#neither side won

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

I had a dream we went to America to go prom dress shopping and we drove past our first gun robbery of a store while the bus played Bella’s Lullaby from Twilight

[onepiece-polls]

Ugly Outfits Tournament - Round 1 Side D

Propaganda under the cut.

Robin: With that hair and makeup she barely looks like robin anymore. Plus the geisha hairstyle isnt great. Same for hiyori and big mom, i would never choose their geisha hair over their normal hair style.

Zoro: He's wandering around in the snow in the avalanche without a shirt on Zoro pls.

[thedarkestgreys]

in the year of our lord 2024 an nsync vs bsb stan war nearly broke out amongst my pre-k students today 😅

[kylermalloy]

When I was in high school I used to perform gospel songs at church with one of my best friends. She sang, and I played accompaniment and sang backup. We were actually really close! Then I went to college and we suddenly weren’t anymore—she’d stopped talking to me so she could date this grown man she liked, who I hated.

So when I came home from college that summer, I stopped singing songs with her and started performing at church on my own. The first one I sang was about how people change for the worst slowly, over time. Anyway that’s MY silver springs

[evonnagale]

Oh no, my angst-filled character study is turning into pornography

oh no my pornography is turning into an angst-filled character study

[irrepressible-miracle]

I'm torn between making Soundwave in my continuity a wet, miserable dog or a cool bad bitch til the end

[luna-azzurra]

Write Rivals With Chemistry So Hot It Hurts

╰ Rivalry isn’t hate — it’s obsession True rivals aren't just like, “ugh, I dislike you.” They’re watching each other. Studying. Matching moves. Thinking about each other when they shouldn’t. Hating how much they notice the other person. Rivalry is two sides of the same coin: hatred’s messy little sibling is fascination.

╰ Let them know exactly where to hit—and hesitate The best rivals know exactly where to stick the knife. Childhood wounds. Secret fears. Insecurities no one else sees. But the most powerful moment isn't when they stab, it's when they hesitate. When they flinch. When the reader sees the care underneath the kill shot.

╰ Make every win personal Every victory between rivals should feel like flirting with a knife’s edge. They don't just beat each other; they get under each other's skin. "I outsmarted you" translates directly to "I'm the only one who really sees you." (And no, they're not ready to talk about why that makes them insane.)

╰ Layer the attraction under everything You don't have to write "he found her hot" every five seconds. (Please don't.) Just lace it into the friction. The way they notice each other’s hands. The way a sarcastic smile feels like a slap and a kiss at the same time. Let it be unspoken, which somehow makes it ten times louder.

╰ Give them one private, honest moment and then destroy them for it That one late-night conversation. That brush of honesty. That accidental partnership in a bar fight. That glimpse of trust that leaves them both raw and feral because now it’s personal. Now it hurts. And guess what? Neither of them is stable enough to handle it like adults.

╰ Let them wound each other in ways no one else can Rivals with chemistry are like: “I know your softest place. I know where you hurt. And maybe I’m the only one who could ever touch it.” Terrifying. Intimate. Sexy. Self-destructive. Delicious.

╰ Don’t make it easy to flip to love If they hook up too soon, it’s cheap. If they confess too soon, it’s fake. They have to fight it. They have to screw it up. They have to almost kiss and almost kill each other in the same breath. The reward is sweeter because it’s hard won.

╰ Make them jealous, but make it messy Not cutesy "oh no I'm jealous" moments. Ugly jealousy. Pride-shredding, shame-inducing jealousy. Watching their rival smile at someone else and feeling like they're drowning in acid and denial. Bonus points if they pretend they’re above it and then spiral anyway.

╰ Tension isn’t just in the fighting, it’s in the silences It’s the stare across the room that says “I hate you and I want you” with zero words. It’s the hand that lingers a second too long after pulling them out of danger. It's the unsent text. It's the "accidental" meeting. Sometimes not speaking burns hotter than the screaming matches.

╰ Remember, they don’t want to ruin each other, they want to matter At the core of a rival/chemistry dynamic is one truth: “I want to matter to you more than anyone else does.” And they’ll deny it. And fight it. And wreck themselves over it. (And we, as the readers, will eat it with a goddamn spoon.)

[neptunecaptains]

In The Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You're finding it difficult to sleep in your new home. Bucky knows how to fix it.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), oral sex (f receiving; I like a giver), fingering, defiling a kitchen.

A/N: This is from a long time ago... was just going through fics I wrote when I used to love the MCU and came across this one. If there's anyone on here from way back then, it might sound familiar. Imagine this to be set in some multiverse where Steve never left in Endgame and everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. Hope you enjoy!

Previous Fic (masterlist coming soon!)

♡♡♡♡

The clock’s just gone ten past twelve when he feels you slip out of bed.

Bucky shouldn’t know that— the time. He should be dead to the world, asleep in the comfort of his bed with his girl warm by his side, full and sated and happy thanks to good company, good food, and even better liquor that can actually do something to him. Instead, he’s hyper-aware and questioning why you wouldn’t be dead asleep too and, before he knows it, he’s following in your footsteps.

It’s jarring, being awake at this hour in a mostly-empty home.

The halls feel too narrow and you still haven’t put the pictures up so the walls look bare and cold, and the dining table is missing a leg so you had to have dinner on the couch but you couldn’t find the box with the cushions which, now that Bucky thinks about it is probably still at the compound and god that means he has to go up there again— 

“Hey,” he hears, whisper-soft and cautious.

For a moment Bucky feels like maybe you’re the one who woke up to go after him, like how you used to do so long ago, worried about things neither of you could control. But no, it’s him, looking for you.

It’s him, finding you tired and rumpled in front of the stove, the red kettle Nat gave you as a gift steaming away on the burner. With the lights dimmed you look like a dream, but then again you look like that at any time of the day.

Bucky’s hands find your hips easily, skin and metal brushing over soft skin and worn cotton. They slip beneath your sleep shirt, a faded old thing he got as a gag gift some Christmases ago— Sam still asks him about the vulgar print on the front. Bucky tries to forget, but you never let him. Especially not on nights you wear the damn thing to bed.

He finds warmth, the same kind that should be next to him in bed right now, which— “Can’t sleep?”

You sigh, melting easily into the embrace. Your nose is cold, colder than it has any right to be with the heat on, nuzzling against the rough scratch of hair along his jaw. “Feels weird.”

It does— the house. Well, home, now, filled with your clothes and your furniture and the dishes you put in the dishwasher after your friends left a few hours ago because our first meal in our new home can’t be in paper plates, Buck and I already took the glasses out of the box, baby and he’s never been good at saying no. The house feels weird and he can’t wait until it doesn’t, with the pictures up, and the throw blanket on the couch, and those damn cushions he can’t believe he forgot.

“Bet you’d feel better back in bed,” Bucky murmurs, smiles, lips soft against the skin of your neck. “With me.”

You hum, could be a snort if it were any time except almost one in the morning and if you hadn’t spent the whole day hauling boxes and building whatever furniture you could before exhaustion won out. “I just put the kettle on.”

Bucky looks at the offending piece of kitchenware over your shoulder, willing it to somehow set on fire but wait, no. That would be very, very bad. Bucky has a mortgage now, shit.

“Okay,” he says instead, shrugging. “We’ll wait.”

He doesn’t notice the time. Instead, he notices your palms on his cheeks and your thumbs over his cheekbones; the way you taste of mint and something else, something like cloves and honey, no doubt from the sips you stole from his drink during the moving-day-turned-housewarming. He notices the way you sink into his body, held up by his arms caging you against the counter behind you, moaning softly at the wet sweeps of his tongue against the seam of your lips, parting under the pressure.

Bucky grips the countertop a bit too hard, gritting his teeth as he breaks the kiss. “How long ‘til that thing goes off?”

“We’re not defiling our kitchen so soon,” you laugh into his lips, sweet. The hands on his cheeks pull his face further away until you’re squinting up at him, lips spit-slick and shiny in the low light delighted and knowing all the same. “This is where we eat—”

“And I’m hungry,” Bucky grins, wicked, matches your own expression if only a bit dirtier. “Might as well use it for what it’s for, right?”

This time you do snort, forehead resting against his own. The sound settles deep in Bucky’s bones, spreading all over his body in places he didn’t know he had, warm and buzzing like a beehive. “You’re so gross.”

He is. He really, really is and he blames it all on himself and on you and the way you sigh into his mouth when he gets his hands above the swell of your ass, one of his thick thighs slipping between your own, warmth seeping everywhere you touch him. He blames it on those pretty eyes and that pretty mouth, those hands tugging at the bottom half of his hair that’s untied, that sweet voice moaning into the night when he nips at that spot behind your ear— 

“Baby.”

"Bucky," you laugh softly, glancing at him. It’s near-dark, the lights still dimmed, but he swears he can map out the marks on your skin, can count every single lash on your eyelids.

"Baby," he replies in the same tempting tone, watching your eyes with his own, so clear and expressive, so stunning.

You sigh, resigned. Bucky doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

“We’re gonna have to clean in the morning.”

“Guess I’ll have to suffer,” he says, hands warm on your thighs hauling you onto the counter.

He’s gentle as he parts your thighs, takes his time kissing the inside until you’re sighing all breathy and sweet, trembling on both sides of his head. Fingers hooking onto gray cotton, he slides your panties down your legs, bringing you closer to the edge of the counter and towards his mouth.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, eyes so blue when they flick up to your own.

Your hands slide into his hair, fingers tugging gently at the hair tie holding the longest strands back. Your lips part in a smile, wavering slightly at the edges as he ducks in, tongue soft and wet against your heat. He licks a broad stripe along your folds, takes in the way you shake almost imperceptibly— only knows it happens because he’s looking for it.

Bucky drinks you in, picks you apart with his tongue and his fingers, wet along his lips, his jaw, and his flesh fingers. He makes it messy, lets you whine and wail into your otherwise quiet home, grinding your hips onto his face and the two digits plunging inside your cunt, stroking that sweet spot deep inside.

You come apart on his tongue, slowly and quietly, a breathy gasp and the rhythmic clench of your muscles against his fingers the only warning he gets before he feels even more wetness pooling on his tongue, dripping down his palm.

“Oh!”

He kisses at the inside of your thighs, leaves it wet and sticky as you come down from your high. His thumbs caress your hipbones, feeling the slight quiver of your core against his touch, reveling in it.

To his right, the kettle starts whistling.

“Water’s boiling, honey,” he murmurs, nipping at the sensitive skin in the crease of your thighs.

You groan, fingers tugging at the hair tangled in them. “I hate you.”

Bucky laughs, throaty and with his chest, slightly loud at a time where the night seems to stand still. There’s only the rush of your breath and the whistle of the kettle, drawn-out and cut off as he turns the burner off and moves it onto a cold, unused one. He gravitates between your thighs once more, lips on yours like magnets. He kisses you slowly, takes his time and lets you bite at his bottom lip, slipping your tongue against his and pulling those sounds from his throat that play in your head like your favorite song.

“You think you’ll be able to sleep now?”

You sigh deeply, looking up at him from under your eyelashes. “You’re gonna have to carry me to bed.”

Bucky feels it spread from the top of his head down to his toes, fingers on your waist curling into fabric and skin. It’s hot and cold, bad and good. He feels it.

“Anywhere you want, sugar.”

Happiness.

[pitlanepeach]

Glass Girl — MV1 + OP81

Summary — Maya Horner was raised to be perfect — polished, silent, smiling. The daughter of a pop star and a motorsport legend, she learned early that love was conditional and softness was weakness. Then came two drivers: one all fire, the other quiet steadiness. Neither asked her to perform. They just saw her for who she really was, and chose her despite it all.

Pairing — Max Verstappen x Maya Horner (OFC) x Oscar Piastri (MMF)

Warnings — Bad parenting, TW disordered eating (encouraged from childhood), throuple (mmf), D/S dynamics, non-consensual touching (not between the main characters), strong language, time jumps.

Word Count — 9.5k

My Masterlist

The hotel bathroom is marble and chrome; and it’s really cold. Maya sits on the edge of the bath with a white towel wrapped around her, makeup absolutely perfect. Always perfect.

Her phone buzzes where it’s facedown on the sink vanity. Probably her mother. Maybe a stylist update. Probably a reminder not to eat before the party so the dress fits the way it’s supposed to.

She hasn’t eaten all day.

Not because she forgot.

It’s one of the only things that’s completely hers—this control. Everything else; her schedule, her wardrobe, her smile, her voice—is curated by committee. But this? What she puts into her body, or doesn’t?

That’s hers. And it’s hers alone.

She stands and looks at her reflection. The daughter of a motorsport king and a pop legend. She knows exactly what she’s supposed to be. Shiny. Sculpted. Successful. A walking billboard of two very different empires.

She touches the necklace at her throat. A gift from her dad, probably chosen by an assistant. She can’t ever remembering being hugged by him for longer than three seconds at a time. She’s never cried in front of him without being sent out of the room.

The girl in the mirror is flawless.

She hates her.

Maya wraps her arms around herself. Not for warmth, there’s never enough of that, but for pressure. To feel something and grounding. She digs her fingernails into her skin just to feel the pinch.

Tonight, she’ll smile. She’ll flirt with men twice her age in tailored suits who call her darling and look at her like she’s a prize to be won. She’ll be photographed beside champagne towers, caught mid-laugh for magazines that will call her “elegant” or “high-value,”. She’ll laugh with billionaires she barely knows, play the role so well no one will question whether she even likes the game.

Her mother will press an air kiss to both cheeks — careful, performative — and murmur, “Good girl,” because it’s the highest compliment she knows how to give.

Maya turns to face the dress laid out on the bed.

Gold. Strapless. Short in the front, ankle-length in the back. Something the stylist said would make her look “regal and expensive.”

She hates it.

It isn’t her.

She likes soft things. Silk. Blush pinks and pale pastels. She likes feathers, maybe, or beading that glitters softly under warm lights — not this loud, metallic glare. She wants to feel delicate, not displayed. She wants to feel like a girl, not a product.

But no one ever asks what she likes.

No one ever has.

—

The car door opens, and the flash hits before her heel touches the ground.

She steps out like she’s done this a thousand times—because she has. One leg, then the other. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Smile soft but controlled. The driver offers a hand. She doesn’t take it. She never does.

Behind her, the red carpet glitters with a curated selection of Monaco’s elite — racers, musicians, heirs, actresses who always laugh a little too loudly when the photographers call their names. Everyone knows the rules here. Everyone plays their part.

And she is very good at hers.

The gold dress catches the light like flame, like money, like something she’s been told she should be. She smiles for the cameras. Tilts her head to the side, the way the photographers like. She even gives a little wave. Not too big. Just enough.

Her mother is already inside.

Her father is on the terrace talking shop with someone from Liberty Media.

She walks alone.

People turn to look at her — and not just the paparazzi. She sees the way some women measure her, the way some men assess. But none of it touches her. It can’t. She won’t let it.

She moves through the party like a ghost in gold, offered flutes of champagne she doesn’t drink, compliments she doesn’t believe, questions she doesn’t want to answer.

“Who are you wearing?”

“Will you be at the paddock this weekend?”

“Is it true you’re seeing Lando Norris?”

Smile. Nod. Laugh. Deflect.

All of it is noise.

Until she feels it — not a sound, but a pull. Like gravity, sudden and unwanted.

Two sets of eyes.

Across the room.

Watching her.

One pair of eyes is storm-dark — intense, unblinking, charged like thunder held just behind his pupils. Max Verstappen. The lion. Known for his fire, his brutal honesty, his refusal to play nice for the cameras.

The other pair is cooler. Quieter. Greenish-gold and devastatingly observant. Oscar Piastri. Reserved but impossible to ignore. The kind of quiet that makes people lean in closer — and underestimate him at their own peril.

They’re standing close. Not touching, but close enough. Close enough for the rumors to feel real.

Because everyone’s heard them by now.

The whispers. The speculation. The way they were always together — in the paddock, in hotel lobbies, spotted at private dinners where the other drivers weren’t invited. The tabloids were spinning theories like silk; rivals turned lovers, lovers turned something else. No one knows for sure.

But the photos don’t lie.

Max, leaning into Oscar’s space, laughing like only he can. Oscar, looking at Max like he already belongs to him.

A scandal. A headline. A PR nightmare.

And they’re both looking at her.

Not like a party guest. Not like a name. Not like a legacy.

But like a secret they’re dying to unfold.

She feels it—how their attention cuts through everything. Through the cameras, the noise, the men in suits who want her because of who her parents are. Through the dress she hates and the face she’s painted on.

They’re not seeing her image.

They’re seeing her.

And it terrifies her.

Because she wants to let them.

God, she wants it so badly it makes her stomach twist — to drop the smile, to let her shoulders fall, to go to them and say, please, just hold me for a while. Just let me rest.

But she doesn’t move.

She stands there, still and golden and trembling beneath it all.

Because not a single person has ever looked at her like that before.

And now, there’s two of them.

—

The Oxfordshire house is quiet in the way big houses often are — not peaceful, just empty. Too many rooms. Too much space. Not enough love.

She sits at the breakfast bar, the marble countertop cool beneath her bare arms. Outside, the countryside rolls out in perfect green waves. Inside, everything is polished and still. Museum-like.

Her father stands by the espresso machine, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand, half-listening. She used to love mornings like this. Before she understood how many of their conversations were just… PR briefings in disguise.

“You’ll be traveling with me this year,” Christian says, like it’s already been decided. No smile. Just a sip of coffee, a glance at his calendar. “Full season. We’ll do media prep in Milton Keynes for you.”

She blinks. “Why?”

He looks up, frowns at her like she’s somehow missed the obvious. “Because it makes sense. You photograph well. You’re part of the family—might as well show the world what that means.”

She lets that sit between them. Part of the family.

The Red Bull family. The Horner family. The brand.

Not the daughter.

Not the girl.

“Is that… what you want?” She asks, softer.

Christian’s brows furrow slightly. Not with cruelty — just confusion. Like he doesn’t understand the question. “It’s what’s best,” he says, putting down his cup. “The more attention on the team, the better.”

She nods slowly. Her hand curls slightly around her glass. “Okay. I didn’t have anything else planned for this year anyway.”

He gives a tight, approving smile. Then he’s already moving on — into emails, logistics, contracts. His affection is efficient. Conditional. Not unkind, but not enough.

Her mother is nowhere to be seen. Probably in London. Or LA. Or at a spa with someone from Vogue magazine.

She’s used to it.

She’s always been told she has everything — the bloodline, the platform, the wardrobe, the name.

But none of it has ever felt like hers.

Not the legacy. Not the house. Not even her own future.

Outside, the wind brushes softly against the tall hedges in the garden, making them sway like they’re bowing to something. Or someone. Even nature bends here.

She looks at her father.

Really looks at him.

The sharp lines of his profile. The calm efficiency in his movements. The way he speaks with confidence not because he’s certain, but because he knows certainty is power.

And for a moment — a breath, a blink — she wonders; ‘Is this what it feels like to hate someone?’

The thought startles her. It’s not sharp, not violent. It’s worse. It’s cold. Hollow. A slow, creeping realization that maybe love was never given freely — only traded. That every nod of approval, every plane ticket, every high-end dress was just… currency.

She doesn’t hate him the way people hate villains in stories. She doesn’t want to scream or shatter anything. No, it’s quieter than that.

She hates that he doesn’t see her. Has never tried to.

Nausea clings to her skin. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then gets up and goes back to her bedroom.

—

The air in the stables smells like cedar shavings, hay, and early summer rain. It’s the only place on the estate that ever feels real.

She walks past the stalls in her boots and riding coat.

In the far stall, ears flicking at the sound of her footsteps, is a tall dapple grey mare with a proud gait and watchful eyes. The stable plaque says Blue Echo, a name chosen by some branding consultant years ago. Something elegant. Powerfully feminine.

But to her?

She’s just Princess Daisy.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs, stepping into the stall. “Miss me?”

Princess Daisy nudges her gently in reply, warm breath puffing against her shoulder.

She buries her fingers in the horse’s mane and rests her forehead against the soft arch of Princess Daisy’s neck. The mare shifts slightly but doesn’t move away.

She closes her eyes.

And for a few rare, precious seconds—she can just be a girl with a horse.

A girl who likes silly names and soft animals and the wet hay smells in the rain.

Tomorrow, she’d be on a plane to Bahrain.

The reminder settles over her like a shadow.

Bahrain is heat and concrete and lights that don’t go out. Her father will walk ahead of her through the paddock like he always does — brisk, focused, already talking strategy. She’ll trail behind in heels she didn’t choose, in outfits pre-approved by someone from marketing, her paddock passes swinging from her neck like a collar and chain.

They’ll call her the Red Bull princess. They’ll talk about how lucky she is.

She’s learned not to flinch at that word anymore.

She hasn’t felt lucky in a long time.

But… Bahrain also means them.

Max. Oscar.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about them for weeks — not since the event in London.

She doesn’t know what it means; the way they look at her. She doesn’t even know what she wants from them. Not really.

But tomorrow, she’ll be on a plane to Bahrain.

—

It’s 3:12 AM.

Maya walks barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, ghosting past closed doors and floral arrangements that all smell the same. The nightmares had been bad tonight — hot hands around her ribs, a voice telling her to smile while she couldn’t breathe. She’d woken up gasping. Like always. Like clockwork.

This is what she does.

Walks until the world quiets enough to let her sleep.

But tonight, she’s not alone.

At the end of the hallway, two figures step out of the elevator — laughing, low and quiet, until they see her.

Max. Shirt half-buttoned, curls still damp.

Oscar beside him, hands in his pockets, always slightly behind, always watching.

All three of them stop.

She doesn’t say a word. Couldn’t find them even if she tried.

Max’s eyes darken. His jaw tenses. He’s already scanning her — not like other men do, not with hunger. With concern. With sharp, unapologetic focus.

Oscar tips his head slightly. Reading her, quietly.

“You okay?” Max asks, as they approach. His voice is low, rough around the edges.

She hesitates. Then nods.

They don’t believe her.

She should say something cool. Flirty. Maybe bring up the race weekend. That’s what she’s been trained to do.

But she’s so tired.

“I get nightmares sometimes,” she says instead. “I walk them off. It’s not a big deal.”

Oscar steps closer, voice soft, steady. “Every night?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t answer. That’s enough.

Max’s fists curl at his sides — not angry at her. Frustrated. Protective.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back.”

She should say no. Insist she’s fine. She’s an adult, she’s capable.

But she doesn’t. She just nods.

And it’s strange — how easy it is. How they move with her like they’ve done it before. Max takes the lead, always scanning. Oscar stays beside her, not touching, but close.

They don’t talk. Don’t ask stupid questions.

They’re just there.

At her door, Max leans against the frame. “Do you know when it’s going to be a bad night?”

She nods.

Oscar meets her eyes, calm and unwavering. “Text us. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Us, he says. Like they’re one unit. A package deal.

She blinks. “I… don’t have your numbers.”

Oscar holds out his hand. She fishes out her phone — bubblegum pink case, a sparkly charm hanging off it.

He frowns when he sees there’s no passcode. Doesn’t comment. Just types.

Max watches. Then tips his head. “Don’t walk alone at night again, liefje. I mean it.”

She swallows. She should argue. Be sharp, defensive. Strong.

Instead, she just wavers. “Okay,” she whispers.

Max starts to reach for her — then pulls back.

Oscar doesn’t. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, featherlight. Like touching something breakable.

She closes the door gently behind her.

Then leans against it, heartbeat still uneven.

For a moment, she thinks, ‘maybe I could’ve asked them to stay.’

Not to sleep with her. Not for anything like that. Just… to be there.

To sit beside her in the dark until the world felt safe again.

But she didn’t.

She never could.

Instead, she crawls into bed.

And, for the first time in a long time—she sleeps without nightmares.

—

The paddock smells like heat and asphalt and engine oil — familiar and choking.

Maya walks two steps behind her father, sunglasses shielding her face. Every movement is rehearsed. Casual, but camera-ready. Effortless, but flawless.

She hasn’t eaten today. Not really. A half spoonful of yogurt, picked apart like a battlefield.

It’s not hunger, exactly. It’s just pain, now. But it’s familiar. She likes it, in a way. Craves it.

“Chin up,” the press officer mutters beside her, clipboard in hand, headset pressed to one ear. “And smile. Not the polite smile — the good one. The Geri smile.”

Maya’s lips curve on command.

“You’ll be shadowing the team today, then joining your father for the press walk at two. BBC wants a short segment on ‘Red Bull’s focus on family and legacy.’ Don’t make it about yourself. Make it about the team. Say something about grit and heritage. Try not to blink too much.”

She nods like she’s listening. Like she cares.

They pause outside the hospitality suite. A photographer raises his lens.

“Angle your shoulders a little—yes. That’s it. Beautiful,” the press officer says, voice like lacquer. “Your mum’s bringing back the Spice Girls for the anniversary next month. You’ll probably be part of that too, so start thinking about your wardrobe. No feathers.”

No feathers.

She loves feathers.

Her stomach turns.

Inside, Max is already sat near the coffee station, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. His eyes flick to hers as she steps in — just a second. Just enough.

Oscar isn’t Red Bull. He shouldn’t even be in this part of the paddock. But he’s here, standing in the far corner with a drink in hand, casual as anything. Somehow, no one questions it.

When Maya passes them, Max’s hand brushes lightly against hers. On purpose. Just once.

She doesn’t flinch. But she feels it all the way up her spine.

The press officer pulls her aside before she can speak.

“You’ve got two minutes before your father goes live. Repeat after me — ‘It’s about legacy, about excellence, and about pushing beyond limits.’ Again.”

Maya says it like a spell.

Legacy. Excellence. Limits.

They clap her on the back and smile like she’s done something brilliant.

But all she can think about is the yogurt she didn’t finish, and the way Oscar looked at her like she didn’t have to say anything at all, and the warm tingle that shot straight to her heart from Max’s touch.

—

She finds him by the McLaren garages, perched on a flight case, nursing a protein bar and a can of Monster.

“Oh hi, Princess Red Bull,” Lando grins, hopping down. “Gracing me with your royal presence?”

Maya huffs a laugh. “Sir McLaren. Still pretending to like those things?” She nods at the protein bar.

“I like the idea of them,” he says. “It’s the never-ending chewing I can’t get behind.”

She smiles.

Lando has always been like this — irreverent and bright and just enough of a nuisance to keep her grounded. Like an older brother who knows all your secrets and still thinks you’re worth teasing.

He ruffles her hair, because he knows it’ll mess up the look the press team spent twenty minutes on. “You look tired.”

“I’m always tired.” She sighs.

He stops, looks at her properly. “Bad night?”

She nods, and his hand drops from her hair to squeeze her shoulder. Gentle. No pressure to talk. Just knowing. Just safe.

But then someone calls her name — loud, exaggerated — and when she turns, there’s a camera pointed straight at them. A pap, just beyond the fence, zoom lens already snapping. Another angle for the internet to twist.

Lando sees it too. His jaw tightens.

“Great,” he mutters. “Tomorrow’s headline: ‘Horner Heiress and Lando Norris—Mid-Paddock Rendezvous or Something More?’”

“Why can’t they just leave me alone?” Maya looks away, eyebrows drawn, stomach clenching tight.

Lando gives the camera crew a shitty look. “Wish I could tell them to fuck off without losing my job.”

She shrugs, suddenly cold. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, well… fuck ‘em.” He spits.

She blinks at him. Wants to hug him — wants to let him hold her and kiss her forehead the way he does when there isn’t any cameras around to take something viciously innocent and turn it into a sexually charged headline.

Instead she just gives him a tight smile and mutters a quiet, “See you later,” and puts the persona back on. Poised. Perfect.

A complete lie.

—

Engineers crisscross with tools and telemetry, mechanics crouch low beside the car. They’re five races into the season, and tensions are sky-high.

Maya’s off to the side, as always. The silent mascot. Polished, painted, press-ready. Her hair’s done. Her makeup’s perfect. There’s a microphone waiting for her just beyond the paddock cameras.

She hasn’t eaten since Wednesday — fasting was healthy, that’s what her mother had told her a million times as a teenager.

She’s dizzy.

And then it happens.

A hand — not anyone she trusts — brushes too close to her waist. Too familiar. A laugh follows. Low, sleazy. One of Checo’s engineers, older, always looking a little too long, a little too interested. His voice cuts through the buzz. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re going to cause even more of a ruckus than usual in that dress.”

It’s not the worst thing she’s ever heard. Not even close. But today, it breaks something.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice slices out, louder than she meant. Louder than anyone’s ever heard from her.

People turn. Eyes shift.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Easy, princess—”

“I said don’t fucking touch me!”

Silence crashes over the garage like a dropped wrench. Everything stops.

She’s shaking. Her breath is ragged. She can feel it happening — the panic, the heat in her chest, the cold in her fingertips.

And then she’s crying.

In front of everyone.

Mascara streaking. Breath stuttering. Completely, heartbreakingly exposed.

Christian’s voice cuts through the tension. Cold. Humiliated. “Maya. Now is not the time.”

It feels like a slap.

She stares at him. At everyone. At their shock, their discomfort. She’s made them uncomfortable.

Of course she has.

And so—she runs.

Out of the garage. Past the cameras. Past the clicking lenses and the whispering media handlers scrambling after her. She can’t breathe. She can’t think. She doesn’t know where she’s going until—

“Lando!”

His name is barely a sound, but he hears it. Sees her stumbling through the paddock, heels in her hand, tears on her face.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “Hey, hey, come here—”

But she’s already moving past him, too far gone.

It’s Oscar who catches her.

He’s just stepped out of his driver’s room when she crashes into him, trembling and breathless and half-sobbing.

“Maya—”

She clings to him, fists curled in the front of his hoodie, crying so hard it hurts to breathe. Oscar doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just wraps his arms around her and pulls her inside, closing the door behind them.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She folds into him like paper.

“I— I just—”

“I know,” he murmurs, already reaching for his phone.

He calls Max.

“She’s with me,” he says, voice tight with something sharp. Protective. “Something happened. She needs you. Now, Max.”

—

Maya feels smaller than usual. A fragile thing, curled into herself on the narrow cot bed in Oscar’s driver’s room, her head resting against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. She’s not crying anymore, not really, but her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, blinking slowly like she’s afraid that if she lets the tears fall again, they might never stop.

Oscar holds her gently, like he knows exactly how close she is to splintering again. Like if he breathes too loud, she might vanish.

Max had arrived in a blur — storm-bright eyes, clenched jaw, voice hushed but heavy with concern. Now, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough for her to feel the quiet thrum of his presence, but not close enough to crowd her. Max always knows when to be heat and when to be shelter.

“You okay?” Oscar asks, his voice low, careful. He doesn’t expect an answer. The question isn’t for her, not really. It’s for himself. For Max. For the quiet ache in both their chests at seeing her like this.

Maya nods — a twitch more than a motion — as if the truth is too loud to say aloud. She curls her fingers tighter into the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie, her knuckles pale. It smells like him. She thinks she could fall asleep like this. If her body would let her. If her mind would stop shaking.

“You know,” Max says after a beat, casually, like they’re talking about the weather and not the way her skin is stretched too tight across her frame, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything in two days.”

Her stomach twists. “Dunno,” she mumbles. “Not hungry.”

Not a lie. Just a truth she’s learned to live inside of. The empty ache of it is more familiar than the weight of food in her body. Hunger feels like control. Like safety.

“You’re not doing that anymore,” Max says, firmer now. He reaches over, lays a hand gently on her shoulder. The heat of him sinks through the cotton of her oversized hoodie. “You hear me? We’re not going to let this happen.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say she’s fine. She isn’t. And she’s too tired to pretend. Too tired to wear the perfect smile or make excuses.

Max exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair, tension simmering beneath his skin. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath — not at her, never at her — just at the mess of it. The pain she’s been carrying alone. The silence she’s been drowning in.

His tone softens again, the sharp edge blunted by tenderness. “No more making your own calls if this is what they look like. No more hurting yourself just to keep up the act. We’ll decide things now.”

Oscar shifts, his arm around her waist tightening slightly. He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking her arm in slow, calming circles. Then he speaks, gentle but firm. “From now on, we’ll take care of you. That’s the deal. That’s what you need, I think.”

She finally looks up at him. Blinking, broken, her expression so raw it almost hurts to see. There’s no mask here. No practiced smile. Just Maya — stripped of every performance, every expectation. She looks so young. So exhausted. So desperate to be loved right.

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “Yeah, I—please.”

Her voice cracks mid-word. It breaks something in both of them.

Max’s breath catches, his eyes softening as he reaches for her. “Come here, Maya.”

Oscar helps her shift, and she slides out of his lap, her whole body trembling with the effort. She lets Max pull her in, lets him hold her like something precious — not because she asked him to, but because he knows she needs it. She always needs it.

He gathers her against his chest, one arm around her back, the other curled protectively over her legs as he cradles her in his lap like she weighs nothing. Like she’s something delicate and treasured.

Max mutters something sharp and aching in Dutch against her hair, lips barely touching her temple. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

“Niks van jou over, baby.” There’s nothing left of you.

Not accusation. Just sorrow. Truth. She’s a whisper of herself now, and it’s killing him to see it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, so quietly they almost miss it. “I’m sorry.” Her voice catches again, frays at the edges. She says it like a reflex. Like she’s used to apologizing for her own existence.

“Don’t,” Oscar says gently. “You don’t need to be sorry. Not ever.”

Max holds her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re going to fix everything. You hear me? No more of this… act. No more acting. You’re going to be exactly who you are, Maya, and that’s exactly who we want.”

She believes him.

Not because of the words.

But because of how he said them.

Like he meant it.

Like his word was law.

—

Max’s suite is warm, lights dimmed low. Maya’s curled up on the plush couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of Oscar’s cologne. She hasn’t said much since they brought her back, just let herself be gently guided, repositioned, and reassured. Max and Oscar have made it almost effortless—wordless, even.

Oscar sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, carefully unwrapping takeout containers from room service. He opens each one slowly, as if not to overwhelm her, arranging little piles of food like offerings: soup in a delicate ceramic bowl, plain rice, soft bread rolls, slices of mango she’d admitted were the only fruit she actually liked.

“You don’t have to eat a lot,” he says softly, eyes flicking up to her. “Just something. Okay?”

Max, standing behind the couch, rubs a hand down the back of his neck. “It’s a good start,” he adds, “but we have no expectations.”

Maya nods, small and silent, and takes the spoon Oscar offers. She eats slowly, every bite like a whisper, like her body doesn’t quite know what to do with being taken care of. But she eats.

Max disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes, and when he returns, he’s holding something carefully folded in his hands. “Here,” he says, offering the bundle. “Figured you might want something to sleep in.”

She blinks, takes it from him with trembling fingers. It’s soft. Pale pink. Satin. The cuffs and ankle hems are feathered, delicate and girlish in a way that sends a jolt through her chest.

She sucks in a silent gasp.

Because she’s seen this before. This exact set. A matching top and bottom with candy-colored buttons and wispy little ankle feathers. It’s one of the first things she ever pinned to her secret “want want want” board on Pinterest. She’s stared at that set more times than she can count. Longed for it in that way she’s learned to bury—sweet, soft things that felt too childish, too indulgent for the life her parents demanded she perform.

She looks up, wide-eyed, confused. “How—?”

Oscar, still cross-legged at the table, doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. “You left your laptop open a few weeks ago. Your Pinterest tab was still up.”

Max shrugs, unbothered. “You said you never get to want things. Thought we’d start with these.”

Her throat closes up.

She presses the satin close to her chest and covers her mouth with her hand, and to her horror, the tears come fast. Her shoulders shake, and she ducks her head, trying to hide it, to shove the reaction down where all her emotions usually go—but she can’t.

Oscar is on his feet in seconds, next to her before she can move. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Max crouches in front of her, brushing a thumb under her eye, catching one of the tears. “You’re allowed to cry, baby. Doesn’t make you weak.”

“I just…” She tries to speak but it breaks apart in her throat. “It’s stupid, it’s just pyjamas—”

“It’s not stupid,” Oscar cuts in gently.

She clutches the fabric tighter and gives in to the sob stuck in her throat. For the first time, the tears don’t feel like shame. They feel like a release.

Later, she changes into the pyjamas, and they’re a little big, and the sleeves fall past her wrists, and the feathered cuffs brush her ankles with every step. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more like herself. Not the Red Bull princess. Not Horner’s daughter or Geri’s publicity machine.

Just Maya.

Soft. Girly. A little fragile, but held together by hands that want to protect, not mold.

When she walks out of the bathroom, Max is already under the covers. Oscar’s flipping through TV channels with the volume low, but both of them look up the second they see her.

Max whistles under his breath, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There she is.”

Oscar doesn’t even smile—just stares at her like she’s something holy. “You look exactly how I thought you would.”

“Like what?” she whispers.

“Like yourself,” Oscar says.

—

Over the next few weeks, they fulfil their promise in tender, small ways.

Maya stands behind Max, a quiet shadow in a branded cap. The sun is relentless, and her skin’s too pale for this heat. Oscar’s the one who notices first.

“You’re squinting,” he murmurs, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto her nose. “Take mine.”

She starts to shake her head, but he’s already pulling his hat lower to shield his own eyes. She doesn’t give them back.

Max passes her his water bottle without looking, like it’s muscle memory to provide for her.

No one comments. But the cameras do catch it. And people start to talk.

—

They’re at a grid dinner before the summer break.

She barely eats.

Max doesn’t call her out on it, doesn’t lecture. He just cuts his steak into bite-sized pieces and nudges his plate toward her, like it’s hers, like it’s obvious.

Oscar orders her a dessert she once said she liked in a half-forgotten conversation, and when it arrives, he says nothing — just waits. She takes a spoonful and doesn’t realise she’s smiling until he smiles back.

—

Oscar presses a soft kiss to her temple before the elevator closes, like it’s second nature. Max trails a knuckle down her spine with a look that promises he’s always watching over her. It’s subtle. Intimate.

They don’t need to say the word ours. Everyone sees it.

And people continue to talk.

—

She shows up late to media training, lashes clumped from crying, collarbone sharper than it was two weeks ago. The press officer says, “Try to smile more, Maya, you look ungrateful.”

Max hears it. He’s across the room in two strides.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he says flatly. “Have some fucking humility.”

The room goes silent.

—

It’s after qualifying in Singapore. She’s in the garage corridor, still wearing Max’s fireproof jacket draped over her shoulders when her father finds her.

He’s quiet at first. Scarily calm. “This thing you’re doing,” he says, tone cold and precise, “with Max and the McLaren kid—it ends now.”

Maya doesn’t flinch.

“You’re embarrassing your mother. You’re embarrassing me. Do you understand? You look needy. Weak. Do you want the press to call you a liability? Is that what you want?”

Her throat closes. Her fingers tremble. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lets the words keep hitting. Like they always have.

He steps closer. “You were meant to carry your surname with grace. And instead you’ve latched onto two drivers like—”

“Like what?” Max’s voice cuts in, sharp and deadly.

Christian turns. Max is already standing between them.

“She’s mine,” Max says, low and dangerous. “Ours. And if you don’t want the best driver on your team walking out mid-season, I suggest you shut the fuck up and stay out of this, Christian.”

Oscar’s there too now, not as loud, but just as present. Always behind, always backing her. “They like it,” Oscar says calmly. “The media. The public. They think it’s sweet — that she can finally be herself. That she’s finally being taken care of. Loved.”

Christian scoffs, mouth twitching, shaking his head and looking like he might explode.

Max doesn’t move. “You’re a fucking coward,” he says quietly. “You throw money at her instead of love and call it parenting. You ignore the fact that she’s killing herself because it’s an inconvenience to you. Well… she’s not yours to hurt anymore.”

Maya is shaking. Oscar’s hand is on her back. Max opens his arms wordlessly.

She steps into them without hesitation.

And when Christian walks away, furious and silent, she doesn’t look back.

—

It’s late. The city lights flicker below them like stars scattered across the sand.

There’s a linen-covered table set for three, candlelight dancing in the breeze. Oscar had picked the restaurant. Max had reserved the whole rooftop. She hadn’t even been told where they were going—just that she should wear something soft, and pink if she wanted.

She had. A silky dress with a bow at the back. Pearl earrings. Her heart on her sleeve.

They don’t rush dinner. Oscar orders for all of them, but always checks with her first. Max brushes her knuckles with his thumb every few minutes like he can’t quite believe she’s real and needs a reminder that she is.

There’s laughter. Champagne with fresh raspberries. A moment where she forgets to shrink herself.

After dessert, she leans back in her chair, barefoot now, cheeks warm from the alcohol. “So this is a date?” she asks, half-teasing, half-afraid of the answer.

Oscar glances at Max, then back at her. “Yes.”

“You didn’t ask,” she says, tilting her head.

Max’s voice is low, serious. “Because we weren’t going to give you room to say no. Not in the way you usually do. You say no to kindness. To care. Not because you don’t want it—because you think you’re not allowed to have it.”

She looks down. The vulnerability stretches between them like thread. Thin. Fragile. Shimmering.

“We’re in love with you, Maya,” Oscar says, steady and calm. “Have been for a while. Since Bahrain, since London, probably.”

Max reaches for her, puts his hand under her chin, tilts her head up. “You don’t have to do anything. Say anything. Be anything. Just… existing is enough, liefge.”

“We’re just asking you to let us love you,” Oscar finishes.

Her bottom lip trembles. She presses her hand over her mouth like that will stop it, but it doesn’t. “You don’t even know all the messy parts,” she whispers. “You think I’m sweet and good. But I’m—I’m so tired. And I’m not always good. I’m… I’m a lot.”

Max stands. Walks behind her. Presses a kiss to her hair and murmurs against her ear, “We want all of it.”

Oscar reaches across the table and holds her gaze. “You’ve just never been loved right, I think.”

She breaks.

Not in a loud way.

Just a slow inhale, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, her hands shaking as she lets Max pull her to her feet and into his arms. Oscar wraps his arms around both of them. They stand like that—on a rooftop above the desert, the girl they’re already in love with finally, finally starting to believe them.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says into Max’s chest. “The three of us. I’ve never—“

Oscar kisses her shoulder. “That’s okay.”

“We’ll show you,” Max promises, holding her tighter. “Every day. For as long as it takes.”

—

It’s raining in Barcelona.

Not a storm. Just a soft, endless drizzle.

They’re in Oscar’s hotel room. Max is asleep — sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm over his eyes, shirtless and worn out from media rounds. There’s a tiny freckle on his shoulder and Maya is struck with the urge to kiss it.

Oscar is sitting on the floor with her, both of them tucked against the wall by the window. She’s in one of Max’s old Red Bull hoodies, swimming in it. Her bare legs are tucked under her, knees touching Oscar’s. Her damp hair smells like jasmine.

They’re listening to the rain.

He’s been reading to her. Something calm. Poetic. He reads slowly, like the words are delicate things. She hasn’t really been paying attention. She’s just been watching his mouth move. Breathing.

She interrupts him with no warning.

“I love you.”

Oscar blinks. His lips part, then close again. He sets the book down slowly.

“I love you,” she says again, to make sure he knows it. “You and Max. It’s not new. It’s just—now it doesn’t feel too scary to admit.”

Oscar cups her cheek, gently pulling her gaze up to meet his. “We love you too.”

“I know.” She smiles, wobbly.

Max shifts on the bed with a sleepy groan, rubbing his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

Maya crawls over to him slowly, climbs into his arms, and says it again.

“I love you.”

Max stills. Then smiles. He cups her face and kisses her forehead. “Liefje,” he murmurs, kissing her again. “You’re everything.”

Oscar joins them, wrapping around both. The three of them curled into the sheets, quiet and close as the rain falls outside.

—

It’s late. The kind of late that wraps everything in a hush, the lights dim and warm, the air thick with stillness.

Maya is curled between them on the hotel sofa, tucked into Max’s side, her legs draped across Oscar’s lap. There’s a documentary playing, something about old race legends, but none of them are really watching.

Oscar’s hand traces absent circles on her calf. Max’s thumb brushes along her shoulder where her silk robe has slipped, and she doesn’t move to fix it. She feels safe like this. Weighted. Held.

“I like this,” she murmurs, the words barely louder than the hum of the TV.

Oscar looks down at her. “Like what?”

“This,” she says again, quieter now. “You. Him. Here.”

Max shifts just enough to lean in and press a kiss to her temple — tender, slow. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Then Oscar’s voice, soft but sure. “Never.”

She lifts her head, just enough to look at them both, and her heart stutters at the way Max is already watching Oscar. The fire and the calm. Always orbiting each other, always steady. Like they’d found something solid long before she was ever part of it.

And then — like they’ve done it a thousand times — Max leans in, fingers brushing Oscar’s jaw, and kisses him.

It’s unhurried. Familiar. The kind of kiss that feels like home, and she watches it happen with her chest aching in the best way.

When they pull back, Max glances at her, just a hint of a smirk curving his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” she whispers.

Oscar’s fingers find hers. “You’re ours.”

And just like that, her world tilts a little closer to whole.

—

The building is pale pink stucco with tall windows and soft gold accents. The sign reads The Princess Daisy Foundation.

Maya’s wearing a gown the colour of strawberry milk, with a tulle overlay and delicate pearls stitched into the bodice. Her heels sparkle. Her nails are glossy and pale. Her smile, for once, is real.

“They said it wouldn’t be taken seriously,” she says into the mic, voice calm but warm, “that no one would support a charity for underprivileged girls to study ballet. But they were wrong. People just had to be reminded what true, authentic beauty looks like.”

The crowd claps. Cameras flash. Oscar hands her the scissors. Max presses a kiss to her temple once it’s done. Neither are on the stage, but they’re close. Always close.

—

The magazine is high fashion. Not tabloid. Not gossip.

She’s not in a power suit. She’s not reinvented.

She’s herself.

Feathers. Lace. A sheer pink blouse with a velvet bow tied at the collar. Hair curled softly, glitter dusting her collarbones. The spread is titled Soft is Strong.

They call her a disruptor. A visionary. A symbol of femininity without apology.

In one of the outtakes, she’s sitting on Max’s lap, Oscar’s hand on her thigh. It never runs, but she frames it in her home office anyway.

—

She’s barefoot in the paddock — her heels in one hand, the hem of her ruffled dress knotted up slightly to avoid engine grease. Max is arguing with GP about race strategy. Oscar is reviewing telemetry data on his phone.

Maya’s sipping an iced lavender latte when a tiny dot of a girl comes running up to her, flanked by two out-of-breath guardians.

“Hi Maya.” The girl says shyly. “I love your dress.”

Maya hands her latte to Oscar, who doesn’t even need to look up from his phone to take it. Then she crouches down and adjusts the girl’s glittery headband. “I love yours too,” she whispers, like it’s a secret between them. “You sparkle in the sunshine!”

When the photo of them gets posted by the girls parents, the caption goes viral: “She’s like if a cupcake had a heart (and two boyfriends).”

—

They’re at a party.

Christian is there.

So is Geri.

Maya greets them politely. She doesn’t flinch. She’s radiant in silk and diamonds and a matching custom clutch that says good girl in pink rhinestones — a reclamation, not a reminder.

Max is on her left. Oscar on her right.

When a journalist tries to bring up her rebellious phase, Max shuts it down with a single look. Oscar gently steers her away, murmuring, “You look like a dream,” and her laugh sounds like wind chimes.

—

There’s a photo on their kitchen fridge of a much younger Maya — awkward, unsure, all eyes and shadows.

Beside it, there’s one from just last week; she’s lounging on their balcony in a cloud of pastel robe, eating a croissant and reading French literature, Max kissing her shoulder, Oscar curled beside her with his nose in his phone.

In both photos, she’s looking at the camera.

She only recognises herself in the second one.

—

The house is quiet.

There’s birdsong from the trees outside the open windows, the soft hum of a coffee machine, the occasional sound of a little girl giggling.

It’s a peaceful quiet. The gentle kind.

Maya stands barefoot on the balcony, wrapped in a silk robe the color of rose quartz. The hem is trimmed in delicate feathers.

There’s a half-drunk cappuccino beside her. Her fingers are dusted with flour — she’s trying to bake something today, even if Oscar ends up taking over halfway through like always. Max is still asleep, she thinks, though she heard him stir when she slipped out of bed at dawn.

Below, the garden is blooming. Lavender and soft pink roses, a stone path that leads to the small dance studio she had built on a whim — or maybe not a whim at all. The ballet charity is doing well. Better than she imagined. Sometimes, when she visits classes and helps the girls with their ribbons, she feels like she’s rewriting her own childhood, one gentle hand at a time.

She turns as she hears the sliding door open.

Oscar steps out, barefoot, shirtless, wearing sleep-soft shorts and blinking into the light. He walks straight to her and presses a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Had a dream,” she murmurs. “Not a bad one. Just… vivid.”

He rests his chin on her head. “Want to talk about it?”

She leans back into him. “No. Maybe later.”

Max appears a few minutes later, hair wild, expression fond and grumpy all at once. He kisses her without a word and steals the rest of her coffee.

They stand there together in the morning sun, warm and safe and quiet.

Oscar’s hand finds hers. Max’s arm settles around her waist.

There’s no performance.

No audience to entertain.

There’s just love.

A squeal — high-pitched and girly — splits the quiet morning like sunlight through lace. Then, the balcony doors burst open, and a blur of pink tulle and fluttering white feathers launches herself outside.

“Daddy!”

Oscar catches her mid-air like he was waiting, arms instinctively cradling her as she giggles and wriggles against his chest. She’s dressed like a ballerina — a soft pink leotard, satin slippers with little ribbons tied messily at her ankles, and a tiny feather boa draped around her shoulders.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, spinning her once, pressing kisses across her cheeks as she squeals with laughter. “What are you doing up so early, huh?”

“Had a dream,” she says seriously, parroting Maya’s earlier words. “That the kitchen turned into a castle and the fridge was made of cake!”

Oscar gasps. “A cake fridge? Why didn’t I dream that?”

“Because you’re boring, daddy,” she says with complete confidence.

Maya laughs and walks toward them, curling herself into Max’s side as he stands behind her, arms wrapped around her middle. His chin rests on her shoulder, his hair still a little wild from sleep. She feels his breath against her skin, hears the soft sound he makes when he sees his daughter light up in Oscar’s arms.

“She’s wearing feathers again,” Max says against her ear, his breath a tickle. “That’s your fault.”

Maya hums. Shrugs. “She wanted a ‘Mummy dress’ today. Couldn’t say no.”

Max kisses the curve of her neck. “I wouldn’t have, either.”

Gia, their tiny, perfect girl, reaches out one hand toward her mother. “Mummy, daddy said I could wear my crown to breakfast.”

Oscar looks betrayed. “No, I didn’t—!”

“You didn’t not say it,” she grins.

Max chuckles, the sound low and affectionate. “She’s got you beat, Osc. You’re hopeless.”

She has them all beat, is the thing. This little girl—drowning in love and affection and never wanting for anything.

—

Inside, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar, something bubbling gently on the stove. Oscar sets their daughter on the counter, steadying her as she swings her legs in excitement, reaching for a tiny crown resting beside the fruit bowl. Max lifts it with two fingers, exaggeratedly serious as he places it on her head with a little bow. “Your Highness.”

She beams, the sunlight catching in her curls.

Maya watches them, heart aching with a kind of joy that still feels new sometimes. She leans against the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, letting herself stay in the moment a little longer.

On the fridge are photos. Lando, her brother in all ways but blood, had taken most of them.

Oscar’s mother, kneeling in the garden with Gia on her lap, both of them grinning wide. Max’s father teaching her how to drive a go-kart — a day that ended with a kart in the wall and a lot of apology ice cream. There’s one of Maya too, half-laughing, mid-spin in the living room, her daughter in her arms, both in matching pink feathered robes.

Maya’s daughter doesn’t know her maternal grandparents. Not really. They’ve met, yes. Christian had flown into Belgium once, uncomfortable in the stillness of their home, talking more about Max’s contract than about his granddaughter’s third birthday party. Geri had sent expensive, ridiculously expensive dresses by courier.

Maya only let Gia wear them in the garden, where they would get covered in mud and water and sand.

Maya never let them stay long—her parents.

She wouldn’t risk it. Not for a second.

She knows what inherited silence feels like. What praise laced with expectation can do to a child’s pure heart. She remembers being told to smile when she wanted to cry, to suck in her stomach and keep her chin up and never — ever — be soft.

She’d walk through fire before letting her daughter carry that same weight.

So instead, her little girl grows up in ballet slippers and glitter crowns, with two fathers who would rearrange the stars if she asked them to — who teach her strength isn’t silence, and kindness is power, and softness isn’t something to outgrow.

And Maya learns too. Every day.

Oscar hands her a mug of warm milk and honey; not breakfast, just something to warm her up. Max brushes a kiss across her temple before pulling their daughter into his arms and dancing her toward the dining table.

She closes her eyes for a second.

This is the life she built from the ruins of the one she survived.

And it’s hers. Every breath of it.

[sobbingscripter]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 3005🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Do… do you think we’re friends in every universe?”

Mark’s voice is quiet, back pressed against freshly mowed grass, eyes focused on the starry sky above you. It stretches endlessly, an abyss dotted with the faintest glows, celestial pools that reflect off your pupils and you hum. Chewing on your bottom lip.

“I think so.”

You shift on the grass, your shoulder bumping against his and your head bumps lightly against his, and Mark bites back a grin, but you can see the dimples that threaten to appear in his cheeks. “Yeah?” He whispers.

“Mhm.” You swallow. “It doesn’t seem right that I’d only know you in one life.”

Mark’s fingers lace with yours, his pudgy digit tracing over the pretty ring that adorns your thumb.

“I think we always find each other. Even if, like, I don’t know, different worlds. Or timelines. Or species.”

His eyes remain trained on the black above him, wind rustling at the cypress branches, blades of grass tickling the back of his neck, the backs of his legs and he glances at you, pupils dilated so much that you’d think he was on something.

Lashes fluttering shut, the ball of your nose brushing against his and your lips brushing over his. In a sweet, chaste promise that managed to toe the line between friendship and something neither of you could comprehend.

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

“You fought and won, against Godzilla. Like, literally.” You deadpan. “But an off-brand kraken with toenails and spikes, rocks your shit?”

Your scoff breaks Mark from his reverie, his eyes moving to where you’re perched on the closed lid of your toilet, arms crossing over your chest and obscuring nearly half the image of your oversized sleeping tee.

Mark’s never seen that fucking T-shirt leave your wardrobe.

Ratty, frayed at the neckline. A faded print of some presidential candidate from how many years ago. He knows you couldn’t even vote then.

“I didn’t get my shit rocked.” Mark speaks, clearing his throat to get rid of the lump because this is the closest he’s been to his best friend in a while. No arguing, no tension. Just you taking care of him, like you always have.

“Fine, you got your shit jostled.” You correct yourself and he snorts, the cut on his bottom lip doing nothing to prevent that dorkish grin from spreading across his face.

“I won, didn’t I?” He brags.

“Barely. Vincible.”

He rolls his eyes at your chide, before resting back against the edge of the tub, soaking his aching muscles in the concoction of Epsom salts and hot water, bubbles frothing at the surface because Mark refuses a bath where he doesn’t get to use your bubble bath.

The scent clings to his skin, and he lets out a breath, taking in that sweet smell before peeking at you from beneath his lashes.

“Put those ladyfingers to work.”

He hums, eyes fluttering shut and he cocks an even wider grin at the sound of you shuffling, wetting your hands before squeezing a generous glob of shampoo into your palm, griping all the way as you rub our palms, waiting patiently until it emulsifies.

Snowy cream is strewn from between your hands before you massage it onto Mark’s scalp, scratching and watching the way his eyes roll back in his head.

His hand moves to grip your thigh, brows scrunching into a pleased frown at the way your nails rake against his skin, scratching at the nape of his neck and your palms work a thick lather into his hair.

“Your hair’s not even dirty.” You huff. And Mark groans in a ploy to shut you up and it works. But not because he’s interrupting you.

But because you’re watching the way suds slide down the side of his neck, settling in the crevice of the muscle and your watching his broad chest heaves, pink lips parting to let out relaxed sighs and you’re questioning everything you’ve ever known.

You know you have a thing for Mark, that’s for sure. You’ve basically lived on the manifestation side of TikTok in an attempt to get him to dream of you, but you never followed up on if he ever did. You’d do little rituals to make him think of you, forcefully but still.

But never once, did you consider the possibility that Mark’s beginning to qualify as ‘fine shyt’.

“Scratch at the crown.” Mark groans quietly, eyes shut to keep out the shampoo and you comply with a silent ‘uh-huh’, scratching at the crown of his head. Inky strands are messy and soapy, and you drag your nails along his scalp one last time, before you’re reaching for the showerhead, and covering Mark’s eyes with one hand, while the other rinses away the suds.

And he sighs, thumb pressing circles into your thigh and you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to stifle the squeak that threatens to spill.

And Mark peers up at you, a perfect brow raising and he hums.

“What’s wrong?”

You know damn well.

“Nothing.” You answer, still chewing on your bottom lip as you rinse his hair. “Just hungry.”

That’s not exactly a lie either.

You’re not too hungry. Well, not hungry enough to be considered hungry but you can eat.

“Big back.” Mark whispers under his breath.

“I’ll drown you.” Your eyes narrow. “Don’t test me.”

You try not to focus on how the scalding waters make his skin flush so prettily, how the light of the bathroom dances on his features and makes the flecks in his iris look golden. And you try not to notice that the smell of him, him and him alone, is mixing with steam and your body wash, and your shampoo.

And you think that having sex with Mark might smell like this.

Heady, sweaty and refreshing. Sweet and musky. Calloused hands pressing your thighs apart, soft lips pressing at your erratic pulse and the way he’d breathe you in like you’re his next lungful of life. The thought makes your skin prickle and you feel an empty ache between your thighs that you’ve never quite felt before.

Your mind drifts to the way his lips would ghost over your ears, the way his biceps would shift to pull you closer, the way a veiny hand would wrap around the base of his swollen, leaky cock, lining him up at your messy cunt before—

“Your heartbeat’s getting fast.” Mark comments. “What’s that about?”

“I’m thinking about holding your head underwater.”

And a smile stretches across your lips.

Under your waters.

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Why do you have so many T-shirts from elections?” Mark questions, rifling through you drawers before settling on one. He pulls it overhead, and you watch the way the muscles of his back flex beneath his skin, and you pull the covers up, over your chest.

And Mark look down at his T-shirt.

“They’re not even all from the same country.” He snorts, muscular legs carrying him over to your bedside before he creeps beneath your blankets, tugging them up to his neck and he presses his face against your shoulder.

Inhaling the scent of your skin, the scent of the sheets he hasn’t been wrapped up in for far too long and he throws an arm over your waist, tugging you into his orbit before pulling you into his chest.

The worn fabric does nothing to tamper with the furnace that Mark’s become, claiming your title as the warm one, and you feel the way he melts against you. Legs entangling with yours, and his nose brushes against the nape of your neck. Calloused fingertips slip beneath the edge of your shirt, tracing along where the ribbed elastic waistband of your shorts cuts into the plush of your hips. Fingers draw patterns on the soft pudge and you turn into a puddle when his lips brush against your pulse.

He's so gentle. Drawing little flowers around your navel, hearts on your lower belly and his fingertips trace along your ribs.

You don’t know how long you’re laying in his arms.

Feeling warm breath fan across the curve of your neck, feeling even warmer fingertips clutch at you like you’re his whole world and for the first time, in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re second choice. Not to Eve, not to Amber, not to anyone or anything.

The world quiets down until it’s just you and him. Mingling breaths in the comfort of your bedroom, the soft thud of raindrops hitting the ground, slightly louder when they patter against your windows. And you shift in his grasp, turning to face him instead.

Mark’s heart stutters when your arms wrap around his midsection, your legs following and wrapping around his thighs, your face pressing into the slope of his neck. The ball of your nose is cold, icy almost, he feels the way your lashes flutter as you shut your eyes, and he can hear the steady thrum of your heartbeat.

His hold tightens, chin resting on the crown of your head, feeling the way strands tickle at his face, and Mark inhales. Deep enough until you’re settling in his lungs, fingers clutching at your T-shirt and he curls his body around yours.

And there’s a silence that settles in the room, only interrupted when Mark’s voice breaks it, quiet and so, so very boyish.

“So, are we gonna talk about you peeking through my window, yet?” He whispers teasingly, his hand shifting to the back of your neck where he traces patterns on your nape, the action ticklish enough for you to act on impulse. Tucking your neck, and you peer up at him with narrowed eyes.

“Are we gonna talk about the panties you stole yet?” You bite back, a brow raising and you watch Mark’s lips purse.

“No, we are not.” And he ushers your face back to his neck, his cheeks burning a bright red when e feels your hushed giggles against the sensitive flesh and he breathes out. “You’re an asshole.”

“I’m a gaping asshole.” You correct. “Respect my truth.”

And Mark laugh. Loudly, and you hear that breathy little hitch in his voice, peeking up at him to watch the corners of his eyes crinkle, to watch the way pink lips part and reveal pearly teeth and you linger on his canines. Before moving over to his dimples, to the rosy apples of his cheeks and finally, you drink him in as a whole.

Damp raven strands that fall over his forehead in perfect strands, a sharp jaw and you feel the way his muscles flex as he readjusts his grip on you.

“My bad.” Mark huffs out a snort. “My bad for mischaracterizing you. How can I fix it?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“This isn’t what I meant.” Mark grumbles, muscles flexing with each movement as he continues to fold, and bend different articles of clothing, brows scrunched into a furrow as he organizes your closet.

“Yeah, but it’s what I want.” You respond with a snort. “An besides, you should be comfortable handling my clothing. You know, since you’re like, half-Korean.”

Mark stares at you, watching the way you take another bite of your cookie. His expression is blank, lips falling open in shock at the easiness of what you just said.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Mark’s brows bunch and you can tell he’s not offended, so much as confused and trying not to laugh.

“You know,” You shrug, “Koreans tend to open dry cleaners.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s like… Family Guy, they go to a Korean dry cleaner. In American Dad, when Stan opens a dry cleaners with a bunch of strippers, he complains about the Koreans. It’s a statistic.”

Mark’s lips twitch and he curls them inward, trying to stifle the laugh.

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“You folded more than half of my closet in like, 15 minutes. It’s in your DNA. The D stands for—” “If you say dry cleaning, I’m gonna hit you in the mouth.”

And your lips purse.

And you take a slow, and loud bite of your cookie. And he shuts his eyes, letting out an even breath.

“I hate you so much.”

Mark goes back to folding before he lifts one of the shirts. And he gasps. “You dick, you never gave this back.”

“You kinda left me on a building, so you know.” Your lips purse and Mark winces at the memory. Before looking almost sheepishly ashamed, brows scrunching and his lips tug downwards into a frown.

“I’m sorry about that.” Mark murmurs.

“It’s chill, I got a happy meal out of it.”

He tosses the Seance Dog T-shirt at you. Pretty brown eyes focused on the way you catch the fabric like it’s something precious, holding it to your chest.

Mark doesn’t glance away as you turn your back to him, hands reaching for the edge of your shirt and you pull it overhead. He stares at your back, the curve of your spine, the way your waist curves and suddenly, he’s hiding an erection behind a Pinocchio T-shirt, eyes locked on the way your back flexes as you pull the Seance Dog shirt on, and he watches the fabric fall just below your ass. Fleshy globes only obscured by your ridiculously short cotton shorts and Mark swallows.

Gaze flitting up to meet yours.

“Looks g-good.” He nearly sputters, hands fisting the fabric of the top in his lap and your eyes lower to the veins that bulge at his hands and forearms.

“Did Pinocchio’s nose always look like that?” Your brows furrow.

Mark begins to sweat, droplets forming at his neck and disappearing behind the neckline of his shirt.

“Yeah.” Mark lies. “You got this at that 3D shirt place, remember? You wanted his nose 3D so it looks like you could poke kids in the eye.”

And while you can’t remember, that does sound like something you’d say.

And you plop into your bed, wriggling beneath the covers before you peer at Mark, watching his muscles shift as he continues and you sigh at the sight, bottom lip wedged between your teeth. And your lips part to make a quip, most probably something offensive but you’re interrupted by Mark’s phone, buzzing incessantly and you glance towards the screen.

And it’s the superhero equivalent of Hailey Bieber.

Your lips purse at Eve’s contact, eyes narrowing and you’re already shifting in bed, internally readying yourself for a brief ‘gotta go’.

Mark’s shoulders stiffen as he shifts, his body nearly throwing itself across yours as he reaches for his phone, swiping at the red button. And he turns his phone off, crawling beneath the covers alongside you and his body blankets yours. His face nestles in the curve your neck, his arms tuck themselves beneath the small of your back and he holds you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

And right now, it feels like it is.

For the first time, in a long time, Mark feels… Complete.

Complete and very, very hard. Cock straining against his boxers, precum staining the stretched fabric and he takes a deep breath, inhaling the smell of you. God.

“You’re so warm…” Mark whispers against your skin, his body shifting and your gaze flicks up to your ceiling, and you’re gonna bite off your bottom lip at this point. Every hole of your body is clenched, your mind is working overtime to commit every sense you’re feeling to memory.

You swallow hard when you realise Mark’s hips are wedged between your thighs, layers of fabric doing nothing to make him feel less of the heat between you, and Mark presses his lips against your pulse. The ball of his nose brushes against your earlobe, his hips press against yours and you’re feeling all of him and simultaneously not enough.

Mark’s pressing sweet kisses against your neck, a low sound leaving the back of his throat when he feels the way your head tips back, exposing the supple flesh of your throat. And Mark sighs against your skin, dragging his tongue up your jugular before lifting his head, shifting until his face is above yours.

Lashes fluttering and his head dips.

Mark’s lips meet yours in a soft kiss. Uncoordinated, so unpracticed, and so, so hot. Mark’s lips move against yours in the sweetest way, hands pawing at your waist, pulling you closer and he loves the way your thighs press against his waist, soft. Inviting.

And so warm.

He loves the way your fingers sink into his hair, nails dragging and carding through his hair, strands slipping from between your fingers. The covers keep the two of you entangled, and Mark can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be than here.

With you.

In your dimly lit room, while your TV plays as background noise. Unable to drown out your sighs, Mark’s hums and the way your body feels against his. He can feel the way your nipples harden beneath that oversized T-shirt, and with each shift of his chest, he hears that whine you let out.

And he swallows your syrupy sweet whines, your tongue tastes like cookies and he feels the way your thighs tremble at his sides.

“Wrap your legs around me.” Mark breathes out. “Please…” His breaths are so hot, fanning against your neck and his hands shift, grasping at your hips with so much want that the action alone has your panties clinging to your cunt.

He lifts his head, soft eyes focused on the way your cheeks are burning even hotter than his, your lashes fluttering and your legs are following his command, wrapping around his waist and he nearly moans at the feel of your heels digging into his lower back, bringing him closer.

And Mark’s head falls against your shoulder.

His hips roll against yours, messy and so unpracticed. You feel the way his cock presses against you, and you nearly whine.

Swallowing hard when he speaks softly. No... Not speaks.

Begs.

“Can I fuck you?”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @love3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[hangesophtalmologist]

playing with fire burns like hell

part 1

previous name: the salesman’s obsession

part 1, (part 2)

pairing: squid game's salesman/ recruiter x f!reader

synopsis: when someone dares to interrupt his game, the infamous salesman ought to punish them... but she doesn't intend to play by his rules.

warnings: violence, physical assaut, social stigma, psychotic mc, squid game au

a/n: we shall give the people what they asked for (salesman x readers) (i'm people)

The slap rang out like a gunshot, ricocheting off the cold subway walls. The man on the ground – disheveled, panting – flinched. His cheek blossomed red, but he didn’t dare look up. Above him, the Salesman stood poised, palm still tingling. His eyes were bright but empty, the light behind them clinical, dissecting.

"Come on now, one more try,” he taunted. His voice was smooth, almost musical and weightless, as if he were suggesting a game of chess. "Don’t stop at three. You’ll regret that more.”

It wasn’t joy he was feeling. Amusement, merely. Detached, surgical. Like stepping on something fragile just to hear the crack. The pathetic, the desperate – they all crumbled the same way. He just had to give them a little push, and their precious facade fell apart, leaving behind the twitching core of greed, ready to humiliate itself for scraps.

The sweating businessman bent to pick up his red tile, trembling. His shoulders sagged under the weight of silent despair. Miserable. The Salesman’s lips curled, though not exactly enough to be called a smile. He enjoyed the process. The inevitability of it.

Another failure.

He raised his hand, licking his lips in anticipation, but before he could swing, something unexpected happened. A hand grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Unshaking.

Cold.

His head snapped to the side; the sharp turn of a predator interrupted mid-hunt.

You.

His gaze narrowed. He’d noticed you earlier, lingering on the platform’s edge. Background noise. He rarely missed details, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps that was the first red flag.

His gaze drifted over your hand, slender fingers circling his wrist like a cuff. He could break free easily. Yet he didn’t. Your grip felt… deliberate. Measured.

“Enough,” you said, cocking your head to the side, sly eyes scrutinizing him.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Interest flickered, not outwardly hostile, but curious. He searched your face for clues – that familiar, nauseating blend of pity and self-importance most saviours carried. Yet, your eyes betrayed neither. But he didn’t need any tells – he knew people like you. Hypocrites yearning for crumbs of recognition.

“And who might you be?” His voice retained its warmth, but irritation simmered beneath it.

You stepped between him and his trembling opponent, your hand falling away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze darkened as annoyance started to seep in his body. He didn’t even watch as the man behind you scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the crowd like prey escaping a hunter. His focus was entirely on you now – the intruder. He examined you for long time – longer than what he was used to. The Salesman never cared much for remembering anyone other than his recruits – but there was something about the lines of your face, the crooked slope of your mouth, the mischief in you pupils. Something challenging. Something he wanted to crush.

"You just cost me 100,000 won," he said lightly, adjusting his cufflinks with meticulous care – but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the casual tone. "So. How do you plan to pay me back?"

You shrugged, defying. “I don’t plan to.”

His grin widened, but the glint in his eyes sharpened. “I see. Then I’ll have to take it from you. A slap or cash. Choose.”

“I have a better idea,” you smirked, lazily flicking the red tile between your fingers. “I’ll take his place. I want to play too.”

His smile faltered. The thrill flickered out, but simply for a second – you weren’t desperate, not twitchy or ashamed. Not his typical prey. Yet. Because after all, if you wanted to play, it was because you wanted money – like everyone else.

He just needed to crack your confident mask to see you scrambling for it.

A chuckle escaped his mouth, hunger for your humiliation gnawing at his stomach. He wanted to see your heroic aspirations slapped out of your mind until you were nothing more than the lowlives he usually dealt with.

Yes. This would be even more fun to watch.

His smirk returned, though colder. “Fine. Each loss costs 100,000 won. Can you pay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

Your smugness stirred something primal in him—something ugly, something he hadn’t felt in years. You flipped the red card over your fingers, defiance oozing off you. Then in a split second you hurled the tile to the ground with surprising force. There was no hesitation, no tension. He didn’t need to look down to know you had flipped the blue card over. He watched you carefully, waiting for the inevitable flicker of relief that most winners betrayed.

None came.

Your eyes had barely left him either, like you were also gauging his reaction. Your lips stretched in a predatory smile – a thrill of excitement ran down his veins.

“I paid the debt. Now let’s play for real,” you cheered, displaying a naïve smile, one that could have fooled him as genuine if there wasn’t a flick of calculation - measurement - behind the easy curve of your lips.

The Salesman was a man of control – he could recognize when someone was leading a game, and right now this someone wasn’t him. He wasn’t surprised when you succeeded again.

“You won,” he stated, but there was no satisfaction, no amusement – he was still hungry for your humiliation. He reached for his luggage. But your foot stopped him, stepping on it as you suddenly reduced the distance between them.

“Oh no, Mister. You must have misunderstood me,” you slowly leaned towards him and whispered against his face.

He should have seen it before – but it was only now, when you were inches away from him, that he finally noticed the spark of amusement hidden in your eyes. It wasn’t heroism, nor greed that animated you.

Danger. His heart raced with the adrenaline that was reserved for his favourite kills, an all-too-powerful feeling that welcome your next words.

“I wasn’t playing for money.”

And then with sudden, brutal efficiency, you slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him stumbling on his feet and wipe any thought from his mind.

The crack resounded louder than his own had.

His head jerked to the side, pain stinging his cheek. Silence stretched between you. The slap burned, but not as much as the unfamiliar sensation curling in his gut.

Your laugh cut through the quiet, light and playful, but dripping with something – something mad.

He scoffed, bringing a hand to massage his cheek. It was stinging, the only proof that the last seconds had happened. When he looked back at you, you had tilted your head in an innocent expression.

But your conniving smirk was taunting him. “I get you now; it is quite fun. Have a nice day, Mister.”

You turned and walked away, your figure shrinking under the flickering subway lights.

The Salesman didn’t follow. Not immediately.

He watched you disappear into the station, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting fractured shadows on the tiles.

He stayed rooted, fingers twitching at his side, replaying the moment. Over and over.

Then, without warning, he laughed. Deep, unhinged, shaking laughter that echoed through the empty station. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharper and more vicious than he had felt in years.

You.

You weren’t a prey.

No, you were something far more valuable.

You were a challenge.

And he would break you. Piece by piece.

[angelfishe]

>> 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

Yandere genshin men x reader ( GODS AU ) Characters : diluc, kaeya, alhaitham, kaveh, zhongli, Childe, wriothesly, neuvilette.

The most desired goddess of them all, beloved and hated by many for their beauty. an ethereal being whose mere presence captivates mortals and gods alike. Your touch can inspire devotion, and your gaze alone has driven kingdoms to war. But among your admirers, a few stand out—gods who don’t just worship you, but obsess over you. Their love is consuming, possessive, and inescapable.

Inspired by Greek mythology, the reader is inspired by Aphrodite

DILUC ( GOD OF FIRE AND RETRIBUTION )

A god of fire who embodies both destruction and renewal. He is worshiped by warriors and those seeking revenge against the corrupt. His followers believe that while his flames burn away evil, they also cleanse and bring rebirth. Despite his cold demeanor, he deeply values justice and protection. Your husband in contract.

Diluc’s love is like an unrelenting flame—it burns fiercely, searing away anything that threatens to take you from him. He believes that only he can truly protect you from the dangers of the divine and mortal realms alike. If another god dares to court you, he will see it as an act of war. His devotion is suffocating; he would burn entire cities to the ground if it meant keeping you safe and by his side.

Diluc is not blind. He sees the way other gods look at you—with longing, desperation, even defiance. It infuriates him to no end. He already won you, already made you his. What more do they want? His flames burn with rage at the mere thought of someone trying to take you away. If anyone dares to overstep, he will make an example of them—turning his divine fury upon them until they are nothing but ashes.

"You don’t need them. You don’t need anyone but me. Why risk your heart with those who will only betray you? I will guard you, worship you, love you... even if I must destroy the world to do so."

KAEYA ( GOD OF DECEPTION AND SECRETS )

A mysterious and cunning god, known for his silver tongue and ability to manipulate fate. He is neither entirely good nor evil, often testing mortals with riddles and half-truths. His followers pray to him for guidance in uncovering secrets—or keeping them hidden. Some believe he knows the answers to the world’s greatest mysteries but only shares them for a price.

Kaeya doesn’t just love you—he owns you. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. His love is a twisted game where he ensures you’ll never escape him, even if it means lying, tricking, or breaking you. He whispers sweet words, poisons the thoughts of others who dare approach you, and ensures that no one but him truly understands you. If you try to resist, you’ll soon find that every path leads back to him.

Kaeya loves a challenge, and what’s more thrilling than stealing the Goddess of Love from her own husband? He knows Diluc watches him with fire in his eyes, but that only makes the game more enticing. He’s always near, offering honeyed words, whispering promises of a love sweeter than flames. Wouldn’t it be more exciting to run away, to escape with someone who truly understands you?

"Marriage is just a word… isn’t it. does marriage truly mean love? Or is it just another contract, another chain? If you ever find yourself bored with that brute I'll promise you a night of passion… you know where to find me"

ALHAITHAM ( GOD OF REASON AND KNOWLEDGE )

A god who values intellect above all, often challenging mortals to think for themselves rather than blindly follow others. His temples are filled with scholars and scientists seeking enlightenment.

Alhaitham does not believe in fate, yet his obsession with you defies all logic. He has studied every aspect of your existence, analyzed every interaction, and concluded one undeniable truth: you were meant to be his.

Your marriage to Diluc? An incorrect equation. A mistake. A flaw in the grand design. He is patient, methodical—unlike the others who act on impulse. He won’t challenge Diluc with brute force or desperate pleas. Instead, he will plant doubts, whisper truths, and dismantle the foundations of your love, piece by piece.

"Love is not about passion or fire—it is about compatibility, understanding, and permanence. And by all rational measures… he is not your match. I am."

KAVEH ( GOD OF ART AND ARCHITECTURE )

A passionate and emotional god who values artistic expression above all else. He blesses architects, poets, and dreamers, urging them to create beauty in a harsh world. However, he often struggles with his own perfectionism, torn between ideals and reality. His temples are among the most breathtaking structures in existence, filled with intricate designs and stories carved into stone.

you are a masterpiece—the ultimate muse, the divine inspiration that makes life worth living. His love is suffocating in a different way: he needs you. Without you, he is nothing. He would carve statues, build temples, and dedicate his very existence to you, no matter the cost. But his devotion is unstable—his jealousy and desperation lead him to tear down anything that threatens to steal your love from him.

To Kaveh, your marriage is an absolute heartbreak. He sees himself as the only one who can truly understand you, truly cherish you. He paints murals of you in secret, builds shrines in your honor, whispers prayers of devotion. Every word from his lips is drenched in longing.

"I could have built you a palace fit for a goddess… Instead, you are trapped in his cage of fire. If only you had chosen me…"

ZHONGLI ( GOD OF CONTRACT AND KING OF THE GODS )

A god-king who rules with both wisdom and an iron fist. Unlike his more passive form as the God of Contracts, an unyielding monarch who commands the earth itself. His laws are absolute, and defying him leads to destruction. It is said that mountains bow to his will, and the very ground trembles when he speaks.

Zhongli, the King of the Gods, does not ask for what he wants—he simply takes it. He has ruled over divinity for eons, shaping the heavens and earth to his will. And you? The Goddess of Love and Beauty? You are the only being who has ever tested his patience.

Your marriage to Diluc is a mistake, a flaw in destiny that he will correct. He has watched, waited, given you time to understand the inevitable truth: you were always meant to be his. Yet you continue to resist. It is almost amusing.

"Mortal concepts like marriage hold no power over gods like us, my dear. You belong to me, as you always have. It is not a matter of choice—it is divine law."

CHILDE ( GOD OF CHAOS AND WAR )

A god of endless battle, unpredictable and relentless. He tests warriors by dragging them into brutal conflicts, favoring those who fight with heart over those who fight with strategy. Despite his violent nature, he values family and loyalty above all else. His followers believe that the sound of crashing waves is his war drum, calling them to battle.

Love is a battlefield, and he is willing to fight for you. He has never backed down from a challenge, and your marriage to Diluc is simply another war to win. He constantly challenges Diluc, hoping to defeat him and claim you as his reward. His devotion is as violent as it is passionate.

He grows frustrated when you defend Diluc, but that only fuels his desire to prove himself. To him, you belong to the one who fights hardest for you.

"What’s a piece of paper and some vows compared to real devotion? When I carve my love into the battlefield, will you still deny me?"

WRIOTHESLY ( GOD OF THE UNDERWORLD AND DEATH )

A god who rules the underworld with an iron yet fair hand. He does not seek cruelty, but neither does he tolerate injustice. Those who are cast into his domain are given a chance to redeem themselves—but only if they prove their strength and integrity.

You are the warmth in his cold, dark domain, the one thing that can soften his hardened heart. Unfortunately his duties in the underworld has made great a divider between you and him being together, the last time he saw you was your wedding day with diluc and he watched from the shadows seeing the one he loved the most being taken.

He respects the contract between you and diluc but what about him, he always fantasizes being with you but now you're in the arms of someone else maybe if he could find ways to bind you towards him being unable to leave the underworld maybe that's the only way to finally have you.

"Mortals and gods alike fight for your love, but only I am willing to keep you safe—forever. Even death will not take you from me."

NEUVILETTE ( THE SOVEREIGN OF WATERS )

Neuvillette is not merely a god—he is the first water, the primordial ocean from which all things were born. When the heavens and earth were still divided, he existed as an endless sea, a formless deity whose essence gave life to rivers, rain, and the tears shed by mortals. Legends say that his very presence dictates the balance of the world—when he weeps, storms ravage the land; when he is calm, the seas turn to glass. He is justice incarnate, not in the way of laws, but in the way water finds its path, carving through mountains and drowning kingdoms alike.

As the Primordial God of Water, Neuvillette is not one to be ruled by fleeting emotions—or so he tells himself. He has existed since before time, before love itself was given a name. He has seen kings rise and fall, empires swallowed by the tides, and yet… When he learns that you, the Goddess of Love and Beauty, have chosen another, he does not rage like the others... He weeps.

Neuvillette does not hate your marriage. He does not fight it, nor does he curse it. But he watches. He waits. Because fire will always burn itself out. And when that day comes, he will be there—as he always has been, and always will be.

"You have only to step into the tide, and I will take you where you truly belong."

[wtfaniii]

Req for a Hwang In-ho os with kind off parenting scenarios like what if by mistake a toddler was brought to the games and he ends up in the caretaker roll (and yes he gives off daddy vibes ya know !)

God I loved this one, I feel like him would be great protector.

¿What if...? a little girl entered the games

little girl x Hwang In-ho father figure

Summary: Your eleven-year-old self is taken to an island believing you'll be a little entertainment.

Warning: In-ho may not be that attached to the original character ¡this man will be a big hug bear here!

Note: I do my best to answer the rest of the requests, thanks for your support!! And if I make a mistake I accept constructive criticism!

You lived alone on the street, you didn't know anything about your parents and every day was a struggle until one day you saw a man in a suit playing Ddakji with another person, when you saw that he gave money as a reward if you beat him quickly went to him.

At first he ignored you and walked away with you right behind him but you were so persistent that after walking a few blocks he finally turned to with a raised eyebrow.

You played with him and won every time, received money and a card to continue playing for more money.

You didn't owe anything, he knew that, but he thought he was doing you a favor by opening the doors to the slaughterhouse, maybe it would be better than you continuing to sleep in a box and eat leftover food.

"She's going to die anyway, I'm just making her suffering shorter" thought the salesman.

What he didn't know is that a certain man would take a liking to you as soon as he saw you.

You played "green light, red light" and managed to get through without a scratch, you were scared but Gi-hun made sure to keep you safe during this game.

—¡They are bastards! ¡They brought a little girl for the love of God! —456 screamed to the sky as the ceiling loomed over their heads, the other player 390 covered your eyes so you wouldn't see all the carnage they left behind in the first round.

Meanwhile... The Front Man's firm footsteps echoed through the hallways as he made his way to the control booth, when he arrived, he spoke in a voice that chilled the blood of his employees.

—¿Who let her in?

He knew the salesman, he knew the heartless idiot had no empathy for even a puppy but the fact that these guards had dressed you up and put you in that arena gave him a headache.

When he was given the number of the one who allowed you to get into the first game, he personally took it upon himself to put a bullet in him head.

He thought about getting you out immediately but considering the fact that he would also be infiltrating there and how after that massacre you were playing and talking non-stop with 390 and 456 as if nothing had happened, he let you continue but this time under his personal supervision.

It was quite easy for him to infiltrate and join Gi-hun, keeping his enemy close would be very useful but he also kept his eyes on you.

—Eat this too —In-ho handed you his can of food when he saw how quickly you had finished the rice, sausage and egg.

—No thanks —The smile you gave him almost made his hard heart beat—You should eat too, but if you insist so much you can give me the sausages.

You finished with a smile, to which he returned the gesture and gave you part of his portion.

During the night he took care of covering you with the blanket so that you wouldn't be cold and of laying you in bed next to him in case you had a nightmare, but to his surprise and that of your new friends, you slept all night without interruptions.

When it was time to go to the next game, In-ho kept you by his side so that you would be on his team with Gi-hun.

His team made it to the end so he wasn't worried if they lost, if they did neither you nor he would have died and there would be no witnesses.

He would break just a few of the rules to stay you alive.

Every time some players were eliminated, you covered your ears and closed your eyes tightly, something that moved him so much that he also distracted you by talking to you every time the guards removed the bodies to prevent you from seeing all that show of death and blood.

After the second vote Jung-bae was sorry for choosing the circle so he apologized to you and Jun-hee.

—It's okay, as long as we're together ¡we'll win! —You said with a beaming smile as Young-il ruffled your hair in excitement.

The day seemed long in there, but you didn't get bored with Young-il. He told you some children's stories and played with you.

However, when you were playing with the empty milk carton you accidentally hit the back of player 100.

—Oops, sorry sir —You said politely, reaching out to grab the little box from the floor, but before you could do so, he stepped on it hard, stepping on two of your fingers of the hand in the process.

Your cry of pain caught In-ho's immediate attention, he cut off the conversation he was having with Gi-hun and went to you.

—¡¿How is it possible that you are still alive?! ¡You are just a little brat!

In-ho effortlessly picked you and hug against his chest.

With just one look he silenced the man, it wasn't a warning, it was a threat, that man had hurt you and he would make sure him paid the consequences, not now, but he would definitely suffer.

—I told you not to stray too far from me —He said as he walked back to his place with the others.

You just nodded still with tears in your eyes and hugging him by the neck, he left you on the bed and took your hand to analyze the damage.

—You didn't hurt yourself much, you'll be better after pouring cold water on yourself in the bath —He said trying to calm you down, he dried the tears from your cheeks and kissed your forehead, it was an act he did on impulse and it even surprised himself a little.

"You'll be a great father" Gi-hun told him when you were sleeping, which was strange, the last time he heard that was when his wife talked to him about starting a family, he silently thanked but deep down he felt different, as if you had been able to reach the light inside him, a light he had considered extinct.

During the third game he stayed close to you, every time it was time to team up and run into a room he made sure to hold your hand.

Until the time came to form a team of four, there were many in his group so you and he separated, the counter reached zero and In-ho managed to get you two into a room and close it.

—But we're missing two —You said somewhat nervously and scared while the shots rang out from outside.

—Listen to me —In-ho knelt in front of you and held your shoulders —I need you to keep this a secret,

He gave a quick glance to the camera in the corner, they weren't going to kill them even if they cheated but now he needed no one else to find out about this.

—But it's cheating... —You murmured, confused and still a little scared.

—Promise me you won't say anything about this, not to Gi-hun or the others.

You nodded silently, you didn't say anything and that, without knowing it, would cost the lives of some of your friends.

That same night, there was a rebellion organized by 456.

You wanted to go with them, believing yourself strong enough to help them, but Young-il opposed it.

—I'm not going to let you come with us—He said firmly as he took you by the hand and led you back to the rest of the players —It's dangerous, you will stay with them until we return.

He left you in the hands of 149, 222 and 007, the older woman was the one who had the most empathy for you so In-ho knew you would be fine until his guards came for you.

[...]

After returning to his place as Front man, he sent a group of guards to control the rest of the players in the room and get you out of there.

"Player 398, you must come with us" when you heard that and saw the guards coming towards you, you hugged 149, you were scared, after all you were a girl and didn't know what was happening.

Geum-ja also held you tightly to prevent you from being taken away but it was useless, In-ho was surprised by how you won the affection of her, Jun-hee, Hyun-ju and Myung-gi to the point that they were able to stand up to his soldiers.

As were led through the colorful hallways you bit the hand of one of the pink guards and kicked the other to escape, you had spent entire short life on the streets so escaping was one of your skills, the first thing you did was call some of your friends, including Young-il.

But there came a time when you started to cry, believing that they were dead and you sat on the ground, you remained there scared and worried until once again two guards found you, this time accompanied by a man dressed in grey and a black mask.

When you looked up, he could see your watery eyes and red nose, which made his affection for you grow and not caring about his own rules about secret identity, he took off his mask and crouched down to be at your level.

He didn't know what to say to you, how to handle this situation in which you were so confused and overwhelmed, so when you hugged him he just returned the gesture and got up from the floor with you.

—It's okay, you're going to be fine —He whispered to you calmly while caressing your hair.

In-ho didn't know anything about being a father, he hadn't thought about being one since his wife died but he would do everything possible to take care of you from now on, for a few seconds he thought about sending you with Jun-ho and his mother but he preferred not to, besides, you didn't want to leave him alone for even a second.

He would teach you how to use weapons and defend yourself, he would also try to get you to accompany him everywhere or remain under surveillance, you quickly became a weakness so the safer you are the safer he will be too.

He didn't explain everything to you in detail, much less what role he had in these games, he believed that you wouldn't forgive him so the less you know the better for you, but you weren't stupid, the life you had before meeting him made you analyze things better than many others.

You knew that whatever his job was, it wasn't good but you didn't judge him or talk to him.

To you, he was like your father and that would make you defend him tooth and nail from anyone who wanted to hurt him.

In case Gi-hun ends the games, Jun-ho would probably take responsibility for you and let you visit In-ho in prison, (when you're older, you'll probably help him escape and move to another continent).

But if not, you will probably be given the front man position when you grow up because you are trained enough by this man, you will be calculating and probably a younger, female version of him.

N/A: Ok, I hope this is what you expected and thanks for this idea!

I honestly think In-ho wouldn't canonically take responsibility for a child, maybe he would protect sometimes like 222, but I don't think he would care afterwards, that man is beyond help 😭

[mariasont]

privacy, interrupted

waking up next to spencer on vacation is the perfect morning, until rossi walks in without knocking

pairing: spencer reid r x shy!reader warnings: fem!reader, post prison spencer, reference to sexy time the night before, reader is naked, kissing, established relationship, fluff prompt: here wc: 0.8k

You sense him stirring beside you, all cautious and considerate, like he’s navigating some delicate truce neither of you signed but both seem bound to uphold. Your limbs protest with sleepiness, practically begging you to ignore it, but your brain has other ideas, wide awake simply because it’s him. 

Your subconscious has apparently decreed that Spencer Reid isn’t permitted to be awake alone without your awkward, fumbling company.

And, honestly, you can’t bear the thought of him quietly awake, probably counting obscure facts or memorizing solitude, so, inevitably, your internal clock (diligently trained, very Spencer-oriented) kicks in every morning like some sort of lovesick, overly attached alarm.

Your eyes blink sluggishly open, and yeah, you’re already mentally cursing about the loss of precious sleep.

That is, until Spencer comes into view, giving you a sleepy-soft smile as soon as he sees that your awake that somehow justifies this sappy morning ritual you’ve cultivated.

“Hey there, beautiful girl,” Spencer murmurs, warm enough to render you mushy.

You manage exactly one very brave, extremely fleeting glance into his eyes — long enough for you to panic at just how intense his adoring gaze feels — before you promptly conclude that the only dignified response is burying your burning face straight into his chest.

“Morning,” you mumble, barely audible, and okay, sure, it's a weak greeting, but you're pretty sure he knows that your social capabilities are severely limited before coffee.

“How’d you sleep?”

His fingers leisurely map trails along your stomach, occasionally dipping lower, grazing along your thigh. Your breath stalls at his touch, instantly bringing you face-to-face with the very naked reality (literally) of your current state, and you're vividly aware of why you slept better than you have in years.

You squirm against him awkwardly, deeply thankful your mortification is safely concealed in the crook of his neck. You’re fairly certain there’s no scenario — no alternate timeline or parallel universe — where you’d confess out loud just how blissfully Spencer can apparently knock you out.

“Fine,” you mumble evasively.

Spencer’s fingers move to cup your chin, lifting your face until you’re forced to meet a pair of amused eyes. 

“Just fine?” He eyes you skeptically. “You were snoring pretty loudly for someone who slept just fine.”

You splutter out a laugh, embarrassed and giggling all at once, shoving lightly at his shoulder. 

“Spencer!” you squeak indignantly. “I absolutely, categorically, undeniably do not snore. Take it back right now.”

“Oh, I’m afraid the science disagrees,” he begins casually, hands running absentminded passes over your side as he explains. “Almost everyone snores at least occasionally. It happens when your throat muscles relax during deep sleep. It’s completely normal.” He pauses. “Some might even say cute.”

He punctuates his little speech with a tap on your nose, grinning when you wrinkle it at him. 

“Spencer’s, that’s —” you begin to argue, reader to counter his science, when he suddenly silences you with a kiss, stealing your voice mid-protest.

You try valiantly (well, sort of) to keep arguing, words stubbornly squeezing out between soft kisses that blur your logic.

“I’m serious —” kiss “— you don’t get to —” kiss “— to win arguments —” kiss “— like this,” you mumble, dissolving into breathless laughter as he continues, smugly aware he’s already won.

You’re giggling into yet another stolen kiss when a brisk knock at the door startles you apart, no time to process before Rossi strolls into the room.

“Hey, kid, we’re making coffee downstairs if you —” Rossi stops midsentence.

You barely have a second to manage a yelp before Spencer moves quickly, positioning himself like a very protective, and slightly panicked, human shield in an attempt to salvage your rapidly disappearing dignity.

“Oh my god, Rossi,” you groan from your makeshift hiding spot behind Spencer’s shoulder.

Rossi lets out a thoroughly entertained chuckle, clearly relishing in your horror. He doesn’t immediately move to leave, instead pausing in the doorway.

“Well, it appears you’re both quite awake already,” he remarks, mouth curving into a smirk. “But just in case you decide to join civilization at some point, I’ll put another pot on. Take your time.”

Spencer clears his throat awkwardly. “Thanks, Rossi,” he deadpans. “Maybe next time knock and actually wait for an answer?”

Rossi grins shamelessly, lifting his hands in exaggerated innocence as he backs toward the hallway.

“I’ll consider it, right after you two consider hanging a do-not-disturb sign.”

The second Rossi shuts the door, you collapse against Spencer, sighing miserably, “That’s it. Vacation over. Social life destroyed. We’re never leaving this room again until the end of time, or at least until everyone forgets what just happened — which, spoiler alert, they won’t.”

“End of time feels a little excessive,” he teases gently, nudging your jaw with his nose. “But if it means I get to spend a few more uninterrupted days with you, I might just let you have your way.”

You roll your eyes internally, half-heartedly pretending to be annoyed at Spencer’s ridiculously charming response. Honestly, it doesn't make sense how easily he dismantles your panic with one sentence and that stupidly cute smile. 

Still, your pride demands at least some resistance, even if your heart is enthusiastically voting yes to the bed-hibernation plan. So, fine — maybe hiding here forever (or at least for a couple days) wouldn’t be the absolute worst way to spend your vacation.

Actually, scratch that — it might just be your ideal outcome.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 2 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[intheupside]

About 30 minutes after Team Canada practiced at Hovet Arena, Sidney Crosbystood in the right circle before methodically skating toward the net and firing a shot. The goaltender denied it with a sprawling save, then aimed his glove directly toward Crosby’s face and grinned.

After a 21-year NHL career, Marc-André Fleury is going out on his terms, saying goodbye with his favorite captain by his side.

Fleury, who retired from the league after the Minnesota Wild’s season ended May 1, is enjoying a swan song at the World Championships before his playing career truly ends in the next few days. And he’s doing it with Crosby, his Pittsburgh Penguins teammate for 12 seasons.

Neither star would have it any other way.

“This is kind of perfect,” Fleury told The Athleticlast week. “And you know what I miss the most about playing with Sid? Days like this, just staying on the rink for an hour after practice, just challenging each other. Days like this, I don’t want to leave the rink.”

Around the time Crosby was making that decision to go to Worlds, he received a text from an old friend.

“I never even thought about the possibility of playing with him over here,” Crosby said. “But then Flower texted me. He had gotten word from Kyle, and he was thinking about going. So, then I told him I was going to go. Within a couple of days, he decided to come over, too.”

Fleury’s decision wasn’t difficult.

“Think about it,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I come over here? You get to keep playing hockey a little while longer. Get to play with Sid one last time.”

There was something else, too.

Fleury has had a strange relationship with Team Canada over the years. A misplay in the 2004 World Junior Championship against Team USA haunted Fleury for quite some time, and only once was the future Hall of Famer selected to play in the Olympics, where he never saw a minute of playing time in Vancouver in 2010.

“But,” Fleury said, pointing to the Canada logo on his chest, “wearing this sweater still means the world to me. To do it one last time? It’s everything.”

“This is so nice,” Fleury said. “Me and Sid, we spent so many years together, so much time together, just talking about hockey, life. We won a lot together, too. It’s been a few years since we could really sit down and talk, spend some time together. It’s been perfect. I really thought I was done after we lost to Vegas. So, just to have one more chance to play? To keep going a little bit longer? I couldn’t turn that down. I’m glad Kyle called.”

He’s the ultimate hockey junkie, but in seasons when the Penguins’ campaign ends without a parade, Crosby usually prefers to vacation in Europe instead of watching the playoffs.

Not this year. He was watching when Vegas eliminated Minnesota in Game 6 because he knew it was the last time he’d see Fleury in an NHL sweater.

“I was watching his last game but it never really occurred to me at the time that we could have this opportunity,” Crosby explained.

Fleury doesn’t know when he’ll return to Pittsburgh again, but make no mistake, he will. Players don’t sign one-day contracts to retire where they started as often in hockey as in other sports. But …

“I don’t know,” Fleury said. “Not my decision, right? But I have many great memories from Pittsburgh and my time there, I’ll tell you that. That’s the team that gave me a chance, the team I won with. That city always means a lot to me and always will.”

Dubas is well aware.

“It’s important moving forward that we honor Flower the right way as an organization,” Dubas said. “It was so apparent in October when Minny came to Pittsburgh, just what he means to people. Not just the staff or the players. I’m talking more about the fans, the reaction they had to him. It was incredible. Hockey doesn’t really do the one-day contracts and stuff like that. But other sports do it in a certain way, too, bringing former players back. It’s something we are thinking about, a way to honor him properly. It’s important that we honor him the right way.”

When their post-practice showdown ended, Crosby and Fleury departed the ice — not because they wanted to but because the Swedish ice crew made them leave. Two vacant stools sat outside Canada’s locker room, so Fleury plopped himself down on one and Crosby followed, sitting on the other, their skates dangling a couple of feet above the floor like a couple of kids enjoying the sport they love.

“This is great,” Crosby said with a smile. “Being out there with Flower, the way he’s still running his mouth. It’s perfect.”

Fleury smiled.

“I’m having so much fun right now,” he said.

incredible sidflower from the athletic today

[afterglowsainz]

hoax | charles leclerc, alexandra saint mleux

pairing: charles leclerc x reader x alexandra saint mleux

summary: your relationship with charles and alexandra is affected when they want you to move to monaco with them but you just can’t leave new york

fc: gianna caldera

request: here

a/n: so similar to we used to have more i have this fic called the prophecy and i’ve been thinking about expanding on that plot idea for a while and then i got the request above and it all just kind of fell into place in my head so i hope you enjoy this mix of my original idea plus the anon request!

—

liked by charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and others

yourusername my lovely nyc 🩷

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username the topppp 😮‍💨

username everything she wears istg i’m omw to buy it

username most stylish wag (and alex ofc)

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charles_leclerc pretty girl 😍

yourusername 😚

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username fr i need MORE of her paddock outfits

liked by yourusername, iamrebeccad and others

alexandrasaintmleux when in monaco 🍷

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username oh she came to serve

username the chanel earrings iconicccc

username how can you not say mother

username alex or the most gorgeous woman???

yourusername miss youuuu🥹 ly

alexandrasaintmleux my loveeee🫶🏽 we miss you too

username y/n and charles won frrrr

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yourusername nights out🍸

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username i love her but i wish she was at the race :(

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charles_leclerc an evening in cota ❤️

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username CONGRATS CHARLES 🥳🥳

username such a lovely drive 🥹 completely deserved!

username YESSSS A WIN IN COTA

username so happy for him! wished his gf was there

username alex was literally right there?

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username fr her boyfriend wins and she can’t even show up 🙄

scuderiaferrari il predestinato 🫶🏽

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yourusername favourite place on earth 💚

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username ahhh parents are finally together 🥹🫶🏽

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username on the bright side, she would finally be closer to charles and alex 🥰

liked charles_leclerc, jade_distinguinn and others

alexandrasaintmleux i might just stay here🌴🌺

tagged yourusername

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username the prettiest

username i love when hot people date each other

username the complete sideline of charles 😭😭

username he is NOT the face of the relationship

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username MOTHERS🫶🏽

charles_leclerc mon dieu 😩

alexandrasaintmleux 😚

liked by f1wags and others

f1gossip ferrari wag y/n y/l/n has unfollowed and deleted all her pictures with couple charles leclerc and alexandra saint mleux leading to the rumor of a breakup. charles and alexandra have not unfollowed her back neither have they deleted posts with her from their social media.

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username don’t even joke lad

username i refuse to accept this misinformation. (it’s true i just checked😩)

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username i’m going to pretend i didn’t see this and go on with my day

username jail time f1gossip this news had to be delivered to me a lot more nicely

f1gossip sorry we didn’t hold your hands when we said this 😔

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yourusername favorite place on earth🩷

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username mother came back 😭

username divorced this time

username not her saying this about charles and alex a few months ago 😭😭

username she is INSANE why would she use the same caption 😩

username so she didn’t even moved to monaco huh

username arthur liking this lol

username unrelated but i’m obsessed with all the winter outfits

username she ate with those

username i am not handling the breakup well and i’m not even her

username you will be missed in the paddock pookie 😔