocating. It coils in your lungs like smoke, thick and hot and inescapable.

Joel says nothing. Quiet again. Resigned. His eyes fix somewhere over your shoulder, or maybe nowhere at all. You can’t tell.

He won’t even look at you. You were always a ghost to him, weightless. Unseen.

A haunting he never asked for.

A slight inconvenience, someone he tolerated for Tommy's sake. Never close enough to matter. Never far enough to ignore.

And that tells you everything.

You’re not getting an explanation. Not now. Not ever.

Whatever that moment was, the truth he nearly let slip, the rawness behind his voice, it’s already retreating back into the dark.

You feel it, the distance returning, sharp and cold, like the final click of a door locking from the inside.

Of course. Of course he’d leave you standing there with nothing. Of course he’d choose silence again.

Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s always done.

And suddenly your chest feels too tight, your throat dry, like your body’s trying to brace for impact but the crash never comes.

So you nod. Once. Slow.

You turn to leave and he doesn’t stop you.

But as you move past him, something inside you screams enough. And before you can stop yourself-

“Why do you hate me so much?” you ask, your voice cracking before you mean it to. You weren’t even going to say anything, but the way he always looks at you, jaw clenched, arms crossed, that permanent scowl — it’s been eating at you for years.

Joel’s response is a gruff, confused, “What?”

“Every time I’m around, you act like I’ve done something wrong. Like you can’t stand the sight of me. I just- what did I ever do to you, Joel?”

His face shifts. Something flickers in his eyes- not anger. Something else. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“You didn’t do nothin’.” he says quietly.

“Then why? Why are you always so angry with me?”

He won’t look at you. Something between a huff and a laugh escapes his mouth, like he’s mocking you. Silence stretches. But you keep going, your voice sharper now, almost shaking.

“Is it because I’m not your business? Because I was always just Tommy’s dumb little friend hanging around? Or is it just fun for you; pushing me away over and over until I finally take the hint?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” he snaps, his voice cold and defensive, eyes glittering with barely-contained rage.

“Then say it!” you bite out, bitter and breathless. “Whatever it is you’ve been holding back for years; say it. Tell me what the hell I ever did to make you look at me like I’m something you need to keep your distance from.”

You’re flushed now. Heart pounding. He still won’t look at you. So you take a step forward.

“Is it because I’m too young? Because I’m soft? Because I forgive people who don’t deserve it?”

Now, finally, Joel looks at you. Maybe he thinks this is meant for him. Maybe he knows he’s one of those who don’t deserve it- forgiveness. Your forgiveness. And something inside him snaps.

“It’s because I can’t afford to look at you the way I want to.” he says low, furious.

You blink. Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t that.

“It’s because every time you walk into a goddamn room, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in days. And that shouldn’t be your burden.”

“Joel..” you whisper, barely audible.

He goes on, more raw now.

“You think I’m angry with you? I’m angry with myself. For wantin’ something I got no right to want. For feelin’ like maybe -maybe- there’s a version of me that could be good enough for you. But there ain’t.”

He laughs once, bitter, shaking his head.

“I push you away because if I didn’t, I’d never stop reachin’ for you. And you deserve better than a man who can’t let himself want good things without breakin’ ‘em.”

Silence. His jaw tightens. His fists clench at his sides.

“I would’ve given you everything, Joel.” you say, voice trembling. “You didn’t even have to ask.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you just said something cruel. His face twists- not in anger, but disbelief. Something almost panicked beneath the surface.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, quiet, almost pleading.

“What?” you ask, startled.

“You think you do, but you don’t. You’ve always looked at me like I’m some fixed thing. Like I’m solid. Steady. That ain’t love, sweetheart. That’s just safety.”

You blink, like he’s slapped you. And he keeps going, like he has to kill the feeling before it grows roots.

“You don’t want me. You want the idea of me. What I was to Tommy. What I never was to you.”

“If I ever let you close enough to see what’s really here,” Joel gestures vaguely- to his chest, his heart, whatever broken thing still beats inside him, “you’d realize you don’t love me. You just mistook the feelin’. And I can’t be the reason you lose that part of yourself.”

But you’re steady now. Hurt, but unwavering.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I feel.”

Joel stiffens. But you don’t stop.

“You think I saw you as safe? You? With that goddamn storm behind your eyes? With the way you look at the world like it already failed you?”

You step closer. You don’t shout; you just slice.

“I’ve spent years trying to figure out why the worst parts of you still felt like home. Why every time you pushed me away, I wanted to stay. Why I kept waiting for one -just one- moment of softness from you like it might be enough to last me a lifetime.”

You laugh, bitterly, like he did earlier.

“You think I made you into something better than you are? No, Joel. I saw all of it. Every wall. Every silence. Every time you looked right through me like it would be easier if I just disappeared.”

You swallow hard. Your voice cracks, just once.

“And I loved you anyway.”

Silence. He stares at you- stunned. Maybe horrified. Maybe something else. You’d say he almost looks scared of you; if you didn’t know any better.

You continue, quieter. “You don’t get to tell me I mistook the feeling. You just didn’t want to believe anyone could see the truth and stay.”

And then you push again, sharp, your voice shaking with rage and pain as you step forward.

“So, I ask you again, Joel, because you’ve failed to answer me, how dare you tell me what I feel?”

He exhales, tired, low. “I’m tryin’ to protect you-”

“No,” you cut him off. “You’re protecting yourself. Because it’s easier to believe I’m just confused than to admit someone could really love you for who you are. Even with all the shit you carry.”

He flinches. You see it. And it only hurts more.

“I do love you.” you tell him. “I love the man who sits in silence and makes sure everyone else eats first. The man who takes the blame even when it isn’t his. The man who looks at me like he’s drowning but won’t reach out.”

You’re toe to toe now. Your voice drops.

“You think that’s not real? You think I don’t know the difference between comfort and love after everything I’ve survived?”

Your next words come softer, almost breaking.

“You’re not some ghost I projected things onto, Joel. I see you. And I still want you.”

You’re standing so close you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his breath on your face and for a second, you think maybe- maybe this is the moment he’ll finally stop holding back. You reach out, slow, your fingertips brushing the side of his jaw, tentative, trembling with everything you can’t say.

“Joel..” you whisper.

But the second your hand touches him, he flinches- just slightly. Like a breath he wasn’t ready for. Like instinct. But it’s enough. You freeze, your hand falling, your face crumbling. The air goes out of you all at once.

“Right. I- got it,” you say, pulling back, your voice thin and wrecked.

You turn quickly. You don’t want him to see your face, the way it crumples, the way your shoulders shake.

He doesn’t move at first- he’s frozen, like the breath has been punched out of him. But then-

“Wait. Wait- no. No, don’t- don’t do that,” Joel blurts out, panicked.

You keep walking. He follows.

“Don’t you dare think that was about you,” he says, more urgent now.

You stop at the door but don’t turn around. His voice is shaking. You’ve never heard him like this.

“You think I flinched ‘cause I didn’t want you to touch me?”

Your fists clench at your sides. Your heart pounds on your chest; you’re sure he can hear it.

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” you admit quietly, trying to hide your broken voice.

Joel crosses the distance between you before you can move again. His hand catches your wrist- gentle but firm, turning you to look at him. His voice is low, rough, but soft in a way you’ve never heard before.

“I flinched because it felt like everything I’ve been tryin’ not to feel for years just broke wide open.”

You finally look at him. His eyes are dark, wet, desperate.

“Because the second you touched me, I wanted to fall into it. Into you. And I’ve spent so long convincing myself I don’t get to have that.”

His hand slides to your cheek- slowly, like he’s asking for permission with every inch.

This time, he touches you. His thumb brushes your jaw, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you in case he loses the right to ever do this again.

“You scare the hell outta me,” Joel breathes, “because you look at me like I’m someone worth lettin’ in. And I ain’t. I know I ain’t. But-”, he leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his voice shaking, “-just this once. Let me pretend I am.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You just breathe -ragged, shallow- afraid that if you say anything, the spell will break and he’ll pull away again.

But part of you still doesn’t trust it.

Not fully. Not yet.

“Joel..” your voice comes soft, almost broken. “Please don’t do this if you’re gonna disappear tomorrow.”

He doesn’t answer, and you can see the war raging inside him; you can almost taste it. The doubt. And that silence? It kills you.

So you turn. Ready to leave, to protect what’s left of you.

But he moves, fast.

He doesn’t grab you, just steps into your path, like it’s instinct. For a moment, he considers pressing his palm to the door to stop you. But after everything you’ve been through, he knows better. Even now, even here, he remembers.

“Don’t go,” Joel says, low and aching. One hand half-raised like he’s scared of touching you, scared of what it’ll mean if you let him.

“Why?” you ask, sharp, trembling. “So you can push me away all over again tomorrow?”

He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. He looks at you like he’s falling apart, eyes dark and wide, as if just saying this next part might break him completely.

And then-

“Because if you walk out that door thinkin’ I don’t love you, I won’t survive it.”

The realization.

Your breath catches.

His words settle like thunder under your skin. You look at him -really look- and for the first time, there’s no mask. No guarded distance. Just raw, shattered truth.

He takes a slow step closer, like he’s giving you time to run.

"You still wanna walk away?" Joel’s voice is hoarse.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Joel’s thumb brushes your cheek, his hand warm and steady now, no longer holding back. His forehead rests against yours, and when he speaks, it’s like a promise that’s already been broken.

"Tell me to stop. If you do, I swear I will."

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like this. Like you’re something he needs to survive.

"Don’t," you breathe.

That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years and then his mouth is on yours, hungry, devastated, like he’s sorry and aching and starved all at once.

His lips are rough but his hands are gentle, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. The kiss starts slow, reverent and builds, deepens. His hands cradle your face, your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. Your fingers knot in his shirt, dragging him down, pressing into him.

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans like it’s a sound he didn’t mean to let out. He presses you back against the wall, not rough, not aggressive, but desperate.

"Been wantin’ this for so long.." he murmurs into your mouth.

Your hips shift and he feels it- the press of you against him. His hands fall to your waist, dragging you tighter against him, grinding into you like he needs the friction, needs proof this is real.

You arch into him, needy, breathless. He presses into you, the thick line of his thigh between yours, the heat of his body unbearable. Every little grind is slow, controlled, but filled with hunger.

"You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me…" Joel’s voice is hoarse, dark and full of disbelief.

You whimper at the sound of it. He rests his forehead against your neck, breathing hard, hips rolling into yours.

"Then show me," you whisper, soft and ruined.

He kisses you again, deeper this time; his tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You think you’d float away, lost in a dream, if the coarse scruff of his beard wasn’t there, grounding you, prickling the skin around your lips.

His hand slides under your shirt, just skin and warmth and a shiver down your spine. But then he pulls back, just a little, breathing hard.

"If we keep goin’, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop."

"Then don’t."

Your lips part from his, breaths mingling in the heavy air. Joel’s hands don’t rush; they trace the lines of your body through your clothes, deliberate and sure, like he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, ghosting over your ribs, fingertips grazing your skin lightly before returning to the fabric. One hand cups your waist, pulling you flush against his hard thigh- the heat there like a magnet.

You shift your hips slowly, grinding against him, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the tension building with every tiny movement.

"So needy already.. what happens when I really touch you?" His voice is low and rough.

You whimper, pressing closer, needing more contact.

"Feels good, baby? Keep grindin’ just like that."

His hands slide to the front of your shirt, palms cradling your soft breasts, thumbs sweeping lightly over your nipples through the thin fabric. He feels them stiffen instantly beneath his palms, the reaction so visceral it sends a jolt through him, something raw, almost primal, uncoiling in his chest. His fingers pinch and roll them with just enough pressure to make your back arch, to draw a broken gasp from your lips.

He watches you writhe, mesmerized by the way you react to every twist of his fingers, the way you shiver and press into his hands like you need more- need him.

Your hands find his wrists, holding him close, desperate for more.

His thumbs drag slowly again over the sensitive peaks, his mouth watering at the thought of that taut skin against his tongue and he swears under his breath, voice thick.

"Joel- please.." you breathe.

He chuckles darkly, his lips brushing against your jaw. His brain is deep in a haze of desire and need; he's not in control anymore. Maybe he never was- maybe he was always waiting for you to undo him.

His thigh tightens beneath you, holding you steady as you grind harder, matching his rhythm without words. His fingers tease, flick, and pinch lightly, coaxing every sigh and tremble from you.

"You feel that? That’s mine. You're gonna come for me, right here, just like this. Show me you’re mine."

You arch into him, breath hitching, heart pounding as the friction and his teasing combine into a storm inside you. His hands roam with growing confidence, undeterred by your soft moans and shudders. You can feel the heat pooling low in your belly, spreading fast and he’s right there- steady and sure beneath you, grounding you even as your senses spiral.

The world narrows to the feel of him, the sound of your ragged breaths and the tight coil of pleasure winding up inside you.

Your breaths come faster, your chest rising and falling as Joel’s fingers trace tight circles over your nipples, every pass sending sparks of heat through you, even though he still hasn’t touched you directly. Your hips grind harder, trembling as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

You cry out softly against his pouty lips, your body shuddering against his thigh. The warmth pools low and spreads, waves crashing through you and he swallows every little whimper and moan like a man parched. Your fingers clutch his shirt, digging in as the pleasure ripples and crashes, leaving you breathless and undone.

"God.." Joel whispers, voice almost breaking.

He watches you fall apart- skin flushed, eyes half-lidded, lips parted and something inside him twists.

The love scene.

His hands freeze for a moment, not wanting to disturb you but desperate to hold onto you. He leans closer, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and steady. Joel watches -intense, silent- his gaze fixed on how your body unravels under his touch, how every shiver and sigh seems to pull at something deep inside him.

His hand stills, hovering just above your skin, afraid to break the fragile spell but desperate to hold onto this moment. His jaw tightens, eyes dark with a storm of emotions he won’t speak aloud- need, protectiveness, and something rawer he’s terrified to admit.

He wants to say something, anything, to stop the rush of feelings, to keep things safe and simple. But the words catch in his throat.

Instead, he simply presses his forehead against yours, breath warm and uneven, trying to steady himself. His body tenses beneath you, a silent war raging inside him; he’s drawn to you like never before, but his mind is screaming that this could burn everything to ashes.

Your breath stays uneven, chest pressed to his, foreheads touching like you’re both holding on to something that would vanish the moment you let go.

"Joel, look at me."

He hesitates. You can feel it- the tremble in his hands, the slight shift in his stance, like his whole body’s braced for you to disappear.

"I’m lookin’."

"I’m still here."

And you are -flushed, shaking, pupils blown wide- but still tethered to him, anchored in this fragile space between fear and want. You watch the fight flicker in his eyes. The way his jaw clenches. The way his hands, warm and steady a moment ago, are now flexing like he’s trying not to grab hold too tight.

"You shouldn’t be."

"Don’t."

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Like that word, like your voice, cuts deeper than it should.

"I don’t know how to do this without hurtin’ you."

"I’m already hurt, Joel. But not by what we just did. By you thinking I can’t decide for myself what I want."

That hits him. You see it. The flinch. The ache. The guilt sinking its claws in.

But you don’t stop. You can’t.

"You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be safe. I just need you to be real."

He looks at you like he’s drowning again. Like you’re offering him something he’s too afraid to take. But his hand rises anyway -slow, hesitant- and brushes your cheek again, thumb catching a tear you didn’t know had slipped down.

"I don’t wanna lose this. Lose you. But I don’t know if I can be the kind of man you hold onto."

"Then let me decide that."

You take his hand. Place it against your chest. Let him feel the way your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

"I already am. Can't you feel it?"

One breath. Then another. Joel exhales slowly, like something inside him just gave up the fight. And what’s left is raw and exposed and his.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Less desperation, more reverence. Like a man memorizing his last breath. And this time, he doesn't pull away.

The kiss deepens again, but there’s no trembling now. No flinching. Just heat. Just his hands moving with purpose, sliding beneath your clothes, skin on skin, rough palms and calloused fingers learning you like he’s starved for the taste.

You gasp as he lifts your shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes drag down your body like a slow burn, reverent, almost disbelieving.

"Jesus Christ.."

He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing around your nipples, already raw and swollen from his earlier attention, watching the way your back arches into him like instinct. His mouth follows next, hot and open against your tender skin, teeth grazing your stiffened peaks with aching slowness.

Your cunt is pulsing painfully in anticipation, your panties soaked and surely ruining the thick denim of his jeans. All you seem to be able to do is beg for him one more time.

"Joel- please.. I can't-"

He growls -actually growls- the sound scraping low from his chest, like he’s been waiting years to hear that. His hands roam lower, finding the button of your shorts, undoing them slowly, deliberately, giving you just enough time to stop him, but you won’t. You can’t.

Your hands are just as greedy, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel him, to know him the way he’s never let anyone close enough to know. When you finally get it off him, it’s almost too much. All of him -broad and solid and burning under your palms.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I want you to fuck me, Joel."

A pause. A beat. Like the words steal the air from his lungs.

Then he moves.

Your back hits the wall again -gently, but firm- and his body follows, pressing against yours, one hand slipping into your panties, fingers sliding through slick heat with an almost broken sound.

"You’re so fuckin’ wet.." he breathes against that sensitive spot right beneath your ear and you can feel his hard cock grinding for relief against your hip.

You cry out as two thick fingers slide into you, curling just right, slow and deep. Your soft walls flutter around his digits, welcoming the intrusion. His other hand grabs your thigh, hitching it up around his waist. He’s grinding into you now, rutting slow, the thick line of his cock still trapped behind denim- but you can feel it. Every inch of it, hard and pulsing through his jeans.

The slick, obscene squelch of his fingers pumping in and out of your soaked cunt only makes you ache more, arousal spilling down his wrist. You’re so fucking close to snapping, to breaking apart if he doesn’t fuck you right now.

“God, Joel- need you inside me-”

"I know, baby. I know. I got you."

He pulls his hand back, wet with you and brings it to his mouth, sucking his fingers clean with a groan that makes your knees buckle. Then he tugs your shorts down, sliding them off you and undoes his jeans, shoving them low enough to free himself and—

Fuck.

He’s thick. Long. Heavy in his hand as he strokes himself once, twice, eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing keeping him standing.

Heat spreads across your skin and you’re acutely aware of how vulnerable you are and how completely ready your body is for him. You lean forward, gently brushing his hand away and replacing it with your own. He hisses at the contact. The head of his shaft pulses against your palm, and your fingers curl around him, unable to stop yourself from feeling how rock-hard he is.

"I’ll go slow. Just.. hold onto me.", his voice is low and thick with need. Your heart lurches at the raw sincerity in his tone and you press your body closer, arms instinctively wrapping tightly around his neck.

He lifts you effortlessly, one leg hooking around his hip and pulling you flush against him. With one impatient tug, his fingers sweep your panties to the side, and cool air skims over your heated skin.

The slick tip of him nudges at your entrance, and a sharp gasp escapes you as you feel him teasing you through your wetness.

He sinks into you with one slow, steady thrust and you arch back, teeth gritting to keep the first cry from escaping. A fierce burn flares deep inside as the first inch slides in, and you instinctively dig your nails into his shoulders.

He groans, bending to press his lips against your ear, and exhales your name as he pauses. Inch by inch, he pushes deeper, every fraction of an inch driving wild pleasure through you. Warmth and fullness bloom between your bodies and a long, trembling sigh escapes as your muscles flutter around him, completely filled, leaving you both panting and still.

"That’s it. That’s it, sweetheart, takin’ me so good.."

He stays there, buried deep inside you, forehead resting on your shoulder, both of you trembling, both of you lost.

Then he starts to move.

Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.

The song of your bodies meeting- skin against skin, the slick, filthy rhythm of it- fills the room. Your moans spill into his mouth as he kisses you again, tongue tangled with yours, every thrust more desperate, more real than anything either of you has ever known.

"Wanted this.. fuck, wanted you for so long-" he mumbles and you don't know if he's talking to you or to himself.

"Don’t stop. Please- don’t stop-"

He doesn’t. He can’t.

He’s fucking you like he means it, like this is the first and last time he’ll ever get to love someone like this- with everything in him, without apology, without restraint. His hips snap into you with purpose, rhythm deep and relentless, like he’s trying to bury himself in you, like he’s trying to leave part of himself behind.

You can feel the tremble in his arms where they hold you steady, the sweat slicking between your bodies, the way his breath stutters every time you clench around him.

Your name spills from his lips like prayer- wrecked, reverent, desperate. He dips his head into the crook of your neck, mouth open against your skin, teeth dragging over your pulse point like he needs to anchor himself before he loses it completely.

"You feel so fuckin’ good," he groans, voice raw. "Shit- don’t know how I ever lived without this."

Your nails dig into his back, trying to pull him closer, trying to keep him right there- inside you, on you, with you. You meet every thrust with your own, chasing that edge together, breathing each other in like oxygen.

Your drooling cunt chokes his dick with every pulse, soaking him all the way down to the base, slick spilling down his balls and ruining his jeans. The sounds of skin slapping skin make you both feral with lust. Your breasts bounce with every hard thrust, your nipples dragging against the coarse hairs on his toned chest, slick and flushed from the effort.

His hand snakes from the small of your back to the base of your neck, wrapping firm- grounding, claiming. You feel your walls flutter instantly under his grip.

“Not yet,” he breathes- simple, sharp, possessive- against your pleasure-parted lips. Like he knows your body better than you do. Like he knows you'll obey.

“Not till I say. You hear me?” His breath is hot against your lips. “You come when I take it from you.”

Everything in you screams to hold on, to never let go of this feeling- this heat, this fucking need. It’s too much and still not enough. Your vision swims with unshed tears, pleasure cresting into pain, into surrender.

His other hand grabs your thigh, spreads you wider and he drives in deeper, his cock hitting so deep it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I need to hear it.” he snarls, forehead pressing to yours, eyes wild. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

Your jaw falls open on a gasp, but no sound comes. You can’t. You can barely breathe. He fucks into you harder, his grip tightening.

“Say it, baby. Say it or I stop. Say who this pussy belongs to.”

Your eyes fill with tears- overstimulated, overwhelmed but your voice still breaks through.

“You- Joel, fuck- you- I’m yours- please- don’t stop-”

He groans, deep and guttural, like that was all he needed to unravel.

“That’s right. You’ve always been. Even when I couldn’t have you. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t touch you.”

He drags his mouth over your jaw, your neck, breathing you in like a man starved.

“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else. I want you so fucked out and full’a me, no one else ever stands a fuckin’ chance.”

It’s too much- the pressure, the stretch, the heat, him. You try to hold back, to obey, but your walls flutter dangerously around him and he feels it.

“Now.” he growls, voice tearing through the air like a command from God. “Come for me.”

And when you finally fall apart around him- walls pulsing, thighs trembling, stars bursting behind your eyes- you gasp his name like it’s the only word you know, clinging to him like you’ll never let go.

“Mine. Fuckin’ mine.” he growls before he follows you with a broken moan, hips stuttering, his whole body seizing as he spills into you, holding you so tight it’s almost bruising. His face is buried in your neck, breath ragged, heartbeat thundering against your chest like it’s trying to match yours.

Like maybe, for a moment, they’re the same.

The aftermath.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Still buried inside you, still trembling- not from release, but from everything after.

His arms are locked around you, your chests pressed together, heartbeats still thundering in unison. You feel the sweat cooling on his back, his breath uneven against your neck. But it’s not the aftermath of sex that makes him shake.

It’s you.

The fact that he finally has you and the sick, gut-deep fear that he might still lose you.

His hand slides up your spine slowly, until it cups the back of your head. He kisses your hair. Your temple. The curve of your jaw.

“You okay?”

His voice is hoarse- too soft for a man like him and yet it holds the weight of a warning. Like he’s asking if you regret it. If he should start bracing for impact.

You nod, whispering his name into his chest.

His jaw tightens, and you feel it- the wildness under the surface, the animal in him that’s never known gentleness without loss. He kisses you- slow at first, then harder, like he needs to claim the truth on your lips.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters, almost to himself. His hand slides down to your thigh, gripping it, pressing you closer, even though you’re already one body.

“You got no idea what that means, do you?” he murmurs against your mouth. “No fuckin’ clue what I’d do for you.”

You look at him -really look- and suddenly you do.

Because this isn’t about sex. It’s about Joel and how, for once in his life, he wants something enough to stay. To fight. To keep.

He brushes his nose against yours. A soft, strange thing from such a hard man.

“You’re not just mine,” he says, barely audible. “I’m yours too, if you still want me.”

He knows he’s done for. He can’t go back- not after this.

The choice is yours now.

It always was. It always will be.

You lift your head, eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“I always did.”

“Then I got you. I swear to God, I got you.”

And for the first time, you believe it.

271 notes · View notes

pixeljade · 3 days ago

Text

I mean, I think this is something where the answer is nuanced

My whole family is educators, at every level. My mom, in particular, always put a strong accent on education. And so, I absolutely did pay attention...and yeah, a lot of people who simply didnt pay attention are claiming they werent told.

However

I know for a fact, in public schools, most of the curriculum is pre-built according to standardized testing, especially these days. As such, the teachers quite often...dont teach more than that. And standardized testing absolutely has a bias, especially in red states! Heck, I heard my mom rant about things they were SPECIFICALLY told not to teach! That shit DOES happen!!!

And even being a good(-ish) student, and being told lots of extra stuff by my mom growing up, I can name several things I wasnt taught growing up. The bombing of black wall street. Red-lining. Basically any history which wasnt focused on western society.

Now, one COULD argue that with the internet today, all that info is available, and so its on the individual for not knowing. But that argument simply doesnt hold up...by that logic, every person alive SHOULD know literally every single thing ever. I mean, ALL the knowledge is out there, right! Its all buried in this massive archive, and you don't even know what to look for, but, it's OUT THERE! SOMEWHERE!!!

Obviously there ARE some people who are just ignorant and looking for a scapegoat, but there's also plenty wrong with the current system. I'm not gonna let us all act like the American Public School System is perfect when its been NOTORIOUSLY BAD for literally my entire life! And every step (such as NCLB) just made things worse.

And even with teachers teaching, as ANY educator worth their salt will say, quite often the students who dont absorb the knowledge fail to learn because they have external factors at play. A kid's not going to be paying perfect attention at school if their parents regularly beat them, or if their family cant afford food. Putting this entirely on people just being stupid is ridiculous, unrealistic, and has extreme tones of classism, racism, ableism...basically every ism on earth.

So yeah. We can admit that there's some people hiding behind this bullshit, while also admitting its not as simple as "just pay attention in school!"

51K notes · View notes

hamilton-here · 1 day ago

Note

heyyy i hope youre doing fine now :))) before i forget this (lol) can I request a reader x lewis with a comfortxangst that whenever lewis is on the track he doesnt mind if he can get injured or hurt while reader has been telling him to be careful and theyre always arguing over it and when he gets into a nasty crash reader reveals that she's pregnant and he'll be more careful now i just think this will be a reminder that f1 is a highly dangerous sportttt u can do this anytime u feel like it thank uuuu

𝒞𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒰𝓈

Authors Note: Hey everyone, I'm alive! I will be opening requests later tonight. Though I still have three to do after this one. Hopefully this meets your request. I hope you're all well. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton learns to race to come home after discovering he’s going to be a father.

Warnings: angst, mentions of swearing, mentions of crash

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You had always known that loving Lewis Hamilton came with risks.

It wasn’t just the time zones or the endless race weekends. It wasn’t the relentless moving, the constant packing and unpacking, the brief kisses goodbye that always tasted like he was already half gone.

It was what he chased. The high-speed danger of Formula 1. The knowledge that every time he stepped into that cockpit, he was gambling with gravity, dancing on the edge of control.

And still, you loved him.

You loved him because he was that person. Fearless. Passionate. Relentless. A man who didn’t know how to step back from a fight, who didn’t know how to race at anything less than the limit.

But that edge, the one that had drawn you to him like a moth to flame, had started to scare you now. It used to be thrilling to watch him thread the car through gaps that didn’t exist, to see him make impossible moves look effortless. You used to sit on the pit wall with your heart racing, smiling through your adrenaline-soaked nerves.

But now?

Now the thrill had warped into dread.

Lewis was older now.

In his Ferrari era, wearing the red that somehow made him look even more untouchable. The fire still burned in him, maybe brighter than ever but it had changed. He wasn’t chasing numbers anymore. He wasn’t chasing records.

He was chasing something more personal. Legacy. Purpose. A mark that no one could ever erase.

You had admired that. You still did. But lately, you’d started to hate what it could cost.

You.

“Be careful today,” you said softly, your fingertips grazing the tattoo on his chest as he zipped up his race suit, the Ferrari crest sitting proudly over his heart.

The Maranello red suited him. Too well. Like he’d always been meant to wear it. Like he was born to be exactly here, in this era, fighting for something only he could see.

He caught your eyes in the mirror and smiled - that easy, boyish smile that always seemed to dissolve your nerves. It was infuriating. It was comforting.

It was Lewis.

“Always am.”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together to keep them from trembling. “That’s not true.”

You sat down on the edge of the hotel bed, wringing your hands in your lap as the words gathered thickly in your throat.

“You take risks you don’t need to. You push when you don’t have to.”

His back stiffened just slightly as he adjusted the collar of his suit, eyes flicking down to his gloves as if focusing on something else would make this conversation pass quicker.

“It’s what I do,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “It’s who I am.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“It’s racing.”

“And racing can kill you.”

The words came out harder than you’d intended, but they were sitting on your chest like a weight, and you couldn’t hold them in anymore.

You needed him to hear you. Really hear you.

He turned toward you slowly, his expression softening, like he’d expected this argument but still didn’t know how to solve it. “You can’t think like that, baby. If I go out there scared, I won’t be me anymore. I can’t race like that. You know that.”

Your fingernails dug into your palms, your skin pinching painfully, the only thing grounding you in this moment. “Then what am I supposed to do? Sit here every weekend waiting for the phone call that you’re not coming back?”

His face dropped just slightly, a flicker of something like guilt, maybe shadowing his eyes.

“You’ve never gotten that phone call,” he said softly, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“But one day I could.”

The words landed like a crack of thunder, final and brutal.

You’d both been tiptoeing around this truth for too long. You couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t clawing at you, waiting at the edge of every race weekend. The silence that stretched between you was suffocating. It thinned the air like you were both standing at the top of Eau Rouge, hearts in your throats, waiting for the drop.

Lewis finally crossed the room, crouching in front of you, his warm hands resting on your knees as he looked up at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Look at me,” he said gently, his thumbs stroking soft circles against your skin. “I know you’re scared. I know. But I need you to trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what I’m doing.”

You looked into his eyes, those deep, familiar eyes that had always made you feel safe.

But this wasn’t about trust. It was about probability. Followed about the brutal, unforgiving statistics of a sport that took as much as it gave.

“You’re not twenty-five anymore, Lewis,” you whispered, your voice tight and trembling. “Your body can’t bounce back the way it used to.”

He exhaled a soft, almost amused laugh, but you could see the flicker of frustration tightening his jaw. “You sound like my physio.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

His hands squeezed yours, as if he could physically press reassurance into you. “I’ve got this, love. Don’t worry so much.”

But you did. You always did.

You worried through every corner, every pit stop, every time the camera cut to his onboard view, and you saw him chasing every millimetre like it was oxygen.

You worried because you loved him.

And the worst part? You didn’t even know yet that you were worrying for two.

However, it kept happening. Race after race. Argument after argument. Like clockwork.

You told yourself it was just the pressure of the season and the weight of Ferrari’s expectations pressing against his shoulders. Or the noise of the media questioning if he could still deliver at this stage of his career, the brutal self-imposed bar that Lewis never stopped raising.

You told yourself it was temporary.

You told yourself he would slow down.

But the more you watched him, the more you realised this wasn’t new at all.

Lewis had always raced like he didn’t care what happened to him.

And the terrible consequence?

You’d fallen in love with him because of that edge.

The way he danced so close to the line no one else dared to touch. The way he made you feel like the impossible was always just within reach.

But love changes things. Love rearranges your priorities. What used to thrill you now terrified you.

It was after the Spanish Grand Prix when the next argument exploded.

You waited for him in his driver’s room, the race replay still playing on mute on the little screen in the corner, but neither of you were paying attention. You’d seen it all live.

You’d seen him fight tooth and nail into Turn 3, holding a defensive line most drivers would’ve abandoned, forcing the other car wide, balancing on the edge of disaster.

You’d seen him almost lose control.

You’d felt your lungs collapse in that split second.

You’d felt your heart stop.

“You could’ve gone into the wall!” Your voice cracked, the panic still clawing its way up your throat, your whole-body trembling with leftover adrenaline.

“But I didn’t,” he said simply, pulling off his gloves, peeling away his sweat-soaked balaclava like it was just another Sunday.

“You didn’t this time.”

He turned to you sharply, exhaustion painting his features, his patience threadbare. “What do you want me to do? Let them pass me? Sit back and wave them through?”

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. “I want you to come home.”

His jaw clenched, his mouth flattening into a hard, unreadable line. “You knew what this was when you met me.”

“I didn’t know it would kill me slowly like this.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Stifling.

His voice dropped to something low, something brittle. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake every time I get in that car? I’m not stupid.”

“Then why don’t you drive like you care whether you come back?”

His head snapped toward you like you’d slapped him. For a long, suffocating moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you blinked. You felt like you’d crossed some invisible line.

His voice cracked. “I have to race like this. I can’t back down. If I start thinking about what I could lose, I won’t be me anymore.”

You stepped closer, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “You wouldn’t lose me, Lewis. You’d keep me. That’s the point.”

His shoulders sagged like something inside him had caved in. “But I’d lose me.”

It hit you then, like a gut punch. You weren’t just fighting for his safety. You were fighting against the very thing that made him him.

The argument fizzled out, not because you’d resolved it, but because you both knew there was nothing else to say.

That night, when you finally crawled into bed. Lewis wrapped his arm tightly around your waist, pulling you so close it almost hurt, as if holding you would stop the ground from crumbling underneath him.

You pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over the flutter of his pulse. “I’m sorry I keep bringing it up.”

His lips brushed the bare skin of your shoulder, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry I keep making you.”

You both meant it.

But deep down, you knew you’d fight about it again. Because what else could you do? Except keep loving him and praying that one day, he’d finally want to stay.

What neither of you knew then - was that soon, he’d have more to lose than just himself. And you didn’t know it yet, but that knowledge was already beginning to grow inside you.

It started small. So small you barely noticed.

The first time it hit you, you were standing in the kitchen of your Monaco apartment, the pale morning light spilling through the open balcony doors, the breeze carrying the faint scent of saltwater and sun-soaked pavement. You were making coffee just like you always did and pouring Lewis’s favourite beans into the machine, savouring the quiet hum of routine.

But when the coffee began to brew, the bitter familiar aroma suddenly twisted your stomach into tight, unforgiving knots. The sharp nausea hit you so hard and fast you had to grip the counter to steady yourself.

It passed quickly, but it left you shaken. But you brushed it off.

Maybe you hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe you were just overtired. Maybe it was the stress of the season building to a breaking point - the endless race weekends, the airports, the arguments that seemed to linger in the air long after they’d ended.

Maybe it was the weight of loving someone like Lewis Hamilton.

But the nausea didn’t fade. It returned the next day. And the day after that. It lingered when it shouldn’t have, curling around your mornings like smoke, settling in the back of your throat.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were being dramatic.

Until you couldn’t tell yourself that anymore.

The exhaustion crept in slowly too.

It wasn’t just tired but was bone-deep, dragging your body down like gravity had doubled its pull on you. No amount of sleep seemed to fix it. No amount of quiet seemed to refill the empty places. You found yourself lying awake long after Lewis had fallen asleep, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting absently over your stomach as though some part of you already knew before you dared to say it out loud.

You’d been keeping track in the back of your mind, but you hadn’t wanted to really look at the dates. You hadn’t wanted to connect the dots. Because what if you were wrong? And worse, what if you weren’t?

Until one quiet Wednesday morning.

Lewis had gone out cycling along the Monaco coast - a ritual, something he always did when the pressure got too loud in his head. He’d kissed your temple before he left, his curls still damp from the shower, his skin warm and real beneath your fingertips.

You’d told him to be careful, like you always did. And he’d given you that same soft, teasing smile the one that said Don’t worry about me, love. I’ve got this. The one that never really settled the panic rising in your throat.

When the door closed behind him, the apartment felt impossibly silent.

The echo of the ocean drifted in, soft and distant.

You sat on the cold marble floor of your shared bathroom, your legs folded tightly beneath you, your hands trembling violently as you clutched the little plastic test like it might burn you. Your heart hammered so hard it hurt.

You’re just being paranoid. Or you’re just late because you’re stressed.

It’s just your body playing tricks on you.

But then the lines appeared. Two of them. Bold. Bright. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

The word slammed into you with the force of a tidal wave. Eyes widening. Pregnant.

You whispered it aloud, your voice breaking as the syllables slipped from your lips like they didn’t belong to you. Like you were watching this happen to someone else. You stared at the test, waiting for it to change, to fade, to dissolve into something deniable. But it didn’t. It stayed. Steady. Unmoving. Certain.

The seconds ticked by. Then minutes. Your knees ached from the cold tile pressing into your skin, but you couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe properly. The air felt too sharp, too thick.

You should’ve felt happy. Maybe you did, somewhere beneath all the static.

But it was buried under something bigger. Something heavier -

Fear.

Not of the baby. Not of being a parent. Not of how your life would change.

But of what if he doesn’t come back?

What if he never meets them?

The thought hollowed you out, cracking something inside you so fast the tears came before you could stop them. You sobbed into your folded knees, your body curling in on itself like you were trying to keep the whole world from falling apart inside your chest.

You weren’t afraid of becoming a mother. You were afraid of becoming one alone. Afraid of raising a child who would only know their father through old race footage and stories told in past tense. Afraid of what it would mean to love someone so fiercely and still not be able to keep them safe.

You wrapped your arms around your stomach, protective already, desperate to shield something so impossibly tiny, so fragile, from the storm you knew was coming. From the father you loved more than anything in the world, who didn’t know how to love himself enough to stay.

You should tell Lewis.

You should call him right now.

But the fear lodged in your throat, thick and unmoving. Would it make him more careful? Would it pull him back from the edge you’d watched him balance on for years?

Or would it push him harder - make him race with even more desperation, as if he needed to outrun time, to win faster, to lock in a legacy before the window slammed shut?

You didn’t know which answer terrified you more.

So you kept it to yourself. For now.

You folded the secret into the quietest places of your chest, tucked it beneath your ribs like maybe, if you just waited long enough, the right moment would come.

After the next race.

After the next fight.

After he’d shown you just once that he could choose to be careful. That he could choose to stay.

But Lewis didn’t slow down.

Not in Japan, Spain or Canada. Not when he skimmed the wall in Austria so close your knees nearly gave out watching the onboard.

You told him to be careful. Again. You begged him. You fought more than you ever had before. You screamed, sobbed and pleaded.

But nothing changed.

And the terrible, suffocating thought began to creep in, gnawing at the edges of your heart like something you couldn’t unthink -

Maybe he wouldn’t ever change.

Maybe nothing would be enough.

Not until something broke. Until the thing you feared most finally happened.

And you prayed desperately that it wouldn’t take a crash to make him finally understand what he was risking. That it wouldn’t take twisted metal and a red flag for him to see that there was more on the line now. That there was someone else on the line now.

But Formula 1 isn’t a sport that hands out second chances so easily.

You knew that. It was always going to break before he listened. The only thing you didn’t know was how much it would shatter you too.

The Spa weekend always terrified you.

There was something about it - a weight in the air, a shadow that lingered over the circuit no matter how bright the skies pretended to be. It wasn’t just the layout, the speed, the razor-thin margins. It was Spa’s reputation. Its history. The corners that swallowed cars whole. The weather that changed in minutes. The ghosts that never really left.

Lewis loved Spa. He always had. He loved it the way he loved anything that challenged him, anything that dared him to go further. And you hated it for exactly the same reason. You hated it because you could feel how alive it made him, how the danger seemed to call to him louder here than anywhere else.

And tonight, sitting in the hotel room the night before the race you hated that you were running out of ways to ask him to stay.

Your voice shook more than you wanted him to notice as you watched him pull on his compression shirt, the muscles in his back still tight from the long, gruelling practice sessions. “Lewis, please,” you whispered, standing by the edge of the bed like you could hold the whole conversation together with just the force of your desperation. “Just promise me you’ll be careful tomorrow.”

His gaze flicked toward you in the mirror, soft but distant, like he was already mentally walking the circuit. “I’m always careful, babe,” he said, pulling the shirt over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric across his chest.

You felt the words lodge in your throat, sharp and unbearable. “You’re not,” you choked out, your fists clenching at your sides. “You’re fast. You’re smart. But you’re not careful. Not when it matters. Not when you’re in the car.”

His sigh came hard, his jaw tightening, the same familiar frustration rising between you. “We’ve been through this -”

“No, you’ve dismissed this,” you cut in, stepping forward, grabbing his arm with both hands like you could physically tether him to the ground, to you. “Every time I bring it up, you act like I’m asking you to give up who you are. But I’m not. I’m not asking you to stop being Lewis Hamilton. I’m asking you to survive.”

His jaw flexed, a muscle twitching there, his body taut like a coiled spring. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked, the ache in your chest breaking loose. “Because the way you’ve been racing this season. It’s like you don’t care what happens to you anymore. Or like you’ve stopped believing you’re mortal.”

His eyes softened, just for a second, but when he pulled his arm away, it was gentle, final. “That’s not true.”

“It is.” You were trembling now, your heart hammering in your ribs, your throat thick with everything you hadn’t yet told him. “And I can’t watch you go out there tomorrow and race like you’ve got nothing to lose. Because you do. You have me. You have us. And -” Your breath faltered, your whole body bracing under the weight of the truth clawing its way to the surface. “You might have more than that soon.”

Lewis blinked, a frown knitting between his brows as he slowly turned to face you fully, finally hearing something in your voice that didn’t match the fight he thought you were having. “What do you mean?”

You almost told him. The words perched right there, aching to be spoken.

Almost.

But the fear twisted in your chest like barbed wire.

What if telling him changed nothing?

What if telling him made him race harder, like he was running out of time?

What if this new pressure only added fuel to the fire he’d never learned how to put out?

You swallowed hard, the moment slipping through your fingers. “Nothing. Just please.” Your voice cracked, desperate and hollow. “Please don’t make me regret tomorrow.”

His features wavered something caught between defiance and something softer, something that almost looked like he wanted to fold into you, like he wanted to end the argument right there and choose you.

But then his guard slid back into place. He reached for his cap, tugging it over his curls, angling it low to shield his eyes. “I know you’re scared. I get it. But you have to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” you whispered, your voice barely holding itself upright, “but I don’t trust the sport.”

His hand lingered on the door handle, a silent beat stretching between you like a chasm neither of you knew how to cross. “I can’t race scared,” he said quietly.

“And I can’t love you without being scared,” you whispered back, your voice splintering around the truth.

Silence again. The kind that left you hollow.

“I’ll see you after quali,” he said, soft but firm, stepping out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. The finality of that click shattered you.

You sank to the bed, your hand falling instinctively to your stomach, the tears slipping down your cheeks as you whispered to the tiny life inside you, the secret you’d been carrying like a glass heart.

“Please come back to us.”

Spa had always been cruel.

But you never thought it would be cruel to you.

The next day felt like moving through wet cement. You stood by the pit wall, the headset digging painfully into your ears, your heart pounding so loud you could barely hear the chatter of the engineers. Every breath felt borrowed.

Lewis had qualified third. He was in the fight. He was always in the fight.

But today, his driving was different - aggressive off the line, elbows out, like he was still chasing something invisible, something just out of reach. He’d found something this season with Ferrari, something that made him push like he was twenty-five again, like the weight of his body didn’t matter, like time was still bending to his will.

And you hated him for it. But at the same time you loved him for it. Therefore, it was tearing you apart.

Every lap felt like a gamble you hadn’t agreed to. Every defensive move felt like a warning you couldn’t shake.

Please, slow down. Please, don’t prove me right.

Lap 17. Raidillon.

You felt the sickness rise before it even happened.

The onboards flicked to him fighting for position, side by side with another driver, the track tightening, the line disappearing.

You knew what was coming. You felt it in your bones before the camera even caught it. No margin for error.

The car clipped the kerb. A heartbeat, desperate correction, brush of wheels. Lewis’s car was airborne. It twisted violently, flipping unnaturally, shrapnel spinning across the runoff as the Ferrari slammed into the barriers, skidded, bounced, then crumpled to a halt at a sickening angle.

The screen cut away.

“Red flag. Red flag. Session suspended.”

Your headset slipped from your ears and clattered to the ground, the sound of the paddock dissolving into static. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

The words hammered through your skull.

He’s not moving. He’s not moving. He’s not moving.

You bolted from the pit wall, shoving through engineers, security, the blur of people shouting at you to stop. Let me through. Let me through. Let me through.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until the salt hit your lips. Didn’t realise you were screaming until your throat burned.

By the time you reached the medical car, they were pulling him from the cockpit, his head slack against the halo, the medics stabilising his neck with clinical precision.

“He’s conscious but disoriented,” one of them said, his voice like a distant echo. “Heavy impact, possible concussion. We need scans immediately,” another called.

But you couldn’t hear anything beyond the roar in your ears. You fell to your knees beside the stretcher, your hand finding his glove still on, limp in yours and you sobbed, your body folding over like the weight of him might pull you under.

“Lewis,” you cried, clutching his fingers like they were the only thing tethering you to this earth. “Lewis, I’m here. I’m here. Please - please stay with me.”

His eyelids fluttered, unfocused, the barest hint of a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “You always…worry too much,” he slurred weakly.

“I told you -” Your voice cracked, the tears falling faster now, splashing onto his red race suit, “I told you this would happen.”

“I’m okay,” he whispered, but his voice was thin, as if even he didn’t believe it.

“You’re not.”

The medics ushered you into the ambulance, and you rode the entire way to the medical centre gripping his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, the panic thrumming under your skin like a second heartbeat.

The scans. The blood tests. The neurological checks. You watched all of it through a haze, your body present but your soul still trapped on that corner still watching him fly.

They confirmed a mild concussion. Bruised ribs. No spinal injury. Lucky. They kept saying he was lucky.

But it didn’t feel like luck. It felt like you’d just watched the universe take a coin toss with his life. And one day, you wouldn’t win that toss.

When they finally let you sit with him alone you crumpled into the chair beside his bed, your shoulders shaking as you buried your face in your hands.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, your voice raw, each word clawing its way up your throat. “You can’t keep making me watch you destroy yourself.”

His tired brown eyes flicked to yours, soft, heavy with guilt. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You always scare me,” you sobbed, your whole-body trembling. “Every race. Every qualifying. Every lap. I can’t do this again.”

His hand found yours, weak but warm, his thumb brushing across your skin in tiny circles, as if that alone might fix all the broken pieces between you.

“I can’t lose you, Lewis,” you choked out, the truth finally too big to swallow. “Not now. Not when -”

Your voice faltered. But you couldn’t stop it now. “I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed swallowed the room whole. His chest stilled. His lips parted but no sound came. His fingers tightened, the realisation anchoring him back to the present. “You’re serious?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “We, we’re having a baby?”

You nodded, your tears flowing freely. “I found out before this weekend. I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure if it would change anything. I thought maybe you’d still race like you didn’t care. I thought maybe nothing would be enough.”

His hand cupped your cheek, the weight of his touch soft, trembling. “I didn’t know I was gambling with so much more.”

“You weren’t just gambling with yourself,” you whispered, leaning into his palm. “You were gambling with me. With us. And now with them.”

His other hand moved to your stomach, resting there gently like the world was holding its breath. His eyes filled, his voice thick with something you’d never heard before a vow.

“I have to change,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “I have to be more careful. I have to come back to you. To both of you.”

Your sob broke loose, your forehead resting against his as you finally let yourself believe him. This wasn’t just his life anymore. It was all of yours. And he finally realised he had everything to lose.

Lewis spent three days in the hospital.

Three long, agonising days where time moved in molasses and every beep of the machines laced a fresh layer of panic through your chest.

You never left his side. Not once.

You slept in the stiff, narrow visitor’s chair, curled up in impossible angles, your hand always laced with his like it was your lifeline. The dull ache in your neck and spine didn’t matter. The cold fluorescent lights didn’t matter. The dry hospital air, the stale taste of coffee you could barely choke down - they didn’t matter.

The only thing that mattered was Lewis, breathing in the bed next to you.

Every time his heart monitor spiked or dipped whether from shifting in his sleep or reacting to pain you jolted awake in terror, your pulse skyrocketing as your hands shot out to steady him. The doctors assured you over and over that he was okay, that his injuries, though painful, were not life-threatening. But they didn’t understand that it wasn’t just his body you were terrified of losing, it was him.

It was the part of him that laughed. The part that loved you. The part that wanted to come home.

When he was finally discharged, you helped him into a quiet car waiting at the hospital entrance, both of you wearing hats pulled low and oversized sunglasses to shield from prying cameras. The media storm had erupted the moment the crash replayed on screens around the world with Ferrari issuing statements, journalists speculating, fans flooding social media with hashtags and heartbreak.

But you didn’t care about any of that.

You just wanted to get him home. Home to Monaco. Home to safety. Home to you.

The flight back was a blur, the low hum of the engines lulling him to sleep in the seat next to you, his head resting carefully against your shoulder while you traced slow, comforting circles on his thigh.

You didn’t let go of him once.

When you got back to your apartment, the world felt oddly still. No race noise, pit wall calls or tension threading through his body. Just soft linen sheets, gentle waves brushing the rocky coastline below the balcony, and the two of you bruised, but breathing.

The first night home, you helped him into bed like he was made of glass.

Every movement was slow, delicate, your hands ghosting over his ribs as you tucked the sheets gently around him, as if the fabric itself could offer protection. He watched you, silent, his usually strong, self-assured frame now resting heavily against the pillows.

You went to step away to grab him some water and get his medication, but his hand caught your wrist. “Baby?” His voice was raw, still cracked around the edges from the lingering pain and the adrenaline crash.

You sat back on the edge of the bed, your thumb automatically sweeping across his hand. “Yeah?”

His eyes flicked down to your stomach, a faint crease forming between his brows.

“Do you think they’re okay?” His voice was so soft, so unsure, it broke your heart open. “I mean we didn’t even get to talk about it properly.”

You guided his hand to rest over your belly, the skin still flat but warm beneath his palm. “They’re okay,” you whispered. “It’s early, but they’re here. We’re here.”

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging as though a weight he hadn’t dared to acknowledge was finally releasing its grip on him. “I want to do this right.”

“You already are,” you said, the words instinctive, immediate.

But he shook his head, his thumb beginning to trace slow, endless circles over your skin, like he was grounding himself to you, to this new future neither of you had been prepared for.

“No,” he said firmly, his voice thick. “I’ve spent my whole career believing I had nothing to lose. That I could risk everything because it was just me on the line. That if I went out, I went out chasing what I loved. But it’s not just me anymore.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his composure finally, finally splintering. “I want to be there for this. I want to be there for you. For them. I want to come home.”

Tears gathered in your eyes, blurring the soft edges of him, but you didn’t look away. You couldn’t. “You will,” you promised, your voice barely holding steady as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his.

His arms, weak and aching, still managed to pull you close, as tight as his bruised ribs would allow. “I’ll race differently. I’ll be smarter. I’m not done with this sport, but I’m done pretending I don’t care what happens to me.”

You smiled through your tears, your hands cradling his face, feeling the faint stubble against your palms. “Good. Because we care.”

His lips found yours slow, lingering, tasting of salt and something unspoken, something that tasted like a vow and for the first time in what felt like months, you let yourself believe him.

Lewis wasn’t making promises to the sport anymore. He was making promises to you. To your family.

The next few weeks moved in quiet rhythms. There was no travel. No schedule. No roaring engines. Just you and him, wrapped in the stillness of recovery.

You spent lazy mornings curled up on the couch, your hand resting over his as you flipped through baby name lists that made him groan and laugh in equal measure.

You caught him absently scrolling through baby gear on his phone, pretending not to care but his favourites folder said otherwise.

He went to physiotherapy religiously, never once skipping, never once complaining not because he was in a rush to return to the car, but because he wanted to heal properly this time. He wanted to be fully here, for you, for the baby.

He skipped the next race without hesitation.

When the media demanded answers, Ferrari’s statement was simple, pointed -

Family first.

And somehow, that meant more than any podium ever could.

He told you about the team’s reaction their genuine concern, their relief that he was okay, the way Charles had immediately texted when he heard about the baby.

Papa Hamilton! Charles had written and according to Lewis, he refused to stop using the nickname, even during debriefs, even when it made Lewis roll his eyes.

Angela cried when you both told her properly, her hug tight, teary, like she’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

When Lewis returned to the paddock later that season, something in him had shifted. Something permanent. The fire was still there, the brilliance, the hunger but it burned differently now.

He still attacked the corners, still carved through the grid like poetry, but gone were the reckless dives, the impossible lunges. Gone was the blind refusal to back off. He chose his battles now. He picked his moments. And for the first time, you saw him racing not for the risk but for the return.

Every time he climbed out of the car, the first thing he did was find you whether it was in the garage, in the motorhome, on the pit wall. His hands would find your stomach instinctively, his forehead pressing to yours, his whispered, “We’re good. I’m okay,” easing the weight in your chest.

You still worried. Of course you did. You always would. But now you worried knowing that he was finally racing to come home.

One crisp autumn afternoon, you stood by the pit wall, your hand resting protectively over your now-visible bump, feeling the soft flutter of tiny kicks under your palm as Lewis crossed the finish line.

He finished P4 that day. He didn’t force the podium. He didn’t throw the car into a gap that wasn’t there. But pulled out of a risky move on the final lap, a move the old Lewis would have taken without thinking.

And when the checkered flag waved, and the cheers rippled through the paddock, all you could feel was pride. Not because he won, but because he chose to be careful. When he returned to you, his fireproof suit still clinging to his skin, sweat still beading at his temple, he cupped your face in both hands and kissed you softly, deeply, as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment.

“You saw that, right?” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, tears gathering in your eyes. “Yeah. I saw.”

It was never about making him stop or making him want to stay.

And now?

He did. He wanted to stay more than anything.

The labor came fast.

Faster than anyone expected.

You were supposed to have more time - weeks, maybe. Time to pack the hospital bag properly, to finish the nursery, to slow down and breathe before life as you knew it was rewritten. Time to walk hand-in-hand with Lewis through those final, quiet moments of just the two of you.

But life doesn’t always give you time.

Your water broke just before sunrise. The early Monaco sky was painted in soft lavender and streaks of gold, the peaceful morning breeze slipping through the cracked balcony door. You’d stirred awake, your hand resting instinctively on the gentle swell of your belly when you felt the sudden, unmistakable gush.

You gasped, sharp and panicked, sitting upright in bed as adrenaline punched through your chest. Beside you, Lewis jolted awake in an instant, blinking in confusion, his fresh curls messy and sticking to his forehead. “What - what is it? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” His hands were on you immediately, frantic, searching, like he could physically catch whatever had just changed. Your wide, terrified eyes met his.

“It’s happening,” you whispered, breathless. “She’s coming.” For a man who could handle a Formula 1 start with ice in his veins, Lewis unraveled spectacularly.

“Okay. Okay. Okay right.” He launched out of bed like he was sprinting to the grid, grabbing the hospital bag, dropping it, grabbing it again. “Wait did I pack enough? Where’s the list? Where are your shoes? Babe, where are your shoes? Do we need the charger? I need -” He trailed off, spinning in circles, pure panic on his face.

You groaned through another wave of pressure, squeezing his hand so tight you felt his wedding band bite into your palm. “Lewis. Shoes later. Baby now.”

That snapped him out of it. He all but carried you to the car, his hands trembling as he buckled your seatbelt, his lips brushing your forehead in between whispered apologies and frantic reassurances. Every red light, every roundabout, he muttered under his breath. “Not too fast. Not too slow. Can’t risk anything. But shit what if we don’t make it?”

When you got to the hospital, the world around you blurred. The midwives, the beeping monitors, the sterile smell, the tidal waves of pain that crested through you none of it stuck the way his presence did. He never left your side. Not for a second or a breath.

He whispered encouragement through every contraction, his voice shaking but steady enough for you to hold onto. His thumb stroked your palm in soothing circles, and when the pain became unbearable, you clutched his hand like a lifeline, his knuckles paling from the force of your grip.

When your strength faltered, when exhaustion tugged at your edges, Lewis pressed your hand to his lips, kissing your skin like it might anchor you both. “I’m here,” he whispered fiercely. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

And when the room finally filled with the sharp, piercing cry of your daughter. When the midwife placed her, tiny and wriggling, on your chest – you watched Lewis fall apart in the most beautiful way.

Tears streamed down his face, falling freely as his breath came in shallow, overwhelmed shudders. His hands trembled when they cradled your face, his forehead pressing tightly to yours as his words tumbled out in a desperate, joyful rush. “She’s here. She’s here. Oh my God. You did it. You did it, baby. I love you. I love you so much.”

When they finally placed her in his arms, she seemed impossibly small, her whole body barely the length of his forearm. He held her like she was the most fragile thing the world had ever made, his fingers trembling as he stroked the soft down of her hair. “She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice raw, reverent. His tears dripped onto her blanket, his thumb tracing tiny circles over her curled fist. “Look at her. Look at what we made.”

You leaned against him, exhausted but full, watching the man you loved melt entirely for this little life. “What do you want to name her?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. Lewis smiled through his tears, still staring at his daughter like she was the most precious thing he’d ever touched. “Something strong. Something beautiful.”

You spoke the name you’d both circled for months. The name that had felt right in your heart from the moment you saw those two lines. He nodded, pressing his lips to her forehead. “That’s her. That’s my girl.”

Your girl. His daughter. His reason to stay.

And from that moment, you knew there would never be a corner, a podium, or a championship that could matter more than coming home to her.

When the season resumed, Lewis returned to the paddock with something new stitched into his race suit - something that changed everything.

Her name. Embroidered in small, delicate letters, right over his heart.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the media. It was for him. For you. For her.

A quiet promise stitched into the fabric of his second skin. As well as a reminder of who he was racing for now.

For the first few races, he didn’t bring her. He told you he wasn’t ready not because he didn’t want to, but because the idea of exposing her to the flashing lights, the relentless cameras, the noise. It overwhelmed him.

“I just want her to be ours for a little longer,” he’d said one night, his arms wrapped protectively around both of you, his chin resting on your shoulder as your daughter slept peacefully on your chest. “The world can wait.”

But by the nearing of the season ending, the wait became unbearable. He wanted her there. Needed her there.

And so, that morning, you stood beside him at the track a place that once felt like the enemy, now softened by the weight of your shared history and the little life you both cradled between you.

The soft hum of the Ferrari garage wrapped around you like a familiar rhythm. The buzz of air guns, the shouted calls between engineers, the smell of petrol and rubber hanging thick in the air. It used to make your heart pound with anxiety, your pulse synced to every movement Lewis made, every corner he dared to dance around.

But now? Now it felt slower. Softer. Safer. Because this time, she was here.

Your daughter was strapped snugly to Lewis’s chest, tucked into the tiny carrier you’d agonised over choosing. Her oversized baby headphones sat slightly askew on her head, her small hands occasionally batting at them with innocent curiosity.

Her big brown eyes - his eyes darted around, wide and unblinking as they followed the bright colours, the glittering cars, the rhythm of the track life she’d somehow inherited.

Lewis leaned his chin gently against the top of her head, his thumb resting protectively over the curve of her back. He swayed on instinct, rocking her softly, like she was still fragile in his arms. “First race day, huh?” he whispered, his voice tinged with awe, like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real. Like the weight of her against his chest still grounded him in a way nothing else ever had.

“She’s probably wondering why so many people are fussing over just one car,” you teased, sliding your sunglasses up into your hair, watching the way his entire body softened around her.

“She’s going to love this one day,” he murmured, brushing his hand over her soft curls, his eyes not leaving her face. “It’s in her blood.”

“She might end up wanting to drive one of those cars, you know,” you said, raising your brows, unable to hide the amusement dancing in your voice.

His head snapped toward you in mock horror. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Piano lessons. Ballet. I’m buying her a library. She’s not touching a race car.” You laughed, resting your hand over his. “She’s already got you wrapped around her little finger.”

“She had me the second I heard her heartbeat,” he said softly, his thumb brushing tiny circles over the carrier strap, his heart so open, so vulnerable.

The team fell in love with her instantly. The Ferrari crew kept their distance at first, unsure if Lewis would want the attention. But when he knelt down to show her to them with proudness beaming and his eyes shining any hesitation dissolved.

One of the mechanics gifted her a miniature Ferrari cap, the brim too big for her tiny head. Another knelt beside her, gently tickling her toes as she stared, fascinated by his bright gloves.

Even rival drivers wandered over to meet her, their usual competitive edges dulling in the presence of something so pure. Lando made faces at her until she giggled. Carlos tapped his chest and whispered, “Future Ferrari champion.” You gave him a look. Lewis gave him a harder one.

Charles, of course, grinned the second he spotted them. “Papa Hamilton looks good on you LH,” he teased, ruffling the baby’s dark curls with brotherly ease.

Lewis just grinned, bouncing her gently against his chest, his whole face softening in a way you’d never seen before. “Yeah. Feels good, too CL.”

The media kept their distance for now. Ferrari had made it clear this was private, sacred, not for headlines.

When it was time for the formation lap, Lewis lingered by your side, reluctant to pass her back to you. He kissed your temple, slow and warm, then pressed a lingering kiss to his daughter’s head, his lips brushing against the soft baby hairs that had started to curl just like his. “You gonna cheer for Daddy?” he whispered to her, his voice low, sweet, full of reverence. “You’re gonna bring me good luck, huh? I race better when you’re here. You know that?”

She babbled back at him, clutching the edge of his chain with her tiny fingers, completely unaware she’d just rewired her father’s entire universe. You watched him pull on his helmet, watched him settle into the car but this time, the weight that used to crush your ribs didn’t settle in your chest.

Because Lewis still raced fiercely. But now he raced smartly.

As he tightened his gloves, as the roar of the crowd built, his gaze flicked across the pit wall right to you and your daughter, his entire world standing just beyond the barrier.

He tapped his chest twice, right over the stitched name.

For her. For you. For all of you.

When the lights went out, you didn’t feel fear.

You felt pride and love.

Because this was the balance you’d fought for, the life you’d built together. He had everything to lose now, and finally, he raced like he knew it.

And you knew now, without a single doubt -

He was always coming back to you.

#lewis hamilton #lh44 #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 x reader #x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #team lh44 #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula one

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ipc-shareholder · 3 days ago

Text

No budget

Pairing: Aventurine x fem!reader

Tags: Mainly fluff, Sugestive, Sugardaddy!Aventurine, Flirting as Foreplay, Reader is a menace, Gift Giving (more like spoiling) as a Love Language

Summary: You didn’t expect much for your birthday — only a night with him. But when he calls to cancel last minute, duty-bound to IPC business, you brace yourself for disappointment.

Lucky for you, Aventurine never leaves a debt unpaid.

Hours later, a luxury gift box arrives with a handwritten note and his private credit line — unrestricted, untraceable, and entirely yours. The message is simple: "Anything you want. All day. No questions."

You stood in front of the mirror in his penthouse suite, the light casting a divine shadow on your figure, adjusting the clasp of your earrings with the kind of precision that came from years of learning how to look untouchable. The dress—black, backless, liquid silk—clung to your figure like it had been poured onto you.

You were glowing.

Nails done. Hair sleek. Skin perfumed with the faintest trace of something rich and spiced—just the way he liked it. You looked like a woman ready to conquer the world under her heel. And it was your birthday. You were going to own tonight. The mirror caught the edge of your satisfied smirk as you checked yourself over once more. Everything was perfect.

Everything except—

The moment your phone lit up, your stomach sank.

A call. From him.

You took it, expecting something flirty. A countdown. Maybe a reminder to wear that lipstick he liked—the shade that looked lethal on you and always made him late to meetings. “Aventurine,” you greeted, voice warm despite the chill creeping up your spine. “You’re calling to say you’re five minutes away, right?”

“Don’t do that,” he said, quiet and taut.

“Do what?”

“Make this harder than it already is.”

You froze.

His voice—smooth, low, familiar—cut through the speaker. But it wasn’t playful. Not tonight.

“I’m not going to make it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Emergency call with the board,” Aventurine said, words clipped but regret threaded between the syllables. “Final negotiations on the Solaris Belt merger. They moved it up. I have to leave tonight— can’t delay.”

Of course he couldn’t.

You sat down slowly on the velvet bench, one heel still off. “You said tonight was cleared.”

“It was,” he said, and you could hear the tension beneath the calm—tight, taut, the barely hidden strain of someone trying not to clench his jaw. “And I meant it.”

You stared at your reflection. At the way the city lights blinked against your bare shoulders. You looked like a woman heading to ruin something—in the best way. You didn’t look like someone spending her birthday alone.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Neither did he.

Then, softly: “You look beautiful, don’t you?”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

“I don’t have to,” Aventurine said. “You always look beautiful when you dress for yourself.”

That almost softened the blow. Almost.

You leaned forward, elbows on your thighs, voice lower now. “So what happens now? I blow out candles solo in some overpriced lounge while you charm a room full of old men with mineral rights?”

“I’m sorry.” And gods, he even sounded sincere. “This wasn’t how I planned it. Believe it or not, I was looking forward to tonight.”

“I understand,” you said after a beat. Your voice didn’t crack. You didn’t let it. “Duty calls.”

The quiet between you stretched like glass, thin and shining. “I’ll make it up to you,” he said. It wasn’t a promise. It was a declaration.

Guilt hit you immediately. It wasn’t his fault. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” he cut in, sharper now. “I do.” There was silence for a beat. Then the sound of movement on his end—papers shuffled, maybe a tie being adjusted. You could picture him, already halfway into another persona. The mask he wore when the IPC needed him. Poised, calm, collected, charming. The man the world called a Stoneheart. But before the call could end, his voice softened. “There’s something coming your way,” he said. “A gift. Open it. Use it. Enjoy it.”

“Aventurine…”

“Don’t argue. Not tonight.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately, but a reluctant smirk tugged at your mouth. “You really think money can fix everything?”

“No,” he said. “But it will have to suffice until I'm able to be there.”

Click.

The call ended. You sat in silence, one heel dangling from your fingers, the low hum of the city buzzing against the windows. Disappointment curled low in your chest—not just at the change of plans, but at how easily you’d let yourself hope. The room around you was too quiet. The hem of your dress whispered against your thigh as you moved, just enough to reach for your glass of champagne—untouched, still cold.

You raised it toward the empty space in front of you. “To me,” you muttered, dry. The bubbles burned down your throat.

..........

You didn’t expect anything the next morning. You hadn’t even taken the dress off—just slipped the heels aside and curled up on the chaise, champagne bottle half-finished, the cityscape stretching bright and glittering beyond your windows. Sleep had been shallow, your thoughts looping the same question over and over: Why did it still hurt, even when you understood?

You knew better than to take it personally. IPC emergencies were IPC emergencies. Aventurine didn’t answer to anyone except the board and the gold-gloved tyrants on the other side of a galactic comm line. You’d told yourself it was fine. But it wasn’t. Not entirely.

So when the suite’s private delivery unit pinged first thing in the morning, you were shocked. You blinked blearily, rising with the weight of silk still draped around you, and padded barefoot toward the small intake port by the door. The package was small. Slim. Wrapped in a midnight envelope sealed with a gold wax emblem you knew far too well.

IPC executive-issue. Aventurine.

You opened it slowly, expecting something ridiculous. You were not disappointed.

Inside was just a card. His private finance card. The one tied directly to his private account. Matte black, weightless, executive tier. The one coded to bypass most purchase limits. Not a courtesy card. Not a gesture. Not symbolic.

His.

And beneath it, a folded note. Handwritten.

To make up for last night.

No budget. No questions. You have full access until midnight. Happy birthday, sweetheart.

—A

You stared at it for a long moment, lost for words. On a list of things you expected him to do, this wasn’t even in the back of your mind. It was one thing to say he’d make it up to you. Another to send you this. You laughed—short, incredulous, and then you did what anyone with a moral compass and the barest sliver of dignity would do.

You called him to take it back.

He picked up on the second ring.

“A bit early for luxury shopping, isn’t it?” he said by way of greeting, voice low and velvet-smooth. You could hear the tired edge beneath it. He hadn’t slept.

“You sent your private card to my door.” You didn’t bother with hello.

“I did.” No trace of remorse in his voice.

“Aventurine.”

You could hear the smile through the call. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“This is too much. Take it back.”

“But mailing is such a hustle. I guess it just has to stay with you today.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” A pause. Then, softer: “I know I missed your birthday. I know what that meant. So I’m trying to make it right.”

You swallowed. Your tone softened, despite yourself. “You didn’t have to—”

“But I wanted to.” His voice lowered, rougher now, velvet with something else threading beneath it. “Let me have this. Let me spoil you. If I can't be there in person… let me be the reason you feel wanted today.”

You went quiet.

“You deserve more than some forgotten evening and an apology,” he said. “And I don’t do half-measures.”

You exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair by your window, the card turning between your fingers. “You know I’m not the kind of girl who spends half a million credits on shoes. You could’ve just sent a bottle of wine and called me beautiful over a voicemail. That would’ve done it.”

“Oh, I plan to do that too,” he said. “Multiple times. But I’ve also sent your name to three boutiques, five jewelers, and a spa suite that owes me too many favors.”

You tried one last protest. “I can't just spend your money—.”

“You can.” His voice dipped, heat curling around the edges of it. “Just for a day. Spend what you want. Try everything twice. Ruin me if it helps. You have until midnight.”

You could feel your heart flutter—just a bit too fast. He always did this. Spoke like it was a game, a gamble, a dare. But you knew the truth behind it. This wasn’t about the credits. It never was. It was about everything unspoken between you two.

It was about you.

You looked at the card again, gleaming dark in your hand. You thought of the way his voice changed when he got sincere—dangerously close to vulnerable. You thought of the half-finished bottle of champagne on your table and the aching weight in your chest. And suddenly, you missed him so much it actually hurt. “I’m starting with shoes,” you said, finally. “Since you’re apparently so eager to foot the bill.”

A beat of silence.

Then his voice, infinitely amused and tinted with something darker akin to want. “You’ll let me know if I need to send a transport? Or to have something delivered?”

You smiled, finally. “Relax, Aven. I won't try to bankrupt you.”

"You should,” he said, and ended the call.

You stared down at the card in your palm. And for the first time in years, you felt what it might feel like to be wanted without conditions.

................

The boutique was ridiculous.

Crystal lighting overhead. Scented air tuned to the frequency of indulgence. Velvet lounges arranged like altars. You’d wandered in with the intent of “just browsing,” maybe trying on one or two things—something ridiculous, something Aventurine would hate not seeing you in.

You hadn’t expected them to roll out the crimson carpet. Or the clerk to whisper into her earpiece the moment you gave Aventurine’s name. Or for the entire staff to straighten like soldiers at attention.

“Miss,” said one of the associates—hair slicked back, dress pressed like protocol—“Mr. Aventurine has already informed us of everything. You need only choose.”

You blinked. “Already informed … what?”

He smiled with practiced polish. “He said to give the full experience.”

Of course he had. Immediately, you picked up your phone and dialed him with a sigh, ignoring the tingle of amusement curling beneath your ribs. It only rang once before he answered.

“Enjoying yourself yet?” His voice was rich as ever, all charm and velvet.

“Aventurine,” you said sweetly, “I just walked into a boutique and they’re acting like I own the place.”

A pause. “Technically, you do. For today.”

Feeling unusually embarrassed, you turned away from the clerk who was practically ready to crawl at your every want, lowering your voice. “You’re seriously doing this?”

“I told you,” he said. “Make it worth my absence.”

“You sent them a platinum clearance chip.”

An amused scoff. “I’m aware.”

“I don’t need any of this.”

“I didn’t ask if you needed it,” he said, voice dipping just slightly—dangerous. “I want you to have it. There’s a difference.”

You swallowed the smile threatening your lips. “What if I max your limit?”

His laugh was low and indulgent. “Try me.”

You hung up before he could say anything more outrageous. But your pulse was elevated now. Flushed. Unsettled in the best kind of way.

By the time you reached the dressing suite—private, of course—there were already racks being wheeled in. Dresses in every cut, silk in every shade. Shoes, accessories, even perfume. The kind of experience reserved for top-tier IPC executives, and you were just… you. Or so you thought.

Until today.

Until you saw the way Aventurine’s name carried weight like gravity around here. The way even high-ranking clerks softened their tone when they mentioned “the Director.” How they looked at you not with dismissal—but calculation. It followed you like a shadow through glass doors and perfume-drenched corridors. Private fitting rooms. Complimentary champagne. A stylist who looked like she walked off a fashion editorial. Shopping assistants offered rare, unreleased pieces. Security guards nodded as you passed. One merchant nearly tripped over himself to explain which imported perfumes "Sir Aventurine" had personally purchased before—along with a whispered, breathless: “He has exceptional taste. You're very lucky.”

He didn’t just send you shopping.

He sent you into a world where you could see what power actually looked like. And it looked like this: access. Silence. Deference. It looked like standing in a thousand-credit gown in front of a mirror while a stylist adjusted your hem and murmured that “Mr. Aventurine would very much approve.” It looked like being able to say “I’m done here” and watch six people leap to accommodate you.

He hadn't just gifted you luxury.

He had—very quietly—let you into his world.

And you weren’t sure if that terrified you… or thrilled you.

You had never seen a saleswoman so determined to match a scent to someone's taste as the moment you mentioned Aventurine. They pulled down bottles from locked shelves. Poured samples into black crystal. Described them in absurd metaphors—wealth, moonlight, blood, silk.

You chose something dark and golden. Sharp on the first breath, then lingering—warm, sensual, unmistakable. You let it linger on your skin and imagined his reaction. He’d lean in too close. Pretend not to notice at first. And then, just before pulling away, he’d whisper something like: “What is that? You smell like temptation.”

You laughed aloud at the thought.

The world of opulence was dizzying to say the least. You hadn’t even heard of some of these designers before today, but the sales associates? They knew exactly what to bring out when you said his name. Every single one of them. “Oh, Aventurine,” the boutique manager at Maison Éclat had breathed when you dropped his card. “Of course. Right this way.”

And just like that, the boutique doors kept swinging wide open.

At one point, you stood in front of a mirror wearing a backless black gown so delicate it felt illegal. You tilted your head, arching a brow.

“He would like this one,” the stylist said, sharp-eyed. “Too much, perhaps.”

Your smile curved slowly. “Good.”

By midday, you’d already lost count of the bags. They multiplied like decadent little trophies—each one stamped with a brand that whispered old money and exclusivity. You tried on shoes that felt like sin, lingerie spun from what looked like lace and stardust, a velvet wrap that hugged your frame like it had been made for your skin alone. And you were laughing now—giddy with the surrealness of it all—as you stepped out of the spa, skin dewy and glowing, freshly massaged and wrapped in satin.

Since he insisted, you were going to have some fun with this.

............

Aventurine was in the middle of a boardroom debrief when his phone buzzed—discreetly, but persistently. He didn’t glance down. Not right away. The IPC directors were droning on about quarterly profit forecasts, contracts and trade deficits and for once, he was actually trying to look like he cared. But then it buzzed again.

Twice.

He tilted the screen toward him under the table. Your name jumped out at him from the display.

Message received. 1 image attachment.

Aventurine swiped the screen open without much thought—and nearly dropped the phone. The photo was tastefully framed. Cropped just enough to leave things to the imagination, but not so much that it spared him. You were in the dressing room of some boutique he probably owned a stake in, wearing something dangerously red and silk-thin. One hand held the phone. The other rested at your hip in a pose that said: I know exactly what I’m doing.

[you, 10:17 AM]

This one’s on clearance. Should I save you some credits?

Aventurine exhaled slowly through his nose. No smile. No reaction. Not even a twitch. Then the next message came in. Another picture. Different outfit. Lower neckline.

[you, 10:19 AM]

Or do you prefer black?

“Aventurine,” Jade prompted from across the table, not looking up. “You’re quiet. That’s never a good sign.”

“Just dividends paying off,” he said smoothly, palming his phone face-down before another buzz could betray him. His thumb pressed hard against the casing. “Go on.” All the while, each new vibration made his fist clench tighter.

The minute he was alone—elevator doors closed, boardroom behind him—he pulled up the messages again. There were more photos now. Some sent in rapid succession. Some with teasing little captions. Every single one designed to test him. You weren’t just shopping. You were playing a game. And worse—he was losing.

[you, 10:26 AM]

This one has a matching garter. But it feels a little too… generous.

[you, 10:27 AM]

Still want me to get whatever I want?

He leaned against the elevator wall, squeezing his eyes shut. God, he should’ve known. You didn’t just accept gifts. You turned them into games. You didn’t spend his money—you taunted him with it, made him feel every credit. He’d given you the entire weight of his wealth for the day, and instead of running wild, you were drawing him in with every photo, every message, every devilish little smile curled at the corner of your lips.

By the time the fifth image came through, Aventurine abandoned all sense of restraint and hit call.

You answered on the second ring, your voice pure mischief. “Miss me already?”

He didn’t dignify that with a yes. “When I gave you full access to my finances, I did not expect you to use it as targeted assassination.”

“Oh?” you lilted. “You’re sounding a little breathless.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, teeth gritted in the most elegant way possible. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I thought you liked high-risk ventures.”

“I like calculated risk. What you’re doing is—” He exhaled sharply as you sent another photo mid-call. “—criminally effective.”

You giggled. “So I can keep the lingerie?”

“You can keep the whole damn store.”

Your laugh was a caress across his skin. “That’s not very financially sound of you.”

“I make exceptions.” He paused, letting his voice drop, velvet-dark. “For you.”

You went quiet for a second on the other end. He could hear the shift in your breath. And then you said, sly and sweet, “So what’s the limit again?”

Aventurine’s grin sharpened. “There isn’t one. I told you: whatever you want.”

“And if what I want…” you said, your voice suddenly soft and silken, “…isn’t in a store?”

His throat tightened. He closed his eyes for one dangerously long second. “Then I suggest,” he said lowly, “you put it on hold until I get there.”

You laughed, breathless. “Now who’s teasing?”

The line disconnected before he could answer. But Aventurine just smiled, slipping the phone back into his pocket. You could spend a fortune if you wanted. But right now, he was the one feeling expensive.

............

That night, he could not wait to get home. The lights in the suite were low when he entered—sensor-triggered but dimmed just enough to let the city glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows paint everything in hues of champagne and midnight.

He was tired. Bone-tired. Polite smiles, Diamond’s demands, executive ego-stroking—it was a miracle he hadn’t burned down the entire boardroom out of sheer boredom and urgency to go back to you. He wanted a drink, a silence no one could interrupt, and if the universe was kind enough, you saying you were forgiving him after a day with his card.

But the soft rustle he heard from the other room wasn’t the sound of quiet.

It was the sound of you.

And when he stepped into the bedroom, the sight that greeted him nearly made him forget how to breathe.

You didn’t hear him at first. You were too absorbed in your reflection—one heel slightly cocked, adjusting the strap of a slip so sheer it might’ve been made of smoke. Soft ivory lace. Bare skin. Something new— something you’d picked for him, whether you admitted it or not. On the bed behind you: a careless scatter of luxury bags, designer tags, and half-unwrapped boxes. Silk, perfume, heels, lingerie. The aftermath of indulgence. Your perfume— his perfume— hung in the air like a siren’s call.

He stopped in the doorway, chest tightening.

Aeons help him.

Your reflection met his, only the widening of your eyes betraying your surprise at his unexpected arrival, before you turned. “You’re early,” you said, but the hint of a smirk on your lips betrayed how little you minded.

“And you,” he said slowly, eyes raking over you with absolutely no shame, “are dangerous.”

You let your fingers trail over the hem of the slip. “Should I change?”

“Absolutely not.” His voice was hoarse, velvet wrapped around heat. “Tell me, this is what you spent my credits on?”

“This and a spa day. And three pairs of shoes I’ll probably only wear indoors. Some jewellery. And perfume. Want to guess which one I picked for you?”

He crossed the room like a man hypnotized, stopping just close enough to feel the warmth of your body. “I don’t have to guess.”

You leaned in, brushing your wrist under his nose, the barest hint of expensive, wood-laced sweetness catching the air. “Figured you’d like something with spice.”

“You figured right.” He gently nuzzled your wrist, leaving a featherlight kiss on the inside of it. His hand hovered at your waist, not quite touching. “Though if you keep looking like this, I might stop caring about the details.”

You tilted your head. “Even the heels?”

He glanced down—four-inch stilettos, red-bottomed, the kind of thing no one wears for walking. “Especially the heels.”

A slow smile spread across your lips. You turned on your heel—just enough to give him a better look. “Want a private haul?”

His laugh was low and sinful. “Darling, if this is what I come home to, you can take my card every week.”

“Dangerous promise.” You stepped closer, placing your palm against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath silk and precision stitching. “I tried to say no. You insisted.”

“And now I’m insisting you model everything.”

Your breath caught—just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. But you covered it with a tilt of your head and a wicked smile. “Everything?”

“Every. Single. Piece.” He said it like a dare. And aeons help you—you loved a dare.

You laughed, softer now. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmured, stepping closer, “are entirely too good at tempting me." His fingers found your waist. Skimmed beneath the slip. Warm and gentle and so achingly desperate against your skin, like he already knew how you’d feel before he ever touched you. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his lips brushing just beneath your ear. "Am I forgiven, yet?"

You arched into his touch. “I might need to think about it some more.”

He pulled back just enough to let you see the look in his eyes—hungry, reverent, aching. “Good. I've only just started to apologize.”

#hsr #hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #aventurine x reader #aventurine #honkai star rail #aventurine fanfic #hsr x reader #kakavasha #aventurine ff #aventurine x y/n #aventurine x oc #aventurine x you #hsr fanfic #hsr ff #fanfic

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freesoul-07-blog · 3 days ago

Text

Pick a Pac: Tarot 💗

Hi lovelies! This was originally suppose to be a four pile reading. However, the cards I got for the final pile lowkey gave vibe of 2nd pile of the last pac I did.

And honestly, I didn't feel like interpreting the cards again. Maybe the the collective needs to hear new messages for a change? 🙆‍♀️ If not, your crush just want us to leave them alone lol. And I respect that.

Your crush's current feelings for you 👀💥💦

How do you choose your pile? Take a deep breathe and meditate on these images. And whichever picture draws your attention the most is your pile. Tho feel free to pick more than one pile, it may have additional messages.

Pile One

Hi everyone, so right now I feel your person is working hard. They are likely focused on making money, learning new skills, & pretty much anything that would help them grow and succeed. Page generally represent new energy / early stages ... so i won't be surprise if they recently started working. Or planning on building a business. Or even trying to ground themself in reality. However, I'm also seeing a little backward energy with image of the card, as in, they are moving ahead, but not completely over the past. So that was the second card i had pulled out, but it gives off very present energy to me forcing me to interpret it first. Now, looking at the first card, I'm definitely sensing some kind of missed opportunity that this person is thinking about. Maybe they were a little heartbroken with the bloodstains. I can see there are three cups that fell and there is a lot of blood spilling. It also gives me a little three of cups energy. Okay, so I'm getting a message here that your crush and you likely did not have a concrete connection. Maybe the feelings were not even expressed here? Whatever your situation is, this person is feeling the loss of this connection. A opportunity that never truly lifted off the ground.

As I said, they're working on something, building a career maybe, but something happened recently that tug a reunion string in their heart. Maybe they ran into you accidentally? Maybe you texted? Maybe someone mentioned you? Either way, that caught them thinking about the missed opportunity. Thinking about what was years back, or months back, or weeks back, take how it resonates. I'm also seeing that with the blood spilling out of the three of cups, I'm seeing it's just fresh, somewhere they did not expect for them to still feel this way. Whatever the feelings are, I guess it resurfaced, and then they realized that, okay, maybe I still feel something, yeah, again, it also giving like a grass is greener on the other side energy, to an extent. What I'm feeling is, they are so caught up in this five of cups, three of cups energy, they're not seeing the two of cups behind them, like they think missed opportunity, they're thinking about their own resurfacing feelings and maybe like crushing on you again, that they're not noticing that maybe this connection is mutual, maybe you also feel this way, maybe you are also experiencing the same emotions.

I think this pile is mine, because tell me why am I channeling the messages that is resonating so much, okay. With the presence of three of swords here, I'm seeing this situation was likely painful for them at first. Maybe when they first liked you, when they first had feelings for you, before this reunion, it was strong & intense. I feel they were really hurt by something.

Maybe they had communicated about it for some of you.

I'm getting right now they are in a place that they are probably thinking about the pain as well, what they had experienced. They are in their mind thinking about how the situation could also go wrong, you know, like if they were to take a step towards you, if they want to, if they are considering that, then it might turn into something really heartbroken for them. And there is potential of despair for them. Regardless, with the communication energy here, they might be thinking about approaching you. There is a lot of thinking here. They're considering their emotions, they're considering their pain, they're considering the potential pain that possibly come if they try to rekindle something or if they try to initiate something. That's what I'm getting.

Another scenario I am getting is maybe they are in a relationship or situation that is no longer serving them. Maybe an ex, maybe a complicated relationship, family, anything that they are struggling with. Maybe they are in a process of letting go. Trying to heal and self reflect. It could be related to you, but it could be related to something else as well. I was going to stop the reading here, but I ended up pulling few more cards to understand what is going on. And those cards did not want to come out, so I feel like they are in a very guarded energy. So let's see what is trying to come now.I am getting that they are thinking about some kind of new beginning with you. They are feeling it, that they are feeling some kind of spark when it comes to you.

And I always associate this card with Universe giving you an opportunity, a new beginning. So I feel that this is fated to an extent for some of you. I feel Universe has some play in it, you know. Season is changing. And I feel this specific connection is probably there for both of you to step up into your better self.

I am getting that maybe some of you are not paying attention to yourself and rotting in bed and just neglecting yourself or your health or general aspects of life. And maybe this connection, oh wait, I'm probably channeling this person's energy as well. So take it however it resonates. For some of you, your crush is likely not doing well. Not paying too much attention to them. Having a bit of a glow down. And maybe this is Universe's way of, you know, pushing them to have their game up, to pay attention to themselves, trying to impress you so that, you know, this connection grows into something more. That's what I'm getting. This is definitely some kind of divine intervention. And the reason I feel this way again is because even I was feeling this way. I'm like, I was very much in my single era, not caring, you know it's been so many months since I last went on a date or had feelings for someone. So I was such in a chill space and suddenly I ran into this person and we had a little K-drama moment and I'm just like, bro, I'm not even feeling my best right now. And suddenly I feel like that Demi Lovato song: But you ... make me wanna act like a girl. Paint my nails and wear high heels. I don't remember, I think Heart Attack is the song's name, so it might be relevant to some of you.

But I feel right now is a moment that it's kind of a shift in your crush's personality, maybe for you as well, where both of you are urged to take care of yourself and be best. And yeah, be attractive, bro, you're attractive. Step into that energy. I'm also getting that one or both of you are not in a place to be in a relationship or start any kind of situation. I saw a meme early in the morning that when I'm enjoying my single era and suddenly I start liking someone. Bro, what the fuck? I don't want to like you. Something like that. And I feel maybe it's one of those energies. One or both of you are feeling that it's a very unrequited situation. That person may think that you don't like them. They also look at your situation with a very watery energy. Maybe they are a water sign, pisces specifically. I feel it's very pure, but at the same time kind of unrealistic. You guys might be similar, you know.

For some of you, you both might have similar traits, similar feelings I'm getting, because this person kind of looks at you in a way that, also maybe you're like smaller than this person and they like that thing about you. I'm seeing this person with a soft smile looking at you and they feel like you are this one true love. But one true love is like a very intense emotion, right? And since this card was in a reverse, I feel they do have this one true love feelings for you but keep it hidden. I also feel for some of you, this is a very back and forth energy, may have been happening for years on end, maybe 10 years, maybe 5 years, take how it resonates, but I feel after all this time, this person looks at you in a very like a soft way. And, matter fact, the Ed Sheeran is also coming through. Like, we were just kids when we fell in love, not knowing what it was. Like, maybe this person likes you, or liked you, without knowing why. You know, it's just like how magnets are? They are just drawn towards each other. And I'm not getting opposite energy, I'm getting very similar vibes from both of you. You guys are likely similar to each other, but the way they look at you is very original, you know?

For example, you know how Ariana Grande has so many clones? So, I feel like they look at you as this OG thing, and kind of morphing into you. Like, there is similarity between you both, but at the same time, they are kind of taking on your traits without realising or deliberately for some of you. #1 fan award goes to 🫠🫶

However, irrespective of these feelings, it's very internal.

They're not doing anything about it. They want to. I can feel it. But at the same time, they're not able to understand why they are so drawn to you.I'm also feeling that they might not be in a best emotional state. They might have mood swings. Yeah, a little emotional regulation is out of place here. I also feel like they look at you in a very high light, bro. Like you are this star person (as I mentioned already) and when it comes to you their emotions just runs high and they can't stop thinking. Like they just feel a lot when it comes to you. You quite literally are a celebrity in their eyes maybe. Yeah, and I feel there is some kind of past connection or some kind of forbiddenness to you. Like there is just yearning and yearning and yearning but nothing keeps happening. Nothing happens here.

I'm also sensing they see hope with you oh my god another song is coming through i don't know if you guys know clinton kane but there is a song called i think I'm in love and this specific line i heard "but with you i see hope again" ... i feel they feel that about you oh my gosh this is such a beautiful energy i'm dying. I'm also sensing that they are probably in a healing phase right now. They are experiencing a sense of composure, calmness. Maybe with the Fool card in reverse earlier, I feel they are coming out of it. They're recognizing their traits that are not really serving them. Again, there was some other card that spoke about the same thing. They're realizing the things that cause them pain, things about the relationship that is not good for them. And they're coming like, wow, maybe this is my wish fulfillment.

Maybe this is the reward for all the work I have done so far.They have this internal knowing about you. You know, they just feel drawn to you and they just feel this kind of connection, spiritual even, with you. Deep down they just feel very hopeful with you. And they feel like maybe there is a chance this time. "And darling, this is more than anything I've felt before you're everything." You should listen to that Clinton Kane's song, it's very beautiful. It kind of ties to Perfect by Ed Sheeran also. Similar message I'm getting actually.Yeah, I also feel that they feels nervous around you, but kind of playing it cool at the same time.Your crush likely feels that you're very mysterious. They look at you as their other half. You know, they just feel like you guys fit. They just feel like you guys are... kind of meant to be. In some way or another. They just have this deep feeling about it. Even if it does not work... or it's not working out... or it did not work out. I'm seeing this fruit, pomegranate. I don't know what it means. But I guess it means sweet. It means very... Fruity.

I'm not getting sexual vibes necessarily. But it might resonate with some of you so feel free to take it. They also intuitively feel that there is more you than what's visible. They definitely see you as very spiritual. Very wise. Very intellectual. So at this moment, they are just like waiting and trying to figure out what to do about this situation. They might make subtle moves without making it too obvious. They might create opportunities for you two to run into each other. I feel like there would be subtle moves from this person. Maybe they would message you. Or maybe they would say something on their Instagram, if you guys are connected on social media. There would be some kind of subtle way of showing their feelings.

With this moon energy, they also think that you're very secretive, like they don't understand what you feel, what you think. However, when it comes to intuition, they most certainly pick up some cues about you. I don't know, Vernon from 17 pop up into my mind, so maybe your person's personality is like him. They could be very logical, very practical, I know Vernon is T, so maybe your, crush has very logical, practical side to them. Now, I'm also seeing that this person thinks that you have been through some things. They can look at you somewhere they feel like you have experienced things that have really blindsided you, that really cut you in pieces that you don't talk about, that have had you distancing yourself from people, possibly not taking care of yourself.

Maybe they feel that you are trapped in some way. If that does not resonate, then I feel it's just, there is some kind of trapped, unsure, uncertain energy here that this person feels. Maybe they are going through something in their life that makes them feel this way, but since we are doing a reading in context to how they feel about you, I feel maybe they look at you in this way, to an extent. In respect of these feelings, I feel they crave some kind of security in relationship. So, if you guys want to come together, they might experience some possessiveness, a sense of wanting control over what you are doing, what you are feeling. So, there is a warning here. Another thing I am getting is, I have heard this thing also. You should not date people who has a history of liking you.

For example, if someone has liked you for a while, when you start dating them, they are actually dating you with this image of you in their mind that they like. So, when you don't play the part as how they have imagined you, they might not like it. They might not know how to deal with it. I don't know if this makes sense, but I do feel it's important to date people who like you for who you are and not what they think you are. I feel right now their foundation of how they perceive you is very... past Sense. It keeps giving very this thing did not work out way, lost opportunity, reluctance to getting into something, not mutual, etc. You know it's very one-sided energy and that makes them try to control the narrative in a way. If this is not about control then maybe they think that you're focused on your work, your materialism, your structure. However that resonates with you.

So that's it for your pile. I hope you liked it. Comment down below if it resonated. Your comments really help.

Pile Two

Your crush sees you as someone with a tough exterior. I know the man is holding a globe but it looked like a coconut to me. Maybe at one point you were his whole world too and now you're just ... you. Someone they used to know. Someone they still still hold a space for deep inside them. I also thought of "you used to have a face like a magazine, now you look like anyone" ~ change of heart by 1975

There’s something about you that feels heavy. Maybe you’ve been through a lot? Maybe they know parts of your past, or maybe it’s just the vibe you carry... but regardless, it makes them stop and think if they’re even ready to walk this path with you. (As I am channeling this message I keep thing about my ex love. The person I was hopelessly in love with & experienced immense pain with. So I do feel, this could be twin flame connection too)

For some, you both could’ve had an ending already & currently not on speaking terms. However, even if it wasn’t something between you two directly, there’s this “dark night of the soul” kind of energy hanging in the air. And if I am being honest, they don’t feel super elated when it comes to you. And it’s not because you aren’t special, it’s just... heavy. They might look at you as someone who struggles with self-worth. Like you’ve been feeling lost lately, unsure what direction to go in. And maybe, in that haze, you did something impulsive and that’s part of why things are the way they are now. If not you, then them. They might be in that confused space themselves. Not knowing how to come forward. Not knowing if they even can.

Before I even pulled the cards, I felt freaky energy around this pile. So for some of you, this was a physical thing. A very hot, very strong attraction that fizzled or never fully bloomed. Could be karmic. Could be one of those soulmates who come in just to mess everything up so you learn how to choose yourself. And the crazy part? They might feel that way too. Like you’re here to trigger something in them. That’s why this connection feels so mirrored.

Right now, from where their feelings are for you, everything’s stagnant. And they kind of want to keep it that way. Not because they don’t care, but because they’re not ready to open up emotionally. They do look at you as someone who challenges the norm. Maybe you did something that shocked them. Maybe you stood up for something. Maybe you’re queer. Maybe you live in a way that’s loud and honest and unapologetic. Whatever it is, it made them stop and look. Lowkey, they’re impressed.

Even if they act like they’re not.

You’ve got that “I do what I want, my life my rules, you only live once” kind of vibe and it fascinate(d) them. You might’ve even torn their mask off, seen parts of them that no one else gets to see. I don’t think they were ready for that. Also, since the start of this pile, there’s been this hip-thrusting melody stuck in my head. And I’ve been trying so hard to remember the lyrics but all I see is blurry dance moves with guy. So I feel like... this was very sexual for them. Especially in the beginning. And they’ve tried to suppress it. Maybe it was an entanglement, a one-time thing. But it wasn’t forgettable. It meant something. Even if they pretended it didn’t.

For some of you, this person might’ve been a player. But you? You didn’t feel like just another body. You cracked them open. You shook something loose. You made them rethink things. Cowboy Like Me by Taylor Swift could be relevant here. Pile 2... I don’t know. The energy in this reading felt short. Rushed. Like your person didn’t want to sit in these emotions. Like they wanted to get it over with.

So, I'll end your reading now. Let me know in the comments if it resonated. See you in the next one.

Edit: Okay, so I had completed your reading this evening but woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt of panic. I saw someone. & immediately I started thinking about your pile throughout the time I was half awake. I feel your person is still haunted by your memory. In the waking life, they got nothing much to say but subconsciously they are kinda scared of you & possibly what they feel for you. I can hear hanbin's verse from into the i-land. Another song that's coming through is parents by yungblud. This genuinely giving LGBT connection for some of you. When I turned on my phone to channel this message, I had to put my device on dnd cause they were too many messages. So I do feel they don't like facing the downloads that they get about you. I won't be surprise if you even appear in their dreams cause I was dreaming when I woke up. I don't remember anything about it tho. This is actually a theme of your reading... not remembering shit. Whatever went down between you two, your crush really got you buried deeper in their subconscious & hate reminiscing about you in physical world.

Edit 2: Okay. I finally found the forgotten song. The line that has been stuck in my mind was "pool full of liquor & you're dive in it" ... & as I had got the energy from this reading, this song is about get drunk , smashing, and if I'm being honest I thought of peak Justin Bieber. Whoever your crush is, on surface they are living their life, hitting clubs, meeting important people, smashing it... but lowkey I'm getting a violating energy. Maybe to an extent it's happening consensually & in fun way but there is a dark twist to it as well. Maybe they are spiraling and indulging into anything and everything that would keep them floating on surface. It could be your energy as well, so please take how it resonates. (Song: po up drank Lloyd)

You may resonate with the original track as well:

I double checked into the i-land and the verse I heard was "chingu ya nanun da" & turns out Hanbin's line was actually "you're another me, I'm another you" & that really confirms the mirroring energy of this reading so far. There's also repeating message of "let's run for our life" & honestly, I am genuinely concerned about you my pile two.

Idk if it's relevant to you but when I went back to sleep again, I woke up with a dream again.

Me and this specific person were at a closed room gathering where the organisers were sharing some knowledge, felt like they were teaching some practice. The person I was familiar with had some injury and had to walk with those support sticks. Now, long story short, the organisers that beating the people there ... me, this person & few more were not touched cause we didn't disobey them, but remaining folks got beaten to a point, one of them peed their pants and almost fainted. They asked us to leave, so I left thinking this person would follow me. I forgot about his injury and waited downstairs. After 5-7 mins I went back up to check why he is not coming and then I properly saw he is not able to walk, his leg is injured. Now, the bad guy came out of nowhere and asked us, why are you still here so started making excuses but something shifts as he starts behaving creepy with me. Now, suddenly I have no memory of the injured guy. All I thought in this moment, we have to escape, but he cannot run, but again, the guy is not really near me. Escaping felt next to impossible because the area is their and we can get found in snap of the fingers. So, I was just thinking of the plan. Again blur after that, and suddenly I am on road, with creepy people in car where I thought I'll get help. I passed it and sought help somewhere.

End of the dream.

I am getting very sticky, very dark energy from this pile. I tried to provide as much information I could. Maybe the dream will resonate with some of you. Please take care 🤍 Let me know, if it resonated. I'll possibly to another reading for your specific pile to gain more information if you want.

Pile Three

Right of the bat, I feel your person admires your strength. Do you have anger issues by any chance??? Maybe your crush has been this soft/ nurturing presence in your life who has seen you crashing. Lashing out. And gently hold you through the episode. You have very fiery energy to you (could be a leo) & your person is either a water sign or taurus/ libra placements. Very gentle & intuitive energy I am getting from your person. They do have mother like feelings for you. Naturally protective. They may have witness you having some kinda transformation & maybe you're in a process of breaking some cycle. Maybe a loop that you cannot / couldn't seem to get out of. They look at you with someone who has too much going on. Too many people tugging at your energy. Maybe you're fighting with multiple people all at once. You could be in a bad unfulfilling situation that this person is able to see.

The energy I am getting is "Fighting in only your army. Frontlines, don't you ignore me. I'm the best thing at this part. (You're losin' me by Taylor)" ...I really feel you're experiencing a fall put of a relationship. Could be platonic, could be career wise. Something that got you crumbling and this person has very outsider energy as they are witnessing it. It also giving "And you passed right by I was in the alley, surrounded on all sides" ~ long story short Taylor Swift

& strangely enough the line before this was "Like the war of words I shouted in my sleep" & it's 2.45 am as I doing this reading. I had woken up scared. So maybe for some of you, pile two would resonate with as well. They also see you as someone who super grounded & stable as far as your finances are concerned. But somehow the image on the card is giving lonely energy. So, I don't think they can see through how despite the composure, despite someone who comes across with immense self trust, rooted in practicality & knows how make / sustain abundance ... you are deep down defeated. Like you literally won a battle but at what cost??? It's reminding me of that Taylor's speech where she won too many awards during 1989 era yet at the end of the day she had no one to share that happiness with. On paper you have everything, but you still feel hollow. You are likely burned out too.

Your person can see you as someone who is facing challenges but refusing to learn from the past patterns. You're too stubborn right now. Maybe what you have experienced has made you skeptical of things and you no longer want to rely on anyone. Maybe you lost people, maybe someone closer to you unalive themself too. I see that you have this alternate scenario in your mind where you often think about this person where there is no pain. No pushbacks. Just laughter. Maybe you have experienced people who would enter and leave your life as they please and it got your heart blocked. You no longer want to love anyone. It's giving eight by iu ft suga. Your person wants you to come out of that energy and focus on what's still here. Maybe them? They want you to assess the way you're living life. You seek help (cause they want to help you). They want you to celebrate small moments of victories. And push through the challenges. You're one survivor pile 3. I am so proud of you. Your person can definitely see that your burden by your past that you're letting go of the toxic mindset.

For some of you, you could be traveling to take a break as well. You may have a lot on your mind, & this person wants nothing more than to unload your burden. They want to tend to your injured adult self and pamper your inner child. They want to take you away from all this pain, just like the man on the boat taking the woman & child away. Maybe it's a long journey. But your person wants you to drop the sword now. They want you to stop fighting all alone on battlefield. They are here now. Let them take care of things. They are manifesting a new beginning with you. They want you to stop hesitating & embrace what you have right now. Live in the moment with them, will you? Angel baby is significant here as well ... except you're Troye Siwan.

Having said that, they are acknowledging that you're not in the best emotional situation right now. Your inner world is a mess and you're liking crashing big time, no wonder we started the pile with the same energy. They really want you to work on your emotional regulation. How can they help you if you don't wanna help yourself? So please step up into your authenticity & approach your situation with discernment. If you've been jumping to conclusions without any facts, then please change that. So that's it for your reading my pile three. If this pac resonated with you, please let me know in the comments below.

I am sending you so much love 💞💫 See you.

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