#I feel like I just keep saying the same thing over and over again in different ways

[pucksandpower]

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

[evansbby]

𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: mean jock!Steve Rogers x naive!reader

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 18+, minors dni, dark, noncon, dubcon, daddy kink, dry humping, thigh riding, fingering, controlling behaviour, cum play, jacking off, lingerie kink, dom/sub dynamic, frat party setting, asshole fratboys, ari levinson mentioned lmao.

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: you run into steve at another frat party. this time, it's in his territory. (alternate continuation of chapter two of wicked games, but this has ZERO impact on the wicked games story. again, this does not affect the plot of the original wicked games timeline, it's just a fun little detour, a completely separate story if you will. you can read this without having read wicked games).

“Can we leave? I’m not really in a party mood,” you frown, tugging at the hem of your dress and regretting how short it is. It’s deep purple and form fitted, with a hemline that sits right below your butt. You’d thought the sexiness of it would help you get more into the spirit of things since Wanda had insisted on dragging you here tonight, but clearly that hadn’t worked. 

“Don’t do this right now, Y/N. We need to be seen at these events if we want to be popular.” Wanda smiles and waves into the distance as if she’s recognised a friend. Despite the fact that this is a St. Jude’s party and you know as well as she does that everyone here is a complete stranger to the both of you. 

You wrinkle your nose, “Well, I don’t really care about being popular–”

“Of course you do. Everyone does.” Wanda’s eyes dart around the very crowded, dimly lit basement of the frat house as if looking for someone. 

“But we don’t know anyone at St. Jude’s!” You tug at your dress again, feeling more insecure than ever. 

Tonight was originally planned to be a girl’s night – and you’d already picked out a movie, laid out the facemasks and bowls of popcorn, and pulled on your comfiest pyjamas only for Wanda to show up to your dorm in a slink black dress and strappy heels, telling you there was a frat party at the rival college that the two of you just couldn’t miss, and that she was giving you fifteen minutes to get ready.

“Yeah, but this morning I overheard some cheerleaders, and they said Curtis might be here.” 

Oh. Of course. Now it all made sense. Ever since the night of the last frat party the two of you had been to, the one where Wanda had slept with Curtis Everett… Well, ever since then she’d become a teensy bit obsessed with him. And that was also the same frat party where you and…

“Wanda! If Curtis is here then Ari will be here too! I don’t wanna see him!”

Your best friend rolls her eyes, “Relax. I also heard the cheerleaders say that Ari went back home for the weekend. Sharon Carter was all upset about it, because apparently he didn’t even bother inviting her and she hasn’t met his parents yet. But anyways, keep an eye out for Curtis, would you?”

“Okay…” Begrudgingly, you scan the room. A part of you is happy that Ari is out of town, because it makes it easier not to think about him, knowing he’s miles and miles away. Out of sight, out of mind - that was going to be your motto when it came to him moving forward.

“Looking for someone?” 

The deep voice feels like velvet against your ear, and you inhale sharply at the familiarity of it. Your whole body starts to buzz when you feel a warm hand press against the small of your back, the stranger’s touch brimming with confidence as he easily turns you around. 

You’re faced with a chest. A big, muscly, expansive chest covered in a grey shirt that’s deliciously tight against it. Slowly, you peek up at his face. Blue eyes. Cocky smile. Handsome. Angelic.

“Steve!” you breathe, relaxing at the familiar face, “You’re here!”

He chuckles, casually grabbing your hip and squeezing it, “Well, considering this is my frat house, it would be weird if I wasn’t.”

Your eyes widen, “It is?”

“Yep. Thanks for coming over, sweetheart. I had a feeling I hadn’t seen the last of you after that party.” He winks. And you have to admit - he looks good. All six foot six inches of him, looming above you with that charming smile on his face, that smile being one of the only things you remember from the night you’d last seen him, where he’d been such a gentleman and dropped you home after everything that had happened with Ari.

He’s got a backwards baseball cap on his head, but tufts of his blonde hair peek out from underneath, and his blue eyes sparkle as he watches you, as if he knows you’re checking him out. And unabashedly, he does the same, his pink tongue licking over his lips as he drinks in your body, his hold on your hip tightening. 

“I…uh… yeah,” you feel self-conscious, tongue-tied after the embarrassingly long amount of time you’ve just spent checking him out. “Thanks for giving me a lift home, by the way. I was super drunk.”

He nods, the glint still in his eye, “I should be the one thanking you for that cab ride.”

You blink, “Thanking me? Why?”

For a moment, he just stares at you. And oh, he’s so intense! That’s another thing you remember about him. How his eyes felt like they were boring holes into your very soul.

Finally, he smiles. “Don’t mention it, sweetheart. You looked so cute and helpless, I knew I had to step in.”

“Hey! I wasn’t completely helpless…”

He laughs, “A damsel in distress if I’d ever seen one, and…” he pauses, bringing his thumb up to stroke your lip. Oh, he was so forward too! Considering you’d only ever met him once before and there’d been nothing sexual between the two of you. “Do you remember what I told you that night?”

You shake your head, half in a trance by how he’s just touching you so openly. Except you don’t really want him to stop.

“I told you that if you were my girl, you wouldn’t be allowed to step foot inside a party like that one. Or this one, for that matter.”

You purse your lips, “Fine. I’ll leave then.”

Steve chuckles, encircling both his arms around you as if he owns you, “Too late. I’m not letting you go for the rest of the night.”

“B-But I’m here with Wanda…”

“Who’s that?”

“My best friend. She brought me here, and–”

“Doesn’t matter. This is my house and you’re here with me now. Okay, baby?”

He strokes your cheek and says it so sweetly, that the controlling nature of his request doesn’t even sink in for you. No, you’re way too distracted by the unabashed hunger in his eyes, the confidence in his smile as he yanks you closer, till your chest is pressed up against his, and an embarrassing squeak escapes your lips. 

“I…uh… Steve, I…”

“Say okay,” he commands you, “you don’t have to think so hard when you’re with me, sweet girl. I promise I’ll take care of you just like how I did last time.”

“Uh… I… o-okay…I ju–”

He smirks, “Cute little tongue-tied baby. C’mon, let’s go to my room.”

At that moment, Wanda reappears, a mildly annoyed look on her face. 

“Y/N, didn’t I tell you to keep an eye out for Curtis? What do you think you’re doing–?”

She stops short, her eyes widening when she sees you’re not alone.

“Wanda, this is the guy I met the other night–”

“–Steve Rogers,” Wanda cuts you off, beaming up at him, “What are you doing with Y/N?”

Steve blinks, “Why would I not be with Y/N?”

She looks you up and down, and if you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn her eyes flash and narrow, “Uh, you know she’s with Ari Levinson, right?”

Your jaw drops - why would she say that? She knew you’d vowed never to speak to Ari again!

But Steve looks completely unperturbed, and he lazily throws his arm over your shoulders, yanking you into his hard chest. And you know it’s a display of ownership - he’s been doing it the moment he saw you tonight after all. And it should bother you, but it doesn’t! Oh, it doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t!

“You know what, Wilma? I think I saw Curtis outside by the pool.” He flashes her that charming smile that you thought was only reserved for you.

Your best friend’s eyes widen, “Really?”

“Yeah. He’s definitely there.”

“Thanks, Steve!” She sidles up closer to him, accidentally bumping you out of the way – well, you hope it’s accidental. She strokes his chest, her manicured nails scraping against his shirt, “Would you show me where the pool is please? This place is so big, I couldn’t possibly find it on my own.”

A sudden fire ignites inside you, burning its way up to the surface of your body alongside this weird feeling of… well, you don’t really know. But you stand there, crossing your arms over your chest as you watch their interaction unfold in front of you.

But Steve remains by your side, “Up the stairs and outside the sliding glass door on your first right. You won’t miss it.”

“I’ll come with you, Wanda,” you try to shake off Steve’s heavy arm. You don’t really want to leave him, but it’s only right that you go with your best friend.

“Don’t bother, Y/N. I can see you’re busy.” And she’s off without another glance at you, but she makes sure to brush past Steve as she goes, despite the fact that there’s enough room for her to not have to do that. 

Steve snickers, “That’s your best friend?”

“She’s drunk, I think. Usually she’s a lot friendlier…” your voice trails off as you watch her leave the basement in a hurry. “Is…uh… is Curtis really up there? By the pool?”

Steve smirks as he grabs your hand and tugs you to the stairs, “If that bald-headed fuck was anywhere near here, I’d personally kick him out myself. Now come on, let’s go somewhere a bit more private.”

Steve’s room is neater than you’d assume a basketball player’s room in a frat house to be. Not that you have anything to compare it to since Ari had never invited you into his room. But this one is muted, grey, minimalistic with some basketball memorabilia scattered around. 

He’d wasted no time in getting you alone up there, practically half-carrying you through the crowd of people and up the stairs, his grip on you tight and confident. As if you’d been his girl all your life, as if it was a concrete fact that you belonged to him tonight. And it’s like your body was too entranced to even put up a fight to stop him.

Oh, what had you gotten yourself into?

“Good thing I got you out of there before things got too rowdy,” Steve shuts his bedroom door behind him, and you hear the unmistakable click of a lock. And you know you should feel more alarmed than you actually do - but it’s Steve! He wasn’t like Ari Levinson - he was nice! He could’ve taken advantage of you at that last frat party, but he hadn’t! The only person who’d taken advantage of you that night was Ari.

You could trust Steve.

“Do your parties usually get super rowdy?”

“For babies like you, yes.” Again, he unabashedly stares at your body, at your bare legs accentuated by your high heels, your tight dress that hugs your curves, the dip of your cleavage and the way it rises up and down as you breathe shallowly. “As I said before, I don’t want you down there. Not where they can all see you.”

You wrinkle your nose, “No one was looking at me. I’m from a different college, no one here even knows me.”

His muscular arms wrap around your waist with that same charming confidence, as if he’s known you way longer than he actually has. As if he knows you won’t pull away. How does he know that?

“You’re more innocent than I thought, baby girl.” To your shock, his hands press flat against your thighs before moving upwards, straight up under your dress to cup your bare ass cheeks. You gulp, yet remain rooted in place as he gently squeezes the soft flesh. “Skipping into a frat house looking so fucking sexy, and thinking no one’s gonna notice you?”

“Well, I didn’t skip…”

“You may as well have,” He presses his hard crotch against your front, and he’s so much bigger than you that you can feel his boner digging against your midriff, and it sends jolts straight down to your core. There was just something so hot about him being so big, you being so much smaller, him calling you innocent, him being so forward and unpredictable… It actually reminds you a bit of… NO. No, don’t think about him!

“And guess what?” Steve whispers in your ear as he gently walks you backwards to his bed. 

“Wh-What?”

“I’ve rescued you from not one, but two parties now. You owe me.”

You squeak as he sits down at the edge of his bed and pulls you on top of him. Till you’re perched on his lap like a baby, your butt on his knee and your legs draped across his beefy thighs.

Steve smirks, “Comfy?”

“I think so,” your mind’s frazzled, and your body is buzzing with heat. When did it get so hot? Now, he’s pressing his lips against the nape of your neck, his hands rubbing up and down your body in a way that has you shaking on his lap. Oh, it was too much, it was–

“Look, you have another varsity jacket!” You blurt out, pointing at the familiar blue and white jacket draped over his desk chair. Exactly the same as the one he’d given you the night of the other party. “I still have to return the one you gave me.”

He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “You keep it, baby girl. It looked cute on you.”

You duck your head, the compliment making you shy. Somehow, him calling you cute had a way bigger effect on you than him calling you hot, “Really?”

He pushes your chin up with his pointer finger, and it’s all these little touches that he’s administering so casually are getting you so hot and bothered, so worked up on the inside in a way that’s so unfamiliar to you. No one’s ever made you feel like this except for one other person…

He licks the shell of your ear, “Yes. I liked how big it was on you.”

“It wasn’t that big…”

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Okay fine, it was pretty big. But that’s not my fault, you’re literally a giant!” You giggle when he runs his fingers up and down your arm. It’s ticklish but it also feels kind of good.

“You like that I’m so much bigger than you?” Nonchalantly, his finger dips down to hook the hem of your dress.. 

“Well, uh, I don’t not like it…”

“Answer properly.” 

It’s crazy how casual he is, yet at the same time so quietly demanding, so dominating, so in control. How quickly he’s switching from charming and sweet to intensely serious. But it makes you want to do whatever he’s asking of you. 

“Yes,” you squeak, too shy to look into his eyes except he has hold of your chin and is able to keep your gaze locked with his. “Yes, I like it.”

Steve relaxes, “Good girl.”

The compliment makes you feel nice, and you sit there in his lap basking in it for a while. You don’t even notice him hiking your dress up higher and higher, till he snaps the elastic band of your thong. 

“Cute panties.”

“Hey!” Hastily, you push your dress back down, a part of you snapping out of whatever spell he’d cast on you since the moment he’d dragged you up here, and you shoot him your fiercest look. Which only serves to amuse him, the corner of his lip quirking up into a smile. 

“Does the bra match?” 

“You-You can’t just ask that!” 

“I just did. Now answer.”

His brashness should get to you, but for some reason all it’s doing is getting you wet. He was being so inappropriate, and yet it’s like you’re being held prisoner by your own body, which seems to love how he’s touching and petting you right now. How he’s demanding you answer all his questions, how he’s essentially ordering you around. 

“Actually, I have a better idea, baby girl. I think you should show me.” He twirls a piece of your hair around his finger, running his tongue over his lips. His skin is pale, but his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink. And oh, he’s so handsome! It makes you want to listen to whatever he says…

“Show you?”

“Yes. You’ll take your dress off and show me what you’ve got on underneath, won’t you?”

“I will?”

Steve smiles easily, smiles like he’s having the most normal conversation on Earth and you’ve just said something funny. “Of course you will. Because you like listening to me. It makes you feel all small and cute, having someone like me be in charge of you.”

Your jaw drops, and yet… Oh, why does him saying that make your core throb?! And you know you shouldn’t… but maybe it would be okay if you did what he asked just this once? After all, he just wanted to see if your underwear matched. There was nothing untoward about that, was there?

A part of you knows you’re being delusional, but you’re also pressing your thighs together subconsciously. As if just him talking like he’s so in charge is getting you so hot and bothered, so turned on. And a bigger part of you, the hornier part of you, can only focus on how big he is, how in control he is, how small you feel in his lap, like you’re his baby and he’s allowed to do whatever he wants with you, and you’ll just let him.

“Stand up,” Steve orders, “Let me see you properly.” 

It’s comical how quickly you scramble to obey him. As if the you who’d arrived at this party feeling bored, irritated and out of place has been replaced by a girl controlled by lust and want, her body betraying her as Steve taps into your most submissive inner desires, and you can’t help but listen to him. 

He nods in approval when you stand between his legs.

“Good. You’re so hot, baby girl.”

“I am?” You beam, despite the fact that you knew you looked good the moment you’d put this gorgeous purple dress on earlier tonight. Despite the time crunch Wanda had put you under, you’d still managed to look more than presentable. And now, a part of you wonders what Ari would think if he saw you—NO STOP THINKING ABOUT HIM. JUST STOP.

”Yes, you are. Now take your dress off.”

“B-But Steve…”

“Do it.”

Cheeks burning, yet pussy throbbing at the same time, you unzip your dress. Trying to make your breathing sound less laboured, you keep your eyes on his. Only because his gaze is so intense, and you’re afraid he’d object if you looked away. 

The dress falls down to pool by your feet, and you stand in front of him in your lacy black set, with high heels to match. Steve inhales deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing as he looks you up and down. And oh, you feel so awkward yet at the same time so turned on when you see that dark look of lust in his eyes. 

“Twirl. Slowly.” He grabs a bottle from the side of his bed, unscrewing it and taking a gulp. You catch a glimpse of the Grey Goose label, vaguely wondering why he has a bottle of vodka stored beside his bed, and how you didn’t know anyone to just drink it straight up like that - no mixers or anything. 

You twirl for him, concentrating on not tripping in your heels. You haven’t had anything to drink tonight, and yet your movements feel sluggish out of nervousness. But you hear a low whistle behind you, before the feel of his large hand grabbing your ass and giving it a squeeze.

“Fuck, look at that cute little baby ass in those panties. Get back on my lap,” he growls. But before you can climb back on, he raises his hand to stop you, “Put my jacket on first.”

“Wh-What–”

He slaps your ass, pushing you in the direction of his desk chair with his varsity jacket draped over it. You gulp, slipping it on carefully. And it’s gigantic on you, the sleeves too long and the hem reaching down to mid-thigh. But Steve only licks his lips, beckoning you over once more. 

“It’s a bit big,” you bite your lip.

Roughly, he yanks you back into his lap, catching your lips between his in a searing kiss. Kissing you like he’s obsessed with you, and your eyes widen as he deepens it, sinking his teeth against your bottom lip carnally. As if he wants to eat you up, and his hands are all over your body, slipping underneath his jacket to touch your bare skin. 

“You’re so sexy, baby girl,” he breathes after he’s had his fill of kissing you. But even then, he pecks your lips between words, and you jolt in his lap when his thumb brushes against your erect nipple through the lace of your bra. He smirks against your mouth, “And you know it, don’t you?”

“No,” you lie, because the way he’s looking at you with such dark, almost carnivorous eyes… Oh, it makes you feel like the sexiest girl in the world!

“Of course you do. That’s why you wore this hot little lingerie set.” He snaps the strap of your bra against your skin and you yelp. “It looks so sexy on you, baby.”

“Thanks!” Most of the fancy lingerie you owned had been bought for you by Ari, but this was one you’d treated yourself with. Which was just as well, because there was something unspeakably awkward about sitting in the lap of one man wearing bra and panties bought by another man.

It was also funny how different Ari and Steve’s tastes were. Ari almost exclusively wanted you in pink or white sets, always something super girly and sweet and innocent. Steve seems to be the complete opposite, with how his eyes are glued to your black lingerie now.

Steve takes his baseball cap off, perching it backwards on your head. Another mark of his ownership, and yet your frazzled mind doesn’t have the capacity to think much into it.

He dips his head, licking a stripe down your cleavage. You gasp, automatically gripping a handful of his hair. He grabs your breasts, pushing them together against his face and nuzzling, licking and nipping as if he’s starved. Pushing the cups of your bra down, he latches on to your nipple, sucking on it roughly. You moan, and it eggs him on, he presses you forward, taking your whole breast in his mouth and sucking hard, covering it with his spit like he’s marking you as his property.

“Such pretty tits,” he mutters, flicking your nipple with his tongue, practically bullying it till it’s hard enough to cut glass, and you’re mewling because it’s so sensitive. But that only eggs him on, and he bites down on it like he’s starved. “Want me to fuck your tits, pretty girl?”

Your eyes widen, and he laughs devilishly. It was crazy how angelic he looked compared to how filthy he was being right now!

Again, he pushes your breasts together, licking down your cleavage like he’s obsessed, a wicked smile on is face when he finally comes up for air. “Every party I’ve seen you at, you’re always wearing some cute little dress that barely covers anything, like you’re some sort of goddamned tease. Tell me, baby. Are you gonna be a tease tonight?”

Meanly, he pinches your nipple, chuckling when you cry out. Your brain is too fried to answer his question properly, and so you just whimper.

Luckily, he doesn’t push it, doesn’t force an answer out of you like how he’s been doing all night. Perhaps too distracted by your chest, his head dips back down. His hands are ruthless, so big, rough and calloused from basketball. Squeezing your tits like they’re just toys to him, like your body is his to play with, and he knows exactly how to touch you, almost as if he’s done it before.

“S-Steve,” you feel lightheaded with pleasure, amped up at how carnal he’s being. How he’s not holding back at all, how he’s acting like he knows your body despite this being the first ever time the two of you have hooked up. How is he even doing that?

“Is that what you call me?” Steve comes up for air, flashing you a warning look before switching to your other breast, flicking your overly sensitive nipple with his tongue and making your breath hitch.

“Daddy,” you moan, finally letting go of any inhibitions you had left. You rut forward, rubbing your panty-covered crotch against his thigh. And oh, the denim of his jeans feels heavenly, and for a moment, you get a strong sense of dejavu that almost knocks you out of your lust-fuelled haze. Almost.

“That’s right, rub your little pussy against me. Don’t think I don’t notice what you’re doing. I noticed last time too.”

Huh? Last time?

“Fuck, didn’t expect you to fall into my lap again tonight, baby girl,” He kisses up your neck, holding his varsity jacket against you because it’s so big it’s slipping off. “Can’t believe you just showed up at my house looking like sex on legs with your cute little doe eyes in your tiny little dress. Did you really expect you were gonna walk out of here in one piece, baby?”

“I…uh…nngh!” You moan incoherently, hardly registering what he’s saying as his teeth clamp down on your neck, and he bites and sucks at the sensitive nape, making you squirm in his lap.

“You thought you could stumble into my party looking like a clueless little baby and not expect to end up in my bed?” He bounces you on his lap roughly, and you cry out in unexpected pleasure, the action sending thrills straight to your pussy. You rut against him in response, growing more desperate and delirious by the second.

“D-Didn’t know this was your house,” you pant, breathless from the way he’s kissing and fondling you, playing with your body like you’re just his toy and nothing more.

“Bullshit,” he breathes, “you wanted to see me again, didn’t you? After that night? You couldn’t forget, could you?”

“I–”

Your voice dies in your throat when Steve suddenly grabs your panties and yanks hard. They rip instantly, and you gape at the tattered lace in his hand. He brings it up to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“You smell like you want to get fucked,” he mutters, his voice deep and thick with lust, his eyes pitch black and intense as ever.

Sure enough, your panties are wet in his fist, and you can smell your own arousal on them even from a distance. Hell, you feel your wetness seeping down your bare thighs, staining his jeans and again you get a fleeting sense of dejavu, like this has happened before. And a hazy, dream-like memory flits through your mind, just for a moment before it’s gone, and you’re snapped back into the present.

Steve, without breaking eye contact for even a second, takes your panties into his mouth, sucking on them while you watch him with wide eyes. He grabs your hand, pressing it on his hard crotch. You squeak, it felt big and almost… alive under his jeans with how it was throbbing under your palm.

“So sweet, baby,” he breathes, “I missed out on tasting your little baby cunt last time. She tastes just as sweet as I imagined.”

Last time? You’ve barely wrapped your head around what he’s just said, but his face is so devastatingly handsome in that moment, so angelic and yet there’s a darkness in his eyes that cuts through it. Makes him look like an angel hell bent on playing his wicked game, and you’re more than happy to be his pawn.

“Steve–daddy, please. I need… I need–”

“Take daddy’s cock out,” he commands, his voice deep and guttural with raw lust. So gruff, so to the point, and it makes him even more attractive in your eyes. Powerful and in control. In charge of you. Using your body for his own pleasure. Fuck. You were so far gone down the haze of lust, there was really no coming back from here.

Steve takes your hand and pushes it past the waistband of his jeans, and presses it against his huge, hard cock. And oh fuck, it feels so fat and throbbing under your dainty palm, so big like it was capable of ripping you apart and you hadn’t even seen it yet. Just touching his hot, rock-hard flesh makes you rub your pussy against his thigh once more, pleasure jolting through your veins in anticipations.

You take it out, a low whimper escaping your throat because of how red and angry and big it looks. Oh fuck.

Steve pushes something into your hand, and it takes you a handful of seconds to register the lace of your black panties. Your pretty, tattered panties that he wraps around your hand before pressing it back on his fat dick.

“Jack me off, princess,” he orders you, his voice all velvety sweet and charming again, and it’s crazy how quickly he’s switched back to that now. “Show daddy what your pretty little hands can do.”

He hisses when you start pumping him, moving your hand up and down and the lace of your panties snagging against his smooth, rock hard cock. And he can’t keep his eyes off it, how your fingers don’t even wrap around half of his fat length.

“I-Is this okay, Stevie?”

SMACK.

“Daddy! Sorry, I meant daddy!” you cry out, your ass blooming with pain after his huge palm cracks down on it warningly.

“Mm, sweet sexy little baby girl,” Steve murmurs, watching intensely while you jack him off with your black lace panties in your hand, running them up and down his thick cock. “Jerking daddy off with your hot little panties that you wore just for me, right?”

“Didn’t-Didn’t know you were gonna be here!” You squeak out, regretting your decision to be truthful immediately when his hand cracks down on your bare thigh in another sharp slap.

“Say you wore your sexy little panties for me.” He bits down on your shoulder, tearing the skin with how hard he does it. As if he can’t help it, and you cry out in pain and yet you’re still feeling so much pleasure from rutting against him, chasing your own high while at the same time serving him and doing what he wants you to.

“Wore them for you,” you whine, bucking your hips with more frenzy now. The way he was speaking to you, oh it was getting you so fucking turned on and you couldn’t wrap your head around it. It was making your brain melt, only the submissive part of it reigning over every other rational side, and you pant when your clit catches against the denim of his jeans. “Daddy, please. F-Feels…feels…”

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos at you, voice dripping in condescension. And you feel so small, almost like a delicate little fairy in the domain of a literal God. That’s how powerful and big he looks to you in this very moment, like you’re at his mercy and you’d do anything for him. “You like jacking me off, baby?”

“Y-Yeah, I – I…”

You’re talking gibberish, and desperately chasing your own pleasure as you continue to rub against his leg. And yet you look down at his dick, how fat and thick it is, how it makes your hand look so tiny. How he’s got you jacking him off with your own lacy panties, how he’s watching it so intently and you can feel his cock hardening even more, if that’s even possible.

“You like my cock, princess? Like how big it is?”

“Yes!”

He grins devilishly, “You want it inside you, baby?”

Your jaw drops. He wouldn’t, would he? Oh, would you let him? Right now, your lust-crazed mind can’t find a single reason as to why not.

“I’d fuck you so good,” he whispers beguilingly into your ear, like he’s the devil himself persuading you to do something that you’re sure you shouldn’t be doing. But why not?! It wasn’t like you had a boyfriend! Ari had made that crystal clear! “Bounce your cute little pussy on my big daddy dick till you pass out on top of me. Would you like that?”

You whimper once more as his hand reaches down between your legs, and you gasp when he spreads your sopping folds. Now, you can feel the rough denim of his jeans even better, your engorged clit practically crying as it throbs uncontrollably. The rough pads of his fingers rub against it rhythmically, and you grind back up against his hand, humping it like you’re nothing more than a bitch in heat.

“Answer me,” he slaps your pussy hard, the squelching sound echoing across his bedroom, mingling with your scream of pleasure which only eggs him on. Again, he slaps you down there, and then another time. Till you’re quivering and crying and humping blindly against his palm, spreading your arousal all over him.

“I’d like it!” you cry out, a part of you ashamed with how easily you’ve given in to him.

“Mm, you know you’d have to be carried out of here after I’m through with you,” he says, manhandling you on his lap, dragging you back and forth on his thigh and creating the most delicious friction you’ve ever felt. “Not that I’d ever let you leave, baby girl. I’d keep you under my wing, in my bed because that’s where you belong.” He gives your ass another harsh slap that has you howling, “Say it. Tell daddy where you belong.”

“I-In your bed,” you manage to get out, feeling like you can hardly string a sentence together because all you can really focus on is the intense pleasure that’s building up inside you. “I…I belong in your bed, daddy, I don’t… I can’t… I…oh!”

Your release takes you by complete surprise. You squirt everywhere, on Steve’s cock, his shirt, and some even lands on his face. He smirks, swiping his finger over his cheek and sucking on it, his eyes glinting darkly. So dark and with such hunger, almost like he wants to eat you.

“Sweet little princess pussy,” he murmurs while you melt in his arms, unable to hold yourself up. Your legs are shaking like crazy, and he hugs you tightly against his chest, although one of his hands covers your own, ensuring it stays pumping his dick no matter what state you’re in. “She tastes so sweet, baby girl. How is she so sweet yet so naughty at the same time?”

Despite everything, his dirty talk has you feeling sparks down there again. Oh fuck.

“Steve, I–”

“Nobody told you to stop, princess,” he says darkly, bouncing his leg underneath you and causing you, in turn, to bounce on top of him. Your poor, sensitive pussy, still reeling from the remnants of your strong orgasm, “Get back to it. Hump your little pussy on daddy’s leg until I tell you to stop.”

Knowing you’re weak to the point of almost passing out, he’s got a firm hand clamped on your own, and he starts making you jack him off again. Rubbing your hand up and down his cock, your black lace panties rubbing alongside. The sight alone gets you going again, and once more you feel a spark of pleasure down there.

The party’s going on in full swing downstairs, heavy music blaring and yet all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting and moaning. His sweet voice uttering the dirtiest of things into your ear as you both masturbate each other. And it’s so raw, so primal, how you writhe on top of him like a goddamned animal, how he’s got the most carnal look in his eyes as if he’s a beast and you’re a lamb and he’s about to devour you.

He kisses you, and it’s so sloppy and animalistic, and you’re shocked at how desperately your lips work against his. How his hand wraps around your neck, how your fingers card through his hair. He spits into your mouth, biting and sucking at your lip till you taste the metallicity of your own blood. Or his. You’re not too sure.

The air is hot and thick with sex, and his dick twitches in your hand, so ready to blow and that’s when his fingers squeeze around your throat.

“You ever gonna walk into a party unattended ever again?” Steve grunts, pinching and bullying your throbbing clit like he owns it.

“N-No!”

“Damn right. Where do you belong, baby girl?”

“In-In your bed, daddy – oh-oh my!”

You squirt again, and this time, Steve follows suit. You watch, entranced, as he blows his load. Streaks of hot, white cum land on your hand, your black panties, your stomach, your face, everywhere. And you cum so hard, you can feel your pussy cramping with how intense the pleasure feels, waves of it radiating through your very being, egged on by Steve who keeps rocking you against him, muttering profanity under his breath as his thumb circles your poor, overwhelmed clit.

“Good girl,” he says after a few moments, looking like he’s barely broken a sweat as he pats your cheek. “Fuck, you’re such a good girl. I needed that.”

And you watch with wide, glassy, fucked out eyes as he takes your poor, tattered panties, the ones you’d used to jack him off, now drenched in his thick cum. He brings them to your mouth, prodding them against your lips.

“Open, baby,” he commands softly. And you do, and to your shock he places the panties in your mouth, a smirk on his face, “Suck.”

You suck Steve’s cum from your own panties, unable to get over how hot your poor, frazzled, cock-drunk mind is finding this debauchery to be. He tastes salty, manly, and you feel so submissive, so under his mercy as he watches you suck like a good, obedient little baby.

“That’s right, swallow it all,” he murmurs, “You like that, don’t you? You like being a little cumslut baby?”

 You whimper out a quiet “y-yeah” and he nods in approval, finally taking the lacy fabric out of your mouth, holding it tight in his fist. “I’d make you put ‘em back on but…” His voice trails off, and he chuckles as he throws your poor, torn panties somewhere on his bed behind him.

All you’re able to do is sit on his lap like a little doll. And he’s not even done with you, still fondling and touching your body, squeezing and hugging you close like you’re a doll and you can’t get enough. He’s particularly enamoured by his cum staining your stomach and chest, and he gathers some of it with a swipe of his finger.

“Does your baby cunt want some?” Steve asks devilishly, and you gasp, again just watching as he puts his hand between your legs again, this time opening your folds and spreading his cum into your poor, sensitive pussy. “Look at that, baby. Your greedy little cunt swallowed it right up.”

“Steve, I…”

“Shhh, baby girl. You don’t need to say anything.”

You’re thankful for that, still reeling from everything that’s just happened. Oh, you hadn’t expected all of this! Hell, you’d been forced to come to this party against your will, and now… Oh gosh, how had things come to this? How did you even feel about it? How–

The bedroom door is thrown open. You yelp, holding the big varsity jacket around you as you turn around to see a burly basketball player standing by the entrance. Steve growls at the intrusion, holding you closer against his chest. “Bucky, what the fuck?”

“Sorry for interrupting, Cap, but they’re all here. The St. Andrews’ assholes. Everett, Drysdale, Levinson… He’s looking for her, I think he knows she’s here.”

What?! ARI WAS HERE?! Oh, how dare he?!

Steve picks you up and places you on his bed before getting to his feet, muttering profanities under his breath. “He knows better than to fucking come here.”

Shakily, you try to get to your feet but to no avail. Your legs are still shaking. “M-Maybe, I should–”

“Stay right here.” Steve says, an air of finality in his tone that indicates he means it as an order with zero objections. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.”

THE END! guys!! I'm literally so insecure about posting this. Idk, I just feel like lately I've lost my mojo, like my writing has lost it's spark? But I pushed on because I wanted to get something out for you guys. And honestly?? BRO I DIDN'T KNOW WHERE TO END IT bc I wanted this story to continue bc WDYM ARI IS HERE?!?! I wanna see the confrontation lmfao!

But anyways, just to be crystal clear - THIS IS JUST AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE DRABBLE! It has nothing to do with the original wicked games story! That's why I wrote Steve here like how he is in chapter two of wicked games, and NOT like how he is in chapter 3 and 4! He's gone through a lot of character change and development in the original fic, but I didn't want to show that here! THAT IS IT'S OWN STORY HEHE. i know yall get it but i'm still reiterating lmao.

ANYWAYS. what did you guys think??? PLEASE PLEASE let me know! feedback genuinely would mean the world to me. I'm so fucking insecure about this fic it's like I've forgotten how to write!!

BUTTT. as usual here are some questions (you don't have to answer them, you can write whatever feedback you want but just in case hehe)

1 - HOW WAS THE SMUTTT??

2 - Do you think they would've gone all the way and had sex had they not been interrupted??

3 - How did Ari even know she was at this party??

4 - Opinions on our fav gal Wanda in this chapter?

ANYWAYS i love you guys, thanks for sticking by me and supporting my writing especially lately when there hasn't been many updates. LOVE YOU. pls lmk what you think!

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied nsfw, implied noncon/dubcon, poly yanderes, sprained ankle, captive reader, apocolypse au, talk of fertility and pregnancy

♡ FEM reader

♡ P1: The Bunker

Your ankle feels better after a little over a week.

The one initially against you staying has been giving you medical check-ups every day—something about wasteland toxins and underlying, possible contagious sicknesses he’d like to keep a weathered eye out for. 

You hadn’t refused. After all, such precautions were only warranted.

When you first encountered them in the wasteland, they were both wearing hazmat suits and gas masks. And though you had already been put through the standard disinfection and the basic check—eyes, teeth, and tongue—before they’d even let you in, you can’t blame them for taking extra measures—no matter how meticulous the check-ups have been since, comprising of endless spit, blood, and urine samples.

Somehow, you actually appreciated the thoroughness. It was just one more thing that reminded you of the past. The way he sat there, behind the desk like a doctor, and you opposite, like a patient, waiting for your results.

You’d gotten more or less used to it now, so it didn’t feel as awkward anymore. And, if you were to say so yourself, you think he’s even warmed up to you a little bit too.

“You’re all clear. No detectable toxins,” he states after a moment, mulling over the data, more or less the same outcome he’d come to for the last four or so days. He scribbled a few things into the file he’d been conducting, a focused furrow between his brows as he worked. You felt inclined to inquire about what exactly he’d been jotting down all these days of running tests but then decided against it—explaining things to you would probably only vex him. He was a man of as few words as possible, after all.

He sighs, then informs, “We can stop checking every day now.”

“Really?” you light up—feeling excited for some reason. Suppose you took it as a sign of improvement even without knowing entirely what any of it actually meant. In any case, lesser checks must be good, right?

“Yeah. You’re way healthier, thanks to all our produce and not consuming any of that wasteland trash.” He pulled a grimace before his face settled back into that constant look of dour solemnity. “Blood pressure, heart rate, vitals—everything looks good.”

It almost seems like such a silly thing to even bother caring about. Only a few weeks ago, you hadn’t cared for any such thing as health as long as it meant you weren’t starving or freezing—and here you are, celebrating such a privileged thing as blood pressure.

You sniffle, can’t help yourself, balled fists quivering in your lap as a few tears start to drop, “Thank you—truly. I’d have died if it weren’t for the two of you.”

He must think you’re ridiculous, too, crying over something so small. You wipe your eyes, only to notice him holding out a tissue for you. You can only laugh at yourself while accepting it.

“You’ll help me in the greenhouse today since your ankle is all better,” he states while getting up.

You spring to your feet, too. This would be the first time you’d been asked to help out. “What about—”

“He’s busy doing inventory,” he answers before you get the question out. “We’ll have to change a few things since you’re staying.”

This stills you, breath caught in your throat. You look at him wide-eyed, scared you’d heard him wrong. Voice weak as if scared to ask, “I’m staying?”

“Tch—” It’s his turn to chuckle, though he does so much differently from you—mockingly, a way he often does at both your and the other's expense. Though, you’d taken to find it rather endearing. He gives you a look—it’s very almost soft. “You didn’t think we’d waste our resources on something we planned on chucking back out again, did you?”

A tug pulls your wobbly lips back into a smile. “I guess that would be silly...” you sniffle again. “Still, thank you.”

This time, as you say it, you rush to hug him—tightly, with both your arms wrapped around his tough midsection and your head tucked against his broad chest.

It’s him who falls still now—stunted by the action and left both speechless and frozen in place. His arms hover mid-air, unsure of where to rest, before slowly lowering to settle atop your narrow shoulders—so much smaller in comparison. It’s crazy to think you’d endured out in the wasteland for so long.

He’s sure you’ve done things in order to stay alive you’re not at all proud of. Still, your survival is no less than a miracle.

He clears his throat. “Let’s hurry up,” He dismisses, then proceeds to nudge you off as if the hug was unwanted, but even you can spot the blush dusting his cheeks as he looks away with another grumble, “We’re making dinner before he’s done.”

The smile on your face is a sight for sore eyes, he thinks. You didn’t smile like that a week ago.

“Yes, sir.” You salute, following him in stride.

You’d said it innocently enough, but by God, if only you knew how it takes everything in him not to bend you over the medical desk right then and tell you all about how you’re in the perfect window for conceiving. 

He manages to steal himself. 

After dinner, he promised himself soothingly, calming the hunger in his gut—after dinner, they’d decided, tonight would be the night they’d finally make use of you the real way they’d intended—have you earn your keep.

When you’re done tilling the gardens, about a couple hours later, the two of you move on to the kitchen. You’d learn that the brash one was in charge of making most meals, as the other one was more than hopeless in the kitchen. It seemed you were replacing him as the helper, given simple tasks such as cutting, measuring, and fetching things.

It felt nice to be doing something again, especially something so trivial. Housework and domestic chores were something one could only reminisce about, and yet here you were, doing just that—cutting carrots as if the outside world wasn’t a badland of people killing each other for a can of expired dog food.

You really were so lucky you could hardly believe it. The tears start bubbling again.

“If you’re finished cutting, go to the cupboard over there,” he jolts you out of your thoughts. Not looking away from stirring the pot, he points with his other hand toward the far side of the kitchen.

You pad over and open it to find two dozen or more bottles of wine, all neatly shelved.

“Pick one out,” he calls out.

You blink, looking between the wine and him. “You mean—”

“Anyone of ‘em is fine,” he says. “Feel free to read if you’re looking for something special, though. It’s you were celebrating, after all.”

This time, you can’t stop the tears as they trickle down your face one after the other, soaking your cheeks.

Hearing you sniffle makes him sigh with rust. Scolding you with military toughness, “Quit cryin’ already—it’s getting old.”

You wipe your eyes and stiffen your lip. “Yes, sir.”

Turning your head back to the shelf, you can hardly believe the sight. It had been all moonshine and slop out in the wasteland. Dangerous stuff you were better staying well away from.

You can’t believe you’re going to drink actual wine again—your mouth waters just at the thought as you pick the first bottle you set your eyes on. But then you stop yourself—a guilty knot in your stomach twisting.

“Is it really okay?” you ask. “Shouldn’t we save it?”

“Tch—” he scoffs disapprovingly again. “You gotta stop doin’ that.”

You’re left looking at him even though he keeps his back turned, still busy stirring the pot. He lifts a spoon for tasting, then adds more spice to his liking before continuing as though he could tell you were confused just from the silence.

“You’re not in the wasteland anymore—” he states. “You can afford to live a little now.”

A concept like that had yet to have reached you. 

Suppose you were still settling in. 

“Besides, there are more in the cellar,” he reveals. “Even if we drank a bottle every day, it would take years for us to finish. So don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout it, a’ight?”

Your grip around the bottle tightens—trying to toughen up to keep the tears at bay. But today was an emotional day, and it seemed there was no end to the blessings you were given. It was all so overwhelming, your heart swelled with happiness—a feeling you hadn’t felt in such an awfully long time.

“Something smells good!” comes a call.

It seems he’s returned from doing inventory.

“Oh no, why are you crying?” He instantly rushes over to you, holding your face to inspect the damage, then snaps his head to the other, who’s still busying himself with perfecting dinner. “Are you being too harsh on her?” he accuses. “You know, not everyone can live up to your cooking expectations—”

“Tch—I haven’t done shit,” he denies. “She’s just emotional ‘cause I told her we’re lettin’ her stay.”

“What!? You told her without me?” he cries then. “We were supposed to surprise her together.” His pout is instantly replaced with a blank look of surprise as you wrap your arms around him like you’d done with the other earlier—hugging him tightly.

“Thank you,” you repeat to him as well.

You still couldn’t believe how nice they had been to you. 

After dinner is eaten, the three of you end up sitting there, chatting—about the past, most of all, how things used to be—how people would live in little houses with next-door neighbors they’d invite over for game night—little families with kids and backyards and pet dogs—college, marriage, careers.

You helped the stoic one clear the dishes while the chipper of the two opened another bottle of wine. You can hardly believe it when they bring out the record player and slide a vinyl on.

You end up crying again as the music plays. You even dance. Laughter fills the bunker while you get completely swept away with the feeling of utter bliss. And as the wine finishes and the conversation turns sloppy, the hands twirling your body to the music get a little touchier, a little greedier, until you’re suddenly kissed.

Between the two of them, the air becomes hot—steamy as you share breathes. 

Busy hands, large and strong and callused from labor, work on your button-up shirt. It’s gone before you know it, then the hands move on to your pants.

Honestly, after all the emotions joined by the wine and dance and being spun between the two, you can’t say you’re completely without lust, but at the same time, you’re just a bit confused. 

Despite not having seen them kiss in front of you, you’re certain they both go to bed in the same room every night—so all this time, you’d been under the impression that they were involved with each other and not interested in you that way. 

Not that it matters much what you thought, you think, you’re not against what’s happening so much as you’re a little hesitant about how it’s about to happen. It’s been a while since you’ve slept with anyone—willingly, that is—you’ve sort of forgotten how to enjoy it. 

If it were just one, you’d maybe find it a bit less overwhelming, but given there were two, you quickly found yourself feeling somewhat claustrophobic.

“Wait—” you stutter. Blocking the advance with your own hands, looking up into drunken and heated eyes and the soft look of arousal painted on the face before you. 

“Don’t worry,” he comforts with that kind smile. “You’re the most valuable thing we have—we’re gonna be gentle.”

You almost bite, almost give in, almost let it soothe you. But even in the drunk haze, the choice of phrasing finds you a little odd. And you’re unable to disregard that feeling that’s been nagging at the very back of your head ever since you stepped foot in the place. 

Something’s not right.

“Valuable?” Sure, you could choose to understand it as them saying they care for you, but somehow, it just doesn’t feel as if that’s all. “What does that mean?”

“You know…” he utters softly—his kind smile curling into something different. His eyes fall downward as he licks his lips before finishing, “This.” 

He’s laid a hand atop your belly where his gaze is set—his palm flat and firm as he rubs tentative circles into the softness.

It takes you a moment before you shudder. “You…” 

You needed to be rational about this. Some part of you always knew there was something going on, didn’t it? Why else would you be here? Why else would they let you stay? The cameras in the bedroom, in the showers, all those medical checkups—you’ve known there was something. And still, you hadn’t left. You hadn’t even so much as humored the thought even once.

There is no life for you out there. You don’t just want to stay—you have to—you need to.

And is it really so bad? Hadn't they been nice? Haven’t they been more than generous? Don’t you owe them so much more than what they’re asking in return?

But what are they asking? It’s not just intimacy. It’s something else—something premeditated.

“You want to use me to…” The realization makes you shudder. “To make you a child…”

Like an incubator.

They don’t deny it.

You want to back up—create space—room to breathe, but the other is just behind you with his big chest pressed stiffly against your back, keeping you close, trapped before the one in front.

“It’s true…” he confesses at your ear. “That is all we wanted from you in the beginning.” 

It sends a chill down your spine.

“It was almost too good to be true when we found you,” he continued while playing with your waist in big hands. “How a perfect candidate fell right into our lap mere days after we decided to go lookin’ for one.”

You suck in a hitched breath as the well of tears breaches, dribbling down your cheeks at the clinical word—candidate.

“But you’re more than that now,” the other reassures, bowing and fishing for your eyes as you’d taken to look down—too horrified to look him back in his. 

“We figured you’d be a savage, havin’ lived out there for so long,” the one behind says. He’d been the most skeptical at first, but he’d come to learn it was rather the opposite—your time out there hadn’t toughened your skin or hardened your heart but only made you timid and soft.

“In all honesty, we weren’t sure we were gonna keep you after the pregnancy…” the one in front whispers upon your lips. “But that’s all in the past now.”

He lifts your chin, taking in the all-too-soft look of despair on your face. It’s a strange thing to say he’d missed. It nearly makes him feel guilty for the hard-on in his cargo pants. But then again, tears are the allure of the gentler sex. It’s only natural for a man to enjoy the sight.

“We want you to stay.” He strokes your cheek, catching the tears on his thumb. “After all, it would be best for the baby to have a female presence—especially one as soft as yours.”

“And, well…” You flinch at the stubble being dragged upon your shoulder and neck, a kiss placed in the nook there along with his words, “We’ve grown to like having you around.”

His hands had fallen from your waist down to rub your hips, swaying you back against his crotch—and the bulge there, that now felt a little more like a gun being poked against your back. 

“It’s been a long while since we’ve had the company of a woman,” he continues while pressing himself against you. “It was unfamiliar at first, but… it’s nice.”

Something urgent takes over your body then—even though it’s beyond stupid. There’s no plan, no further thought than run—despite having no solid clue as to where. And yet, it ends up not mattering in the slightest. You don’t make it far.

You scream as their hands snag you. The grumpier one locks your arms, the chipper one grabs your legs—and they both lift and carry you back—laying you down on the little round table you’d had dinner on.

You struggle, but your wrists are pinned down to the metal with a strength you can’t hope to match.

“Don’t be like that.” He clicks his tongue dismissively like he so often does when you say or do something stupid. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“No—” you cry. “Please—don’t.” Shaking your head while squeezing your thighs shut. 

Never mind having sex, you could endure that much—but having a baby in this mess? They’re the ones who lost their minds down here. 

“I can’t—”

“Of course, you can,” the other insists, prying your thighs apart to make space for himself between them, already with his hands returning to undo the button of your pants, zipping down the fly and tugging them off.

“No—”

He’s back to console you just as quickly, “Shh-sh, don’t cry,” he soothes, cupping your face in both palms. He gives you that kind smile again, but it no longer serves as any source of comfort—now just a mouth full of teeth. “We’ll be gentle.”

♡ BNHA – KiriBaku, BakuDeku, ShinKami, DabiHawks, EndHawks, ErasurMic ♡ JJK – SatoSugu, ItaFushi, SukuIta ♡ HQ – Miya twins, KageHina, BokuAka ♡ CSM – AkiDen, YoshiDen ♡ BLLK – NagiReo

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[muqingslover]

Hi! If you're open to requests, what would you think the lads men (or just one guy of your choice!!) would do in the following scenario?

They are out with mc when they run into mc's ex, and mc's ex says, "Damn, your taste in men changed a lot" in like a condescending manner. (Or something along those lines)

I hope you have a great time!! I love reading your stories!!

[ Thank you for the request! <3 I did a little of everyone so enjoy! ]

Sylus

"Your tastes sure have changed since the last time I saw you." is the first thing that actually catches his attention during the otherwise boring conversation.

Sylus is not an overly jealous person simply because he is very secure of his love for you and how good he is to you. The only thing your ex does is greatly amuse him because the difference is too great to even be considered fair.

"Naturally. You surely don't expect someone to eat trash forever, do you?" He would answer for you in a smooth voice while he towers over the both of you with that confident expression of his on his face.

He feels almost sorry for you, who had to make do with such men, but, not to worry, he's here now and he's not going anywhere.

Xavier

Taunting his jealous side is the same as playing with fire while knowing you're going to get burn.

"Is that the type of guy you prefer?" He'd ask the second the two of you are alone again. His hands pin you to the closest surface so you're unable to run from the conversation and he keeps his face very close to yours to watch for even the smallest reactions "Do you like him more than me?"

My advice? Say no as quickly as possible and give him a kiss to shush him otherwise you're in for the long, loooooong haul. Xavier is not easily soothed once he's worked up and he WILL hold grudges.

The next time your ex shows up he is quick to cut the conversation before they can even get a good morning in and makes it clear you belong to him now.

Rafayel

"What did you just say?" His head never whipped back faster mans almost twisted his own neck.

Arguably the most aggressive per se because he's SO obvious. To him it's just staggering you ever went out with anyone else, especially a thing like that, and that it's here, again, approaching you. Does it not see him? He's right there for god's sake!

"She's on duty so she can't talk to you right now. Or ever." He'd grab you by the shoulder as he sized the guy up and down with the most condescending and judgmental look on his face before scoffing. what a diva

He'll nag at you later for being "distracted while on the job" and say you're supposed to pay attention to him at all times otherwise how will his dear bodyguard protect him? Please be more mindful!

Caleb

It was a school reunion party when your old high school sweetheart came up to the both of you.

"Oh hey, I remember you! Weren't you the guy who got kicked out for cheating on his graduation exam?" He says with an innocent grin on his face knowing full well the guy is a deadbeat and making sure others heard it too.

It's canon he kept track of all crushes MC had while growing up and I'm sure he goes out of his way to show you their bad points so you won't even consider looking their way.

In some cases, Caleb had to get rid of them by manipulating things behind the scenes if they didn't take the hint and this one was one of those cases.

The guy was struggling with his grades and who is he to deny a helping hand? All he did was slip the sheet of answers to the test without anyone knowing, it's not his fault if the idiot accepted it knowing it was against the rules. Such an angel, isn't he.

This interaction will lead to him being even more territorial around you and he wants you to just stay home with him where it's safe. Pretty please?

Zayne

He will step in if they are bothering you by pretending he needs your immediate help in the office but otherwise Zayne merely listening in the background.

Once they're gone the silence is so loud.

You can basically feel that he's bothered by something, but he won't open his mouth even if you ask him about it because it's 'petty and childish'.

"Are you happy with me?" He'd eventually ask you after stewing in his own thoughts for the day. What if your tastes hadn't changed and you were just too nice to tell him he's not doing enough? That he is not enough.

Please reassure this sweet man that you're happy in the relationship. Especially so if your ex is the type that is super extroverted and easy to get along with since that's one of the points he struggles with the most.

The problem goes away on its own after some good quality time together and affectionate words.

[soeyekonic]

— ✩♬ ₊˚. run for the hills ⭑ D.A

⟡ synopsis daniela has always kept you at arm’s length. close enough to make you stay, but never enough to let you in. stuck in an endless push-and-pull, you finally reach your breaking point, forcing her to make a choice: fight for you or lose you forever. but when the moment comes, daniela hesitates—and this time, you’re the one who walks away first.

warnings: chat idk… somewhat angst? but at the same time, not really

currently playing: run for the hills - tate mcrae

you should have walked away the first time.

that night, when her fingers brushed against yours in the dim glow of the city lights. when her lips parted like she had something to say but never said it. when she gave you that look—the one that made your chest tighten and your stomach twist into something uncertain.

you should have walked away before she could leave first.

but you didn’t.

and now, here you were again, standing in front of her like a fool, like someone who hadn’t learned their lesson.

the cycle was always the same.

daniela would come close, just close enough for you to feel the heat of her presence, the gravity of her attention. and just when you thought you could reach her, she would disappear. she would build walls out of silence, out of half-meant apologies and fleeting glances that never turned into anything more.

and yet, you always stayed.

tonight was no different. The two of you stood outside after hours of pretending you weren’t caught in each other’s orbit. It was late, the streets damp from a recent rain, the air thick with something unspoken.

“you can’t keep doing this,” you murmured, voice barely audible over the distant hum of traffic.

daniela blinked at you, as if she didn’t understand, as if this wasn’t the hundredth time she had left you on the edge of something you weren’t sure you could survive. “doing what?” her voice was soft, but it carried weight.

you let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “pulling me in just to keep pushing me away.”

she didn’t answer right away. she just stared at you, lips slightly parted, something unreadable flickering in her brown eyes. you had seen this look before- the hesitation, the conflict. the part of her that wanted you and the part of her that refused to let herself have you.

“i never meant to—”

“don’t,” you cut her off, sharper than you intended. “don’t lie to me, daniela.”

her mouth snapped shut, and for a moment, all you could hear was the sound of your own breathing, the pounding of your heart against your ribs.

you wanted to walk away, to finally be the one who left first. but then her fingers twitched at her side, hesitating, before reaching for yours.

it was the softest touch. barely anything at all.

and you hated yourself for letting it break you.

daniela never let anyone too close. you had known that from the start.

she carried herself like someone who had learned to be careful, someone who knew that closeness was a risk. and yet, with you, she always let the line blur—just enough to keep you hoping.

she called you late at night when she couldn’t sleep. she let her gaze linger a second too long when she thought you wouldn’t notice. she let her fingers trace absent patterns on your wrist, your palm, your shoulder—like she was memorizing you without ever claiming you.

but she never let it become something real.

“you say you don’t want this,” you said one night, “but you act like you do.”

daniela exhaled slowly, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “i—” she stopped, shaking her head. “i don’t know how to want something and not be afraid of losing it.”

your chest tightened. “so instead, you make sure you lose it before it can hurt you?”

silence.

and then, softer: “maybe.”

she never gave you enough to stay, but she never let you go either.

it wasn’t one thing that finally broke you. it was everything.

the nights waiting for her to decide. the way she pulled away every time you got too close. the way she looked at you like you were the only person in the room, but then pretended it didn’t mean anything.

“i can’t do this anymore.”

the words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

daniela froze, her breath hitching. “what?”

your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “i can’t keep letting you take pieces of me if you’re never going to have all of me.”

something flickered in her expression—panic, fear. “i never meant to hurt you.”

“i know,” you whispered. “but that doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

she took a step toward you, but this time, you were the one who pulled away.

and it killed you to do it. because for all the ways daniela had hurt you, you still loved her.

you probably always would.

you waited for her to chase after you. you thought maybe this time, she would fight for you.

but she didn’t.

and that told you everything you needed to know. so you left.

for the first time, you left before she could.

and as you disappeared into the night, you wondered if daniela would finally understand what it felt like to be left behind.

maybe then, she would realize that she had always been the one who needed to stop running.

a/n: guys idk… was it okay?? i haven’t written in a while and i fee like i’m losing my sparkle 😭😭

[eliasmelody]

He Doesn’t Say I Love You, He Says…

Tag: RAFAYEL x f!reader, Mutual pinning, fluff, short fic Warning: grammar & spelling

“Oh how sweet is time for allowing you and I to live in the same lifetime.” - Love and Wine

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

You let out a soft chuckle, unable to hold back your amusement. He turns his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a curious expression.

You two just emerged from the ocean, the cool waves retreating behind you as you step onto the shore. Dress clings to your skin, heavy with seawater, droplets cascading down in shimmering trails.

Rafayel drapes a towel over your shoulders, the fabric cool and slightly rough against your damp skin. He moves with quiet focus, gently patting away the seawater clinging to you, his touch careful, almost hesitant.

"What’s so funny?" He asks, his voice laced with curiosity.

You shake your head, still grinning. "Nothing. Just… you."

His brows raise slightly, intrigued. "Me?"

You nod, but you don’t elaborate. The words are there, lingering just behind your lips, but saying them out loud feels like crossing a line you’re not sure you’re ready to step over.

"Oh, how weird destiny is…" You murmur, a hint of wonder in your voice.

Taking a moment to admire him, a warm smile spreading across your lips. There’s something about this moment, as if the universe had conspired to bring you both here, right now.

"Out of all the infinite roads I might have taken, fate has led me here…"

Eyes soften as you gaze at him with quiet admiration.

"To you."

He holds your gaze for a moment, his eyes widening slightly as your words sink in His lips part slightly, as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, he exhales a quiet, breathless laugh, one of disbelief, maybe, or something deeper, something he isn’t ready to name.

A faint flush creeps up his cheeks. After a brief pause, he dares to glance at you again, his eyes flickering with something soft and uncertain.

"You say that like it’s a good thing." He murmurs, his voice quieter than usual, almost careful.

You tilt your head, smiling softly. "Isn’t it?"

His throat bobs as he swallows, his gaze searching yours, as if trying to find some trace of hesitation, some sign that you don’t truly mean it. But all he finds is sincerity, steady, unwavering.

And that terrifies him.

Because if destiny really did lead you to him, what happens if he isn’t meant to keep you?

But as he looks into your adoring eyes, something shifts. He doesn’t like hearing "Happy Birthday." He’s lived too long, heard it too many times, it lost meaning long ago. But you… you make it feel different.

You don’t just speak the words. You give them weight. You give him meaning in a way nothing else ever has.

And for the first time, he isn’t afraid of destiny.

Because if fate brought you to him, then maybe, just maybe, it intends for you to stay.

And that thought doesn’t terrify him at all.

"You should know that a Lumerian never parts with their greatest treasure."

Because no matter what destiny has planned, no matter what twists and turns the future holds…

"And I would sooner let the ocean take me than lose you."

Because you are his fate now, his most precious treasure, one he’ll never let slip from his grasp.

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦ Art work and char: belong to Infold Game ✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

Our Shayla 😭💜 Small fic cause school is back baby

[rafes-slut]

Could you do a smut/angst with Reader/Rafe. They're about to get it on in bed. She's been trying to keep it emotionless (even though they are dating) because she's been hurt in the past, so while they are dating and she's kind etc, she still keeps an emotional distance somewhat. Rafe tells her that he loves her but she ignores it, trying to just keep going and tries to make it less intimate, like avoiding eye contact and not kissing, but he keeps trying (in a green flag healthy way, not like forcing her or anything obviously) but he wants to be intimate fully if that makes sense

Hope you will like it x

Break Down These Walls

Warnings: angst, emotional vulnerability, trauma mention (past relationship wounds), soft/green flag Rafe, slow and intimate moments, praise, lots of kissing, implied aftercare.

The room is dimly lit, shadows flickering against the walls as the scent of Rafe’s cologne fills the air. The bed beneath you dips as he hovers over you, lips brushing against yours in a slow, teasing way that would normally make you melt. His fingers trail along your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, but you don’t react—not fully.

You’ve been here before. Not just with him, but in general. And every time, it’s the same. You keep it surface-level, physical, something that doesn’t require you to feel too much. Because feeling means vulnerability, and you don’t do that. Not anymore.

But Rafe? He makes it hard.

His mouth moves down your jaw, pressing kisses to your neck, his hands skimming your sides. His body is warm against yours, but you keep yourself rigid, eyes locked on the ceiling instead of on him.

“Look at me,” Rafe murmurs, voice rough but gentle.

You don’t. Instead, you shift beneath him, fingers curling into his shirt as you pull it over his head, keeping your movements calculated—detached. His eyes search yours, and you feel it, the way he’s waiting for something you can’t bring yourself to give.

So you push forward, tilting your chin up so that your lips meet his again, except this time, you don’t really kiss him. It’s a press, a means to an end, not something intimate. You don’t let it be.

Rafe pulls back slightly, brows furrowing. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, feigning innocence as you move your hands to his belt, trying to keep things moving. If you don’t stop, if you don’t give him a chance to say something, maybe he’ll let it go.

But Rafe doesn’t just let things go.

He catches your wrists, halting your movements. “You’re doing it again.”

Your stomach twists. “Doing what?”

“Shutting me out.” His voice is softer now, careful. “I told you I love you, and you didn’t even blink.”

You swallow hard, avoiding his gaze. “I just—I don’t—”

“You don’t what?” He leans closer, his nose nearly brushing yours, trying to get you to meet his eyes. When you don’t, his hands move, cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. “Baby, it’s me. You don’t have to do this with me.”

Your chest tightens. You want to pull away, to shake your head and keep going, pretend like you didn’t hear him. But he’s right there, warm and real, looking at you like he actually cares.

Like he actually means it.

“I just don’t want to get hurt,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. It’s the first time you’ve said anything like it out loud. “I can’t—”

“You won’t.” He says it so easily, like it’s a fact. “I don’t want just this. I want you—all of you. And I know you want that too, even if you’re scared.”

His lips graze your forehead, slow and lingering. When you don’t flinch, he presses another to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then, finally, he brings his mouth back to yours, not forcefully, not rushed. He just waits.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. You could keep ignoring it, keep pretending like this is just another night, another moment that doesn’t mean anything.

Or you could try.

So you kiss him back. Properly, this time.

His lips mold against yours in a way that’s unfamiliar—not because you’ve never kissed him before, but because you’ve never actually let yourself feel it. His hands stay cradling your face, keeping you there, but not trapping you. He’s letting you set the pace, and for the first time, you don’t try to rush through it.

Rafe sighs into your mouth, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—to just let him in. His thumbs stroke slow, reassuring patterns against your skin, grounding you in a way that makes your head spin.

You don’t know how long you kiss him for. Time feels different when you’re not actively trying to block everything out.

Then he shifts, pressing you further into the mattress, his body flush against yours. His mouth parts from yours only to drag along your jaw, down the side of your throat, lingering in places he knows make you shiver. This time, you do shiver, and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, your fingers gripping his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin just to anchor yourself. You feel too much, and it’s overwhelming—but not in a bad way. You’ve just never let yourself have this.

His hands roam down, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning every inch of you for the first time. Even though he isn’t. You’ve been with him before, plenty of times. But this feels different. Because it is different.

His lips trail lower, ghosting over your collarbone as his fingers slip under your shirt. You let him pull it off, and this time, when he looks at you, you don’t turn away.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, almost in awe, like he’s seeing you for the first time, too.

Your stomach tightens. You want to deflect, make a joke, brush it off—but you don’t. Instead, you reach for him, guiding him back to you, letting his mouth meet yours again.

It’s slower now. Intimate. Real.

His hands explore, mapping every dip and curve of your body, but it’s not just about the physical touch—it’s about the way he makes you feel safe. The way he makes you feel like you don’t have to keep running from this, from him.

[slavicdolls4mangione]

luigi supporting you making content on tiktok hc 💌:

shoutout to the anon who got my vision, this one’s for you! <33 as you can probably tell, i went HAM on this one 😭

- luigi hates tiktok. he finds it overwhelming, chaotic, and way too fast-paced for his taste. he’s more of a ‘read a book in silence’ kind of guy, so the idea of endless scrolling and loud trends just doesn’t appeal to him.

- that said, when you tell him you’ve started a tiktok account to talk about your favorite things—books, philosophy, movies, debates on different topics, and even your hot takes on agriculture and politics? he’s immediately intrigued.

- he loves how passionate and articulate you are, and he can’t help but admire the way your mind works.

- despite his dislike for the app, he downloads it just to follow you. he tells himself it’s to “support you,” but deep down, he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll share.

- your videos are nothing like the content he expected. you’re not doing dances or trends, you’re just yapping lol. you talk about your favorite substack articles, analyze the themes of your latest read, rant about why tea is superior to coffee (or vice versa), and even dive into deep topics like religion and politics. safe to say, luigi is hooked.

- he becomes your biggest hype man. every time you post he’s there in the comments, leaving thoughtful responses. if you talk about a book he’s read, he’ll add his own analysis. if you delve into a philosophical concept, he’ll write paragraphs agreeing with you or gently challenging your perspective. his comments are often longer than your videos, and it becomes a running joke between the two of you.

- sometimes, you catch him in the background of your vlogs, quietly sipping tea or reading a book. he’s always smiling softly as you rant about whatever’s on your mind, completely enamored by your passion and intellect.

- one day, while filming a tiktok about your favorite philosophy book, lu chimes in from the background. you’re mid-sentence, explaining why you love the author’s take on existentialism, when he casually interjects:
“but don’t you think their view on free will is a little too optimistic?”
you pause, turn to him, and immediately launch into a spirited debate. the camera keeps rolling, and your followers lose it over the unexpected cameo.

- after that, it becomes a recurring thing. your followers start noticing that the same soft-spoken voice in the background that’s always adding thoughtful commentary or playfully challenging your takes, is the same person leaving those long comments under every video.

- comments start flooding in like:
“wait, is the guy in the background the same guy who writes essays in the comments???”
“luigi_from_fiji in the comments vs. luigi in the background is the best character arc of 2024.”
“the way he just casually drops the most profound takes while she’s filming… i can’t. they’re adorable.”

- one of your most popular tiktoks is a video where you’re talking about your favorite coffee shops, and ofc luigi interjects in the background:
“but tea is clearly superior. it’s more versatile, and you can’t deny the cultural history behind it.”
you stop mid-sentence, turn to him, and say, “oh, we’re doing this again?” before launching into a full-blown debate about coffee vs. tea. the video ends with both of you laughing, and your followers absolutely melt.

- one day, you decide to make a video about one of your favorite authors, fyodor dostoyevsky (self indulgent sorry). you’re gushing about how crime and punishment explores the psychology of guilt and redemption but halfway through your analysis, lu, who’s been quietly listening in the background, can’t help but chime in:
“but baby don’t you think raskolnikov’s redemption arc feels a little rushed? i mean, after everything he did, the ending almost feels… too neat.”
you turn to him, eyes lighting up, and say, “okay, first of all nicholas, how dare you,” before diving into a passionate defense of dostoyevsky’s writing. the two of you end up in a full-blown literary debate, with lu arguing that notes from underground is the better psychological study, while you insist that crime and punishment is the masterpiece.

- your followers go wild for the video with comments pouring in like: “luigi coming in with the hot takes on dostoyevsky?? i’m obsessed.”
“the way she said ‘how dare you’ and then immediately launched into a 10-minute rant… mood.”
“luigi’s face when she starts defending raskolnikov is priceless. he’s so whipped.”

- another time, you’re talking about white nights and how the dreamer’s idealism and loneliness resonate with you. lu, who’s been quietly reading in the corner, looks up and says softly:
“i think the dreamer’s problem is that he’s too afraid to live in the real world. he’d rather stay in his fantasies than risk getting hurt.”
you’d pause, tilt your head, and reply, “but isn’t that what makes him so human? he’s flawed, but he’s real.”

- lu smiles at you, his eyes soft, and says, “i guess i can’t argue with that.”

-the moment is so tender that your followers immediately start spamming the comments with:
“THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER??? I’M CRYING.”
“luigi’s a simp for intellectual debates and i’m here for it.”
“this is the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.”

- luigi secretly starts to enjoy tiktok but only because of you. he’d do anything to support you, even if it means spending hours on an app he claims to dislike.

[sangwookisser]

⭒TENSIONS ARE RISING - RAFE CAMERON II⭒

cw. football! rafe, college rafe, enemies to lovers, breakups, female reader in mind, objectification of reader by rafe, no use of y/n, porn w/ plot, unprotected sex, missionary, implications of cucking, choking, french kissing, creampies

synopsis: second and final part of my mini-series. Rafe Cameron gets his hands on the ex-girlfriend of his rival.

part one

You gasp into his mouth as his lips slot over yours, your heart rate spiking to speed so unnatural that you feel like you're going to die. He moves one hand onto your throat to keep you in place and prevent you from running.

"R-Rafe, mmh," You try to protest, but the way you say his name doesn't do anything but make him a lot more eager. He moans into your mouth in response.

You try to push at his arms and chest and scratch at any inch of his bare skin that you can get your hands on, but it seems futile. He smiles against your lips, his hands roaming your body like he can't seem to pick just one spot in favor over all the other plush, soft curves of your body.

Rafe feels like he's dreaming. He's finally got you in his arms, with his body and mouth on you, and he can hardly think straight. His fingers graze up your thigh, his palm smoothing over your hips, your waist, then back down again. Squeezing. Mapping out the curves he’s only ever stared at before.

"Kept telling your stupid little boyfriend that I'd make you mine, princess." He grunts against your mouth, sounding breathless. "Told him I'd get him out of the ngh- fucking way."

Your lips are soft and warm on his, and when you let out tiny, breathless little gasps against his mouth, he grabs you tighter, slotting his thigh between your legs as he holds you against the door, pushing it right against your core.

You want to tell him that you're not his, that you're still wearing the necklace with your boyfriend's initials around your neck, but you can't get a word out.

He groans into the kiss, deep and satisfied, like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that can possibly sate him.

His grip tightens as his hand slides up your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse, squeezing just enough for your brain to feel foggy. He's too much, and you whimper faintly, the sound leaving you involuntarily.

You can't tell if you want this or not, but your brain isn't functioning rationally right now and your fight or flight instinct is nowhere to be found.

His palm is hot against your skin, his fingers curling just enough to remind you he’s got you, that he’s keeping you here.

The other hand is already moving lower. You feel it glide down your spine, over the plush globes of your ass, slipping into the waistband of your shorts with ease. "This what you wanted? For me to snap and put my hands all over you?"

He squeezes your butt, his tongue moving sloppily over yours. "Mmf... R-rafe, I d-didn't..." He cuts off your babbling by tugging your panties back and snapping them onto your skin to make you jump and squeak, while he takes the opportunity to shove his tongue even deeper in your mouth.

You hate how your knees go weak when he kisses you. His lips are soft and wet and God, he's a good kisser, but you have to remind yourself who he is. How he's treated you, and your ex.

Your stomach tightens, and you snap out of the fuzzy haze clouding your brain and realizing that you're kissing the same guy who's tormented you and your ex-boyfriend so much that he ended things with you.

He’s smirking against your lips, and that just makes you angrier. You bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to make him hiss, to taste a hint of copper, and he finally pulls back, a thin string of saliva connecting your mouths. "Get the hell off me, Cameron," You snap, even though every part of you yearns for more. You're reeling.

"Ah fuck, you're feisty," he murmurs, licking his lips. "Didn’t know you liked it rough," Rafe purrs, fingers tightening around your hips, pulling you closer again, pressing you right up against him. "Knew there was a little freak in you."

He brings a thumb up to his mouth, smearing away the small drop of blood you left behind, and instead of getting mad, he grins. Like he likes it.

Like he wants you to do it again.

"Shut your mouth." You pant out, your lips swollen, your pulse hammering. You throw his hand off your face, clenching your own into fists. "I came here to set boundaries, not have you kiss me."

You need to put distance between you, but his hands keep finding your body, gripping your waist, your ass, still crowding your space like he owns it.

Your nails dig into his arms, but he only chuckles, dragging his mouth down, sloppy and wet against the corner of your lips, down your jaw, teasing your pulse point before sucking lightly—just enough to make your stomach flip.

You try to shut your legs, but he pushes further against your clothed pussy, the thin fabric of your shorts doing little to obscure the feeling of the hard plane of his knee bumping against your pussy. Your head leans back, and you whine breathlessly, angry at how easily he can toy with you like this and you just let him.

Even now, even through the haze of your frustration and anger and hatred, his sharp jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his darkened blue eyes drink you in like he wants to devour you. He’s so pretty.

And he knows you think so.

"That little head of yours is spinning, huh?" he murmurs, tilting his head, watching you. "S’cute how you try to fight it. Try to fight me."

His thumb strokes slow over your butt, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, his breath hot against your cheek. "Tell me to stop," he whispers, his voice dropping even lower, rougher, something dangerous curling in it now. "Tell me you don’t want me, that you want nothing to do with me, and I’ll back off. Just say the words."

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat feels tight, like something thick and unbearable is lodged there, suffocating you from the inside out. Your body isn’t listening to you. Every muscle, every nerve feels like it’s wrapped in honey, warm, sticky, trapping you in place.

"No?" He beams, little dimples gracing his cheeks. He grins smugly. "Don't say I didn't warn you, princess."

Is the last thing he says, before he hoists you into his arms and away from the front door.

Your necklace is finally off you.

Thrown into the trashcan beside Rafe's bed, he's got you folded in half with your knees almost completely pushed against your ears, while he holds you open by your plump thighs, his cock splitting you open.

He takes his time, each inch of his thick, veiny cock stretching your gooey walls with deliberate slowness. The wet, obscene squelches of his cock filling you and bottoming out slowly fills the room as he thrusts so deep inside you that your mind is starting to feel foggy.

"Oh, look at you." Rafe grins, his voice smooth and soft like he's speaking to a lover. "Hate me, you said? Could of fooled me, the way your greedy little pussy's sucking me in like she's trying to swallow my dick whole."

You nudge his hands off your face and push your arms are over your face to hide the way that it's contorted in pleasure. Showing him how good you feel won't do anything but prove how he's won against you yet again. He grunts in annoyance when you hide your face, and he draws back.

Withdrawing until just the tip of his cock remains nestled inside you, he slowly, torturously pushes back in until your pussy and guts stretch obscenely around his girth, wet, squelching sounds filling the room.

"You can hide all you want, princess." He murmurs, still thrusting into you slowly. "Your pussy knows the truth. Knows who it belongs to."

"I d-don't belong to you, idiot."

Rafe pauses at your words, almost amused at your backtalk. He likes when you give him attitude. Gives him a reason to be mean to you.

He pushes your legs open impossibly wider, nearly bending you in half with your legs up against your chest.

"You keep saying shit like that like it's going to get me mad." He laughs softly, before groaning with pleasure. "Maybe I get off to brats, princess, ever thought of that?"

You bite your lower lip so hard that it hurts to hide any noise you're making. If you lifted your head, you'd see the faint outline of his cock in your tummy and the way your pussy struggles to accommodate for his size, and the look of rapt fascination on his flushed cheeks.

He pays no mind to your attempts at modesty, too focused on the wet, sloppy sounds of his cock churning up your insides. He sets a slow, punishing rhythm, pulling out until just the tip remained inside you before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt with a filthy squelch.

"Fuck, your cunt is soaking my dick," Rafe taunts. His cock churns up your soaked, velvety walls with each roll of his hips, your pussy clenching around him like a vice as you desperately attempt to adjust to his size.

You’re shaking, fingers curling into fists in the sheets underneath you. You’re not sure how much more you can take. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks in a low, taunting murmur.

"Bet you're worried about me creaming in this hot little pussy, huh?"

Your head finally leaves the crook of your arms to stare up at him in disbelief. Your whole body locks up, heat flashing through your tummy. "Yo-you wouldn't, I w-wouldn't let you," Rafe uses the opportunity of you moving your arms to grab both your wrists in one hand and pin them over your head, his free hand still holding your thigh.

"Yeah you would." He shoots back, almost aggravated at your tone. "You'd let me. You know why? Because you like me real bad. You're just too pussy to admit it."

He notches the tip at your entrance, slowing his thrusts, before slamming forward and forcing his girthy shaft deep inside you. “God,” He groans. “Pussy’s so fuckin’ good. Squeezing me like you don’t want me to go anywhere.” 

You moan out, but this time, he forces you to keep eye contact, and his gaze flicks between the way your small, fluttering hole stretches wide to accommodate his length, and the way your face is scrunched with tears tracking your cheeks and your lips raw from biting as he shoves his cock in you. 

The lewd, sloppy sounds of your cunt being split open fill the room as he impales you repeatedly, not stopping his thrust until his swollen, heavy balls rest against your ass.

Rafe continues his relentless, sloppy assault, each thrust accompanied by the most vulgar noises. The obscene slap of skin on skin echoes through the room as he fucks you with deep, purposeful strokes. Your body jolts with every impact, tits bouncing lewdly as you try to stifle your cries.

He changes his angle slightly, and your tummy coils up tight into a knot as you feel your orgasm come crashing down, your back arching sharply off the bed. He knows he found that sweet spot deep inside you as your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

Rafe focuses his thrusts there, grinding against it with every push forward, determined to make you fall apart completely on his cock, and you let out a final strangled cry as you cum around him.

He rocks you through your orgasm, still hitting that gummy spot that makes you sing so pretty that his heart throbs. 

"I wish that pathetic ex of yours was here," he muses, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "I wish he could see me ruining his girl, see me taking what's rightfully mine. I bet he'd love a front-row seat to watch me breed his bitch."

Your pussy, now overstimulated and sloppy from your recent orgasm, throbs with sensitivity. “R-rafe, please, please, it’s too much,” You cry out, and he coos at your pretty sounds, ignoring you. 

"Too bad for him, ain't it?” He continues. “This cunt belongs to me now. You belong to me. Say it. Say who’s pussy this is.”

Your sloppy cunt swallows his thick cock over and over, your lips, swollen, clinging to his cock tightly. Squelches and sloppy lewdness fill the air as he plows into you, each thrust pushing out a fresh gush of your cum. The creamy ring of your hole stretches and bulges around his girthy shaft, struggling to contain the thick cock splitting you open. “Ah! Yours, Rafe! Y-your pussy, I’m yours!” 

He could feel your cervix fluttering against the tip of his cock, the spongy flesh yielding to his pounding. “That’s my girl, baby. All mine,” He grunts one last time as your womb clenches and ripples, ready for the hot cum he was going to pump inside you.

He lets out a strangled moan as he empties inside you, balls twitching as he fills you to the brim with his cum. It’s thick and creamy and never ending, and his head lolls, hips still pumping as he fills you up good.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing, the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. Your body is still trembling, skin fever hot and slick against his, and yet he hasn’t moved an inch. He’s still there, stretched out on top of you, pinning you down.

Rafe exhales, deep and satisfied, before letting out a slow, almost disbelieving chuckle.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming, like you did that to him. “Knew you’d be good, but damn, baby.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your mind too hazy, floating somewhere between reality and whatever that was.

Rafe turns his head, smirking at the dazed, wrecked look on your face. He reaches out, running a slow finger down your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have to meet his gaze. His pupils are still blown, his mouth swollen from you.

“Gonna let me keep you now, princess? Or do you need another round for me to convince you?”

[aloysiavirgata]

A post episode ficlit of Mulder driving Scully (to wherever) after Emily’s funeral (morbid I know- but it’s winter and this season feels endless in NY). 🙏

She had driven to the church with her mother but it is Mulder who takes her home.

Well, away. Not home. Home is very far but away can be anywhere.

Away is where there isn’t little Matthew’s fat pink cheeks or Tara’s full breasts or the helpless gazes of her mother and brother. Away is where she can’t smell incense and baby’s breath and heaps of roses.

They’ve been driving in quiet, aimless loops for over an hour. Scully has her face pressed to the cool glass of the window. Mulder’s jacket is off and his sleeves are rolled up. His forearms are the color of graham crackers.

Mulder exits and re-enters the same highway again. His face is drawn.

Neither of them has consumed much of anything but coffee for days. She can’t let him keep going like this for her.

“Hey,” Scully says, sitting up.

“Hey.” He merges left. They pass the same massive parking garage for the umpteenth time.

“You ever had a fish taco? Kind of like a SoCal lobster roll.” Scully favors him with a smile that she knows to be, at best, watery.

He smiles back. “No, I haven’t.”

If he’s lying he’s good at it, Scully thinks. Scully is white and red and black in the golden SoCal light. Mulder, New England bred and born, is bronze and cinnamon and offshore kelp forest eyes.

She directs him towards a little place she recalls, tin-roofed and fragrant, crammed between the gun shop and the florist.

Mulder turns the car off. Stills. Waits.

She knows what he’s doing because it’s an old interrogation tool and they’re just two magicians doing card tricks for each other but still she gives in. Sometimes it feels so good to let someone else be the adult.

Scully reaches into her pocket, pulls the necklace out. She lets it puddle in her cupped palm.

“How can I believe in a god that would do this,” she asks, shivery and heartsick and afraid. Her own cancer is one thing but little Emily is another. Her cross is gold, like it means anything. 79 protons.

Next to her Mulder closes his eyes for a long breath. Mulder in a shirt crisp and stiff as beaten egg whites. Her shoes are appallingly expensive to her Catholic soul. Her suit is a good merino blend.

Mulder opens his eyes. “God gave us free will, Dana Katherine. He cannot intercede.”

“Mulder, don’t. Please, I -“

“Maybe this is how he saved her. You don’t believe death is the end. Do you?”

He squeezes her shoulder hard, a fraction of a second. She shudders, Dana Katherine. Good second daughter. Misses her father and her sister.

“No,” she whispers. “I don’t.” She stares at her necklace again.

Mulder takes it from her. He reaches around her shoulders, clasping the chain behind her collar. His breath is warm on her neck; he smells like cedar and bergamot.

“Let me curse god for a while,” he says, dropping a kiss on her temple.

Scully nods, not trusting herself to speak. She gets out of the car, follows Mulder into the sun.

[magnagaruzenmon]

Lights camera

A short little jaunt from us with love

INT. SOUNDSTAGE – FILM SET

The air is thick with tension as Daizo steps closer, his voice dripping with malice.

“You and I aren’t so different,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that seems to burn right through you.

You hold your ground, jaw tightening as you shoot back coldly—

“We will never be the same.”

The silence crackles between you like a live wire, charged and dangerous.

“And cut!”

Mr. Valenti claps his hands together, stepping forward from behind the monitor. “Daizohan, Argo, you both are doing great. Seriously, that was electric. Next, we’ll do the girl’s scenes, then we’re wrapped for today.”

You exhale, the weight of the scene finally lifting off your shoulders. Daizo relaxes too, his previously menacing stare replaced by an easy grin. The two of you nod at the director before heading off to hair and makeup to remove the layers of prosthetics, fake dirt, and stage blood.

The buzz of hairdryers and muffled chatter fills the trailer as the makeup artists carefully peel away the carefully sculpted villainous scars from Daizo’s face. You sit beside him, tugging off the tactical gloves from your costume, watching in mild fascination as his transformation reverts—going from a ruthless antagonist back to the Daizo you’ve come to know.

“Dude,” you say, shaking your head in admiration, “how do you go from pleasant smiles to playing a straight-up villain like that? You’re terrifying.”

Daizo smirks, leaning back in his chair. “It’s honestly really easy. I just think about all the bosses who’ve put me in a bad position and pretend I’m getting my revenge.”

You let out a laugh. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, then.”

Daizo chuckles. “Too late for that, I’m already plotting against you.”

You nudge him playfully before standing to stretch. “Whatever it is, keep doing it, man. You’re killing it.”

Daizo tilts his head, his usual pleasant smile returning. “Thanks. And you know what? You’re doing fantastic too. You are bodying the role.”

You pause, blinking at him. “…Bodying?”

Realizing your confusion, Daizo quickly clarifies, “It means you’re doing really well at something. It’s a slang term.” Then, after a beat, he smirks. “Although, I guess in this context, it also works because you’re embodying the role too.”

You grin. “So basically, I’m just that good?”

“Basically.”

As the last traces of your characters are wiped away and the two of you finish changing out of costume, Daizo glances over. “Hey, Yeji and I were gonna hang out later. You wanna join?”

You laugh, already picturing Yeji’s determined but hopeless face struggling with a game controller. “As much as I’d love to see Yeji rage-quit another fighting game, I’ve got other plans.”

Daizo raises a brow. “Jeewon?”

You nod.

A knowing smile spreads across his face as he pats your shoulder. “Good for you, man.”

With that, the two of you grab your things and step out into the evening, another day of filming behind you.

About 45 minutes after you arrive at your hotel you get a knock on your door. You open it to see Jeewon smilingly brightly at you.

You smile back as you let her in. Not even a moment later she lifts up her top and is saying, “get on the bed baby,” you turn to her surprised as you say,

“Whats got you all riled up,”

She smiles and says, “you dummy. You and Daizo have this insane hero-villain dynamic and watching you two gets me so wet.” as you lay on the bed she smiles before saying,

“I just wanna corrupt you,” as she finishes she takes out your cock and wraps her sizeable bust around your head, you moan in ecstasy as Jeewon slowly massages your shaft with her tits. As always she feels delightfully soft. You moan as she looks at you with the brilliant innocent smile before she speeds up a bit. You groan as your toes curl watching her expertly coax you to orgasm.

“Youre starting to twitch, does that mean you're close,” you nod helplessly as Jeewon speeds up again. Her pace is relentless and unsurprisingly you cum all over her large tits. Jeewon smiles at you before licking the cum off one and whispering

“Do you have more for me baby,” your eyes roll back as you grow hard again. Jeewon smiled before taking off the rest of her clothes and mounting you. Jeewon’s tight sopping pussy readily greets you as she bottoms out on top of you. She smiles as she rides you relentlessly for the next few hours, eventually the two of you stop fucking to go on that date you promised her.

The warm glow of the restaurant’s hanging lights casts a golden hue over the table where Argo and Jeewon sit. The sizzling grill between them fills the air with the rich aroma of marinated beef, the sound of fat crackling punctuated by the occasional clink of metal chopsticks against plates.

Jeewon expertly flips a piece of short rib with her tongs, her sleeves rolled up just enough to show the delicate curve of her wrist. She looks up at Argo, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You know, for someone who does their own stunts, you’re surprisingly bad at handling tongs,” she teases.

Argo fumbles slightly as he tries to grab a piece of meat, nearly dropping it before saving it last second. He smirks. “I’d like to see you land a 20-foot fall onto a moving car.”

She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “I could. Just… y’know, in my imagination.”

Argo chuckles, shaking his head. “You’d be a menace if you did your own stunts.”

Jeewon grins as she takes a lettuce wrap, stuffing it with meat and rice before holding it up to him. “Here. Let me feed you so you don’t embarrass yourself.”

Argo raises an eyebrow. “Oh? We’re at that stage already?”

“Just shut up and eat,” she says, suppressing a laugh.

He leans in, taking the bite straight from her fingers, making sure to hold eye contact the entire time. The corners of his lips quirk up as he chews. “So, does this mean I get to feed you next?”

Jeewon crosses her arms. “That depends. Do you think you can do it without dropping half of it in my lap?”

“No promises,” he says, grinning.

She shakes her head but can’t stop herself from laughing. As the night goes on, the teasing continues—small touches, lingering glances, playful challenges over who can cook the meat better. It’s effortless, easy, and when Jeewon takes a sip of her drink and meets Argo’s gaze across the table, she knows she’s in trouble.

The good kind.

[meadowfics]

keep your eyes on me

berlin (song jung-ho) x f!reader

based off of this request here

warnings: threats, mentions of injury, jealousy

you've never been the jealous type, or at least that's what you tell yourself.

however, there's something about the way tokyo looks at berlin, something about the way they exchange glances in silence, the way they seem to understand each other without words even in their arguments and fury.

it's been poking at you since the heist began. it's probably nothing. berlin has been yours for years now, since the moment he crossed into south korea, bloody and half-dead, desperate for escape.

tokyo has a thing with rio anyways. however, you've stood by berlin through everything, watched him rise again, rebuild himself into something terrifyingly magnificent. y

ou've seen every inch of him, every flaw, every secret...so why does tokyo make you feel like you're missing something?

maybe it's the stress. maybe it's just the paranoia that comes with a job this big. every time you see them lock angry eyes across the mint’s floor, your stomach knots up, and your hands clench into fists.

so, you decide to do something about it.

it starts small.

you stop standing at berlin's side, opting to linger near denver instead. denver, who is easy to get along with, who doesn't have the same unreadable expressions and complicated histories as berlin. denver, who laughs with that ridiculous hyena-like cackle, who doesn't take everything so damn seriously.

he flirts easily, and you let him. even though the both of you know damn well that you guys do not like each other. denver has a thing with that beautiful hostage, and you support it.

however, denver seems to notice that you're using him and he wants to piss off berlin too as revenge.

you let yourself laugh a little louder with denver. you touch his arm when you talk, lean into him when you're standing close. it’s harmless...at first.

then you start choosing denver’s side over berlin’s.

when a small argument breaks out over how to handle a hostage trying to make a run for it, berlin says to use fear. denver says to use charm. you agree with denver.

you make a point of siding with him, nodding along as he grins. berlin’s face barely changes, but you know him. you know the tension in his jaw, the slight twitch in his fingers.

so you push further.

when denver struggles to move a heavy stack of cash pallets, you rush to help, grinning as you brace against the weight with him. berlin watches from the other side of the mint, his arms crossed over his chest.

he doesn’t say anything, but you feel the weight of his stare, burning into you like a brand.

it’s working. god, it feels good.

you don’t speak to berlin unless necessary. if he gives you an order, you act like you don’t hear him the first time. you only respond when he repeats himself, your tone clipped and indifferent.

he isn’t used to this. he’s used to controlling you, to knowing where you stand, to having you in his orbit. he doesn’t like this new distance.

by the second day, berlin has had enough.

the professor is gone, caught up in his careful dance with the inspector. the others are preoccupied. the moment he finds you alone in the office, berlin shuts the door behind him and locks it.

the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoes in the small space, and before you can react, he’s in front of you, his hand wrapping around your neck...not tight, not enough to hurt, but enough to command your full attention.

“i know what you’re fucking doing.”

jung-ho's voice is low, controlled. the man's thumb brushes against your pulse point, and you know he can feel how fast your heart is racing.

still, you tilt your chin up, keeping your expression blank.

“what are you talking about?”

berlin lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“don’t play dumb, barcelona. i know you too well.” jung-ho's grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make his point.

“you think i don’t see the way you’ve been throwing yourself at denver? the way you go out of your way to undermine me?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeat, voice steady, even though your whole body is tense.

“don’t you?” he leans in, lips brushing against your ear.

“you’re trying to make me jealous. trying to piss me off.”

you scoff, trying to ignore the way your skin burns under his touch.

“get over yourself, berlin.”

berlin hums, considering you. then, his other hand trails down your side, slow and deliberate, his fingers pressing into your waist.

“you want to know how i know?” he asks, almost lazily, “ it is because i threatened denver today.”

your breath catches.

he smiles, slow and sharp, like he can taste your reaction,

“told him if he didn’t stop entertaining your little games, i’d make sure he regrets it. and the hostages? well, let’s just say they almost suffered for your little stunt.”

your stomach twists. you know berlin. you know he’s capable of anything. your anger flares, hot and sharp.

“you’re sick.”

“and you’re reckless,” he counters, “playing with fire just to get a rise out of me? you should know better more than anyone else here.”

you glare at him, hands pressing against his chest, shoving him back just enough to breathe.

“maybe if you weren’t so fucking close to tokyo and arguing with her all of the time, i wouldn’t have to.”

berlin blinks, then exhales through his nose, amused.

“so that’s what this is about.” he tilts his head, eyes searching yours, “you’re jealous.”

“i’m not—”

“yes, you are.” berlin's fingers trace patterns along your collarbone.

“you think i want her?” he leans in again, lips just barely brushing against your jaw, “when i have you?”

your breath stutters. you hate how easily he does this to you, how effortlessly he dismantles your defenses.

“tokyo means nothing to me,” he continues, voice softening, but not losing its edge, “she’s a soldier. a piece in the game. but you?” his thumb presses against your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“you are mine.”

you hate how much you love hearing it.

berlin watches you carefully, reading every flicker of emotion across your face.

“say it,” he murmurs, “say you’re mine.”

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you should fight it. you should push him away, walk out that door, keep playing your game.

you don’t.

“i’m yours.”

berlin’s lips curl into a victorious smile, “good girl.”

then, he kisses you...hard, claiming, punishing. you meet him with equal intensity, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. berlin's grip on your neck eases, sliding down to your back, pressing you flush against him.

the heat between you is undeniable, electric, all-consuming.

when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips, his hands finally leave your body.

“no more games, barcelona.”

you nod, but you both know better.

berlin may have won this round, but the game between you is far from over.

masterlist

[niningtori]

clementine | preview

pairing: choi beomgyu x you

summary: after your explosive breakup and wordless, thorough disappearance from beomgyu's life, he's surprised to see that you've moved back to his town. when he happens to meet you again, beomgyu wants to apologize, maybe make amends for his unforgivable behavior, but he's devastated to find out that you've erased every memory of him. you don't want to remember him—or the love you once held onto so desperately—anymore. he knows that to be the case, so why is it so hard for him to feel the same way?

genre: angst, romance, potentially second chance, asshole!beomgyu to groveling! beomgyu (who saw this one coming...), inspired by eternal sunshine of the spotless mind tho i've never seen it and only know major plot points through cultural osmosis

warnings: angst, previous toxic relationship

word count: tbd

release date: really far in the future probably

notes: i received a request for this a while ago and i said i'd think about it then received an ask a couple of weeks ago saying another author was working on something based on the same movie. again, i've never seen the movie and i haven't read the author's work (or any new fanfiction rlly in the past few months cuz i haven't been in the headspace to enjoy it) so i will be making it up based off of the general concept of having memories of an ex erased. i said i'd wait to post it and i have every intention of doing so but i wrote this in a moment of inspiration and i've been posting previews so i thought i'd post this just as a teaser! it won't be out for a long time cuz i have so many wips and i don't want to be inconsiderate or invite weird, unsolicited comparisons. i just want to post previews bc i'm excited to get back into consistently writing after almost quitting 🥹

-

it’s jarring, to say the least, to see an estranged ex you used to love more than anything else in any unexpected context; but it's especially jarring for beomgyu as he watches you chatter away on your phone in the middle of the cafe he finds himself in. he catches your eye for just a second before you look away, and it's like he can't breathe. after your phone call, you smile as you type away on your screen. beomgyu gulps, because he knows that since you two made eye contact, it would be weird to just leave and pretend he didn't see you, though that's exactly what he wants to do. besides, no matter how much of a coward he is, he can't keep living with his unspoken feelings when he finally has the opportunity to express them, no matter how resolutely you might reject them. he hesitantly rises from his seat and walks over to you with unsure steps.

“hey,” he says unsteadily. you look up from your screen and give a forced smile, a far cry from the easy affection you used to give him. only him.

“uh, hey?” you reply. beomgyu worries he did the wrong thing by approaching you, especially because you seem confused that he said anything at all. you probably expected him to exit the cafe without a word, and the thought that you thought that he, who was once completely and utterly in love with you, would brush you off so easily brings a sharp pang to his chest.

“i… i know it’s been a while, but i… i want to, um, apologize for… everything.” he wants to lay down and die at his awkwardness, but he's wanted to say these words for so long, and no matter how much he’s compelled to swallow them down and safely tuck them away in the home they've carved out for themselves in his stomach, he knows this is the right thing to do. especially since you blocked him on everything before changing your number. especially since you moved away without a word after your disastrous breakup. especially since he hasn't seen you in so long, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see you again after this. your eyebrows furrow, and he braces himself for impact. but no amount of contrived mental fortitude could ever prepare him for your next words.

“... do i know you from somewhere?”

notes pt. 2: might delete this preview so be prepared for that possibility 🫰 peace and blessings :,) but please don't be mean or weird like actually

[oceansoul001]

So it's been around two weeks now since I've finished Kingdom Come Deliverance 2, and to tell you all that there has not been a single day that I haven't thought about this game would be such a big understatement. Cause I'm not sure there has been a single hour that I'm awake that I haven't thought about it. And it's so weird! Let me explain.

I mean, it's not atypical for me to be fascinated by a piece of culture, be it a game, a movie, a tv series, a book, whatever. But this, this is something else, on a completely different level, and for the love of everything I just can't explain it! Maybe two weeks it's still super fresh, maybe it's because I'm now still playing the first KCD, what keeps me within this world, but I find myself constantly going back to thinking about it, about the story, about the characters, and most of all of course about Henry & Hans, and how special they feel to me.

It is particularly weird with Henry, because he is this strange amalgam of a written character and a player character, a sort-of-my-avatar in this world, but at the same time quite defined. I cannot compare this balance to any other game protagonist really, every other (that I know of) was either one or another, with my preference being always the custom character with some defined characteristics - meaning custom looks and gender, even if the backstory or a general vibe was not changeable (like, let's say, a Dark Urge in BG3 is for me a custom character, even if some crucial parts of them are well defined). But Henry's not like that, he always looks like Henry and sounds like Henry. At the same time, the flexibility of how he can react to the world is wider than with a typical written character. And even if within the game story we cannot actually change or influence what happens, generally the same things in the main plot always happen to my Henry and to your Henry, I think we can still differ in interpretation, what it actually means for MY Henry, and it can differ from what it means for YOUR Henry. And neither of us would be incorrect.

Some people might compare this maybe to the Witcher series, which is probably the closest, yes, but for me it's still completely different. I never WAS Geralt in my heart in any game from the trilogy. I played as Geralt, I made some choices, I picked a romance, I was immersed in the stories etc, but it was always the same Geralt to me, one and established character, not MY character. Maybe because he was first and foremost the book character in my head, and much later a video game protagonist, so it might feel different for other people, but I never had with him this weird fluid feeling of being him and not being him when I played the games. And I have it with Henry. I don't know if it makes any sense at all to anybody beside me.

And with Henry, it feels different, it feels as if I partially were Henry, when I played; I would not ask myself "Hmm, what would Henry do in this situation", it was rather "What would I do", with me being Henry at that point. With me taking over the emotions that my Henry would feel at a given moment. This again might feel as a regular thing for some people, who immerse themselves easily into defined protagonists, but it is not typical for me. And I tell you more - I have this... Thing... That it is much more difficult for me to find my own voice in a male protagonist. I can love them and root for them, of course, but it is like watching a movie or reading a book. Not "becoming" them when I'm playing as them in a video game.

I'm this kind of RPG player that always, like ALWAYS, plays as a female character, if I have a choice. I've never thought about it much, or why it's that way, but it is something I am very conscious about. And with Henry it's somehow different, it's like the way he is written and presented leaves still a place for me to blend in somewhere as well, despite the fact that he actually has an unchangeable face and an unchangeable voice. ...Or maybe it is partially because of that? Meaning that Henry is NOT your 'typical male video game protagonist', thank gods. But it cannot be just that, as there are definitely more characters in other games that do not fall into this category as well, and they don't leave me with the same feeling Henry does. I cannot explain it any better I'm afraid, I just feel this special connection between myself as a player and Henry as a protagonist that I have not felt before. And it makes him so, so special to me.

With Hans it is much easier to explain of course. Everyone loves Hans. He is funny, and witty, and cocky, and caring, and emotional, and vulnerable, and yes, he is sometimes self-absorbed, but he is also this pure, naive idealist - I LOVE the part when he says to Brabant that the role of the nobility is to protect the people they rule over, because I know that he genuinely believes that! He is this type of character that I always feel the need to protect, even if he doesn't need it actually at a given moment. Like in the framework of the game, when I AM Henry, I would gladly carry him over any puddle, so that he always stays safe, and warm, and comfy, and I would die for him no questions asked at any given point, even if it meant like the worst possible game ending for me as a player. Have I already mentioned that I love Hans?

But there is also one more layer, the layer that in my head is simply labeled as "Henry&Hans", together. And this is probably THE weirdest part to explain from all of this babbling. But I've got to try. So generally, when it comes to romances in fiction, I would say that yes, I enjoy a good romance, I really like when it is part of a story, I root for characters that I like to get together. But I rarely think about it outside of enjoying said fiction. I am usually not much of a shipper, don't read fanfictions, don't download fanarts, etc. I am now trying to recall when was the last time that I was really, like REALLY invested in a fictional ship, and I don't know, I think it might have been in 2017, when The Last Jedi premiered, and I was immensely angry that Rey and Kylo Ren didn't get together. It was freaking 8 years ago!

It is a bit different when it comes to romances in video games with customizable protagonists, because in that case I don't only expect to be immersed, I demand to be immersed, so to speak, if this is supposed to work. I need to feel something, anything, to be engaged in a romance that I am supposed to be an active part of, meaning choosing a character to romance, picking dialogue options, enjoying interactions, etc. And it happens quite rare. Most of romances in video games are just an additional mechanic of a sort, and choosing "I am going to romance this character" is not much different than "I am going to buy this ship/horse/base", or less harshly "I am going to make all squad mates loyal to me", not necessarily because I like all of them equally, but because it is possible within the game, so why not.

The video game romances that truly got to me were of course mostly the ones that had some good writing behind it, or great acting, or an interesting angle. I loved my Astarion romance during my first BG3 playthrough, because it ticked all the categories mentioned above, but also something beyond that. And I never loved any other of the romances from BG3 to the same degree, even though most of them are truly great and I really enjoyed playing through them. I loved my Solas romance in DAI (and in DATV even), because it was so different, it mostly wasn't even there so to say, like it was probably the least of romance content possible to even have a romance, but it touched something in me. And... No, that's that, that were the only ones that I had feelings and emotions about as a me-player, not just as a character I am pretending to be. Up till now.

So, with Henry&Hans romance, to jump from one digression to another digression, because who is reading all this at this point anyway, for quite some time I didn't even know, and later didn't fully believe, that is in the game. I started to play KCD2 around two weeks before it premiered, and all I've heard at this point was that there is potentially some gay romance that some people were rioting about, but I didn't even care much. You see, coming back to my previous notes about not being really immersed into male protagonists, because I am not male, it was always the same, or even more true, with romances - I was actually really immersed only into romances where I can play as a female character and I can romance a male character of my choosing. Because that is how it works in my life as well. Imagine my surprise when I'm playing through this medieval simulator about some guys engaging in some politics and shit, not expecting that this is soon going to be one of the most important games in my life, and then suddenly getting smitten by these two. It was when we got to Trosky, I remember it clearly, and they told me that I have now twelve bell tolls to save Hans. MY HANS! I mean, not mine at that point, really. At that point what I felt was probably sadness, because I was sure, oh I was so sure, that they would never let us romance Hans, are you kidding me? Like two main characters that have a history together, that are actually connected to one another throughout the whole story? With Hans being present in the game as his own, fully fledged character, with his own story arc, being already our best friend? Not being in the game to serve the one purpose of being a romanceable character? And to top it all, with like two guys?! I believe I am quite media-literate, so to say, have consumed my portion of different arts, and I just know it won't happen, it can't happen. It would be a contradiction to everything we have known so far. This kind of ships happen only in our imagination, in our fanfics, in our fanarts. So I didn't even dwell on it much.

And then came the ride to Nebakov, the first in game moment when you see this dialogue option with a heart icon next to it, and what the hell, am I just imagining things? I kid you not, for the next week my mind was living in this prison of "are they fucking Hans-baiting me; I won't forgive them if they are", because I simply couldn't believe that this is actually possible, that this could be our romance option, a meaningful one!

So it was probably all of the above, finally a meaningful romance, not just something slapped on a game with a plot as a separate thing, finally a meaningful character, not a "romanceable character", but a main character with a possible romance, if you get what I'm trying to say. A character that I've already started to love. And with this incomprehensible thing of me becoming Henry when I'm playing, it clicked. It clicked as nothing else ever did in the fiction that I've experienced so far.

And now I'm sitting here, a woman in her late 30s, not queer, thinking about these two fictional guys and their fictional love, like every day, and what it means to me as a person, and I just can't!!! The weirdest feeling ever. But a wholesome one, I think.

Thank you, if for some reason you've decided to read through this, I promise that I am not crazy, or at least I thought so up till this point. Now... not so sure. I needed to vent it all somewhere, somehow, and this is probably like the only place on the internet where I won't feel very bad about spilling it all out.

[paigesfuturewifey]

sorry for dropping off the face of the earth, hopefully this filth makes up for it (before i drop off the face of the earth again)

The cabin’s loft was a haze of dim light and summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavy.

You’d been roped into this trip by your parents, same as every year, but this time, Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd—UConn’s golden duo—had turned the annual getaway into something far less innocent. The three of you had history: Paige’s relentless taunts, Azzi’s quieter but no less cutting jabs.

Until suddenly, you just couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t bite your tongue, like you did every year.

You snapped back. You don’t even remember what you said. Maybe it was something about how Azzi needed to back up off you or maybe you made a stupid comment about how Paige’s stupid music was too loud and annoying: just like her.

And the next thing you knew, you ended up here.

Sprawled out on the loft’s king-sized bed, the wooden beams above creaking faintly as the lake breeze drifted through the open window. Paige stood at the foot of the bed, her blonde hair loose and wild from the day, tank top stretched tight over her toned frame. Azzi leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, her dark curls framing a face that was all sharp edges and knowing smirks.

“Thought you could keep running that mouth, huh?” Paige said, voice low and gravelly, the kind she used when she was pissed—or turned on. She climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as she crawled toward you, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been fucking try it all day.”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling in your core despite the way you tried to hold your ground. “Maybe you’re just too easy to rile up,” you shot back, but your voice wavered, betraying you.

Azzi laughed softly, pushing off the wall to join Paige. “She’s got a point, P. But that doesn’t mean she gets away with it.” Her tone was silkier, more measured, but no less dangerous. She knelt beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, her fingers brushing your thigh like a warning.

You tried to sit up, to regain some control, but Paige was faster—her hand shot out, pinning your shoulder back down. “Nah, stay right there,” she said, blue eyes glinting with something feral. “You’ve been fucking with us long enough. See what happens when fuck around?”

Your breath hitched as Azzi’s hand slid higher, tracing the hem of your shorts. “What?” you managed, though it came out more like a whimper. “I don’t—”

“Shh,” Azzi cut you off, her lips curving into a smile that was equal parts sweet and sadistic. “You don’t get to talk back anymore, baby. You’re done.”

Before you could process her words, Paige’s hands were on your wrists, yanking them above your head and holding them there with one strong grip. Her other hand tugged your tank top up, exposing your stomach to the cool air and their hungry gazes. “Look at her,” Paige muttered, almost to herself. “All that attitude, and she’s already shaking.”

“I’m not—” you started, but Azzi’s fingers dipped beneath your shorts, grazing the damp fabric of your panties, and the lie died in your throat. A soft moan escaped instead, humiliatingly loud in the quiet loft.

“She’s soaked,” Azzi said, her voice dripping with mock surprise as she pressed harder, teasing your clit through the thin cotton. “Guess she doesn’t hate us as much as she pretends.”

Paige grinned, predatory and smug. “Told you. All that bratty shit was jus a front.” She released your wrists only to grab your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. “Who you this wet for, ma? Say it.”

Your mind spun, caught between defiance and the overwhelming heat building under Azzi’s touch. “Fuck you,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction, your body arching traitorously into Azzi’s hand.

Paige’s laugh was dark, her free hand sliding down to grip your throat—not hard, just enough to make you gasp. “Oh, we will. But first…” you swore you could see the sadism gleam in her eyes, “you’re gonna beg.”

Azzi pulled her hand back, and you whined at the loss, hips bucking involuntarily. She smirked, peeling your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you bare from the waist down. The air hit your slick folds, and you squirmed, exposed and vulnerable under their stares.

“Look at that pretty pussy,” Paige murmured, her grip tightening on your throat as she watched Azzi spread your thighs wider. “Bet it tastes even better than it looks.”

Azzi didn’t waste time. She leaned down, her breath hot against your core before her tongue flicked out, dragging a slow, torturous line up your slit. You cried out, hands flying to the sheets, clutching them like a lifeline as she licked again, deeper this time, her lips closing around your clit with a gentle suck that made your vision blur.

“Fuck—Azzi—” you gasped, but Paige’s hand slid from your throat to your mouth, muffling the sound.

“Quiet,” she ordered, her voice a rough whisper. “You don’t get to scream yet.” She shifted, straddling your chest, her weight pinning you down as she tugged her own shorts off, revealing the damp patch on her boxers. “You’re gonna make me feel good first.”

Azzi’s tongue circled your clit, relentless and skilled, while Paige shoved her boxers down and positioned herself over your face. The scent of her arousal hit you—sweet, intoxicating—and before you could protest, she lowered herself, her wet folds brushing your lips.

Your tongue immediately darted out to taste her, inebriating and warm. She groaned above you, one hand bracing on the headboard as she started to grind against your face, slow at first, then faster, her thighs trembling around your head. Azzi’s mouth worked you harder in response, two fingers slipping inside you, curling deep and hitting that spot that made your toes curl.

“Goddamn,” Paige breathed, her voice strained as you sucked her clit, mimicking what Azzi was doing to you. “Fuck, ma. Jus like that.”

Azzi hummed against you, the vibration sending a jolt through your body. Her fingers thrust faster, stretching you open, while her tongue flicked your clit in a rhythm that had you teetering on the edge. You moaned into Paige, the sound muffled but enough to make her shudder, her pace quickening as she chased her own release.

“You gonna come for us, baby?” Azzi purred, pulling back just enough to let her words ghost over your sensitive skin. “Go ahead. Let go. We’ve got you.”

Her permission was all it took. Your orgasm crashed through you, a white-hot wave that had you shaking, crying out against Paige’s pussy as your walls clenched around Azzi’s fingers. She didn’t stop, drawing it out until you were a whimpering mess, oversensitive and dripping down her hand.

Paige wasn’t far behind. Your desperate moans pushed her over, and she came with a low, guttural sound, her thighs tightening around your head as she rode out the aftershocks on your tongue. She lifted off you, breathless, her abs glistening with sweat as she flopped onto the bed beside you.

Azzi crawled up your body, her lips and chin shiny with your release. She kissed you, deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue before pulling back to smirk at Paige. “Your turn,” she said, nodding toward you.

Paige didn’t need convincing. She slid down, hooking your legs over her shoulders as Azzi straddled your stomach, her hands roaming your chest. Paige’s tongue plunged into you without warning, lapping up the mess Azzi had left, and you keened, still raw from your first climax. Azzi pinched your nipples, rolling them between her fingers as she rocked against you, her own arousal soaking your skin.

“Too much,” you whined, but your hips lifted into Paige’s mouth anyway, chasing more despite the ache.

“Too much?” Paige mocked, pausing to nip your inner thigh. “Shut up and take it.”

Azzi leaned down, her breath hot against your ear. “You’re doing so good, baby. Letting us ruin you like this.” Her fingers twisted harder, and you arched, a sob tearing from your throat as Paige sucked your clit, her fingers sliding in beside her tongue.

The dual assault was relentless—Paige’s rough, hungry strokes and Azzi’s teasing pinches, her whispered praise turning your brain to mush. You were theirs, completely, a trembling, submissive wreck under their hands and mouths. Your second orgasm built faster, sharper, and when it hit, you screamed, the sound echoing in the loft as your body convulsed, slick gushing onto Paige’s chin.

They didn’t stop. Paige licked you through it, slower now, savoring every twitch, while Azzi kissed your neck, murmuring, “That’s it, let us have it all.” When you finally stilled, panting and spent, Paige pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her grin triumphant.

Azzi slid off you, lying beside you as Paige climbed up to join her. They flanked you, their hands still possessive on your skin—one on your thigh, the other tracing your jaw. “Think she’s learned her lesson?” Azzi asked, voice playful.

Paige snorted, brushing a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead. “Not a chance. She’s too stubborn. Guess we’ll have to keep her like this all summer.”

You couldn’t argue, couldn’t even speak—just lay there, boneless and buzzing, already dreading (or maybe craving) the next time they’d decide to put you in your place.

[thatbitchery]

When it comes to self love, mass failure stems from the idea that to love yourself is to 'become the ideal'. Which is again rooted in the absolute bs that's morality and the need to be a 'good girl'

To love yourself is to act in your best interests. What you're looking for with the self care aka intensive grooming that makes no sense? and alo sets and God knows what is to like yourself, ant it will never work because you are actively working against the principle of the thing. You can not like yourself when you are actively working against said self. Actively working to unbecome said self into a version you have decided is much more likeable. This is like if your girlfriend / wife said I want to like you by turning you into Tina from the office she is perfect she dresses this way the does this and that and ugh she- see that? See how that feels? See how that does not work? Exactly? It's not working because you're not trying to like yourself you're trying to become something you could admire.

So. Ramble time, try to keep up.

When it comes to loving yourself you have to like yourself first. This is what people mean when they say 'be yourself' . They are saying act in the best interests of who you are right now to become who you want to be. Its not a hop over it's a progression. You don't fake it till you make it (Though man don't i LOOOOVE this advice, if only it's given in the right way its so powerful) its being you the you you are right now and then naturally you will progress, and using the you you are right now to progress into what you want to become. And , in private too. Authenticity is personal in public it will do you more favors to perform than it will to 'be yourself' but in youyrself, in your body in your privacy in your mind- be yourself.

See it this way. What are you? You are the Universe in a Human Body. Why is the Universe / God / Source ? Figurehead Of Your Mythology Of Comfort x Choice be in a human body? To EXPERIENCE life as a human being. The same reason it's in a cup and the ocean and wifi and veneers etc, everything in existence is simply the Universe trying to experience itself, we all know this. At least the Elites do. Why then are you the way that you are? TO EXPERIENCE LIFE FROM THAT PERSPECTIVE. So if you don't fully sink into an experience you are bound to repeat it as many times as it takes to fully experience it and if you don't you'll just come back in another life to deal with the same thing. The pathway to progress is to like yourself as you are now so that you can move on to a different experience *(Another reason to go to therapy x CBT. Stop running. If you stop running, itgoes away by itself, because the whole point was to experience it and now that you have what's the point of a re-do? A Universe obsessed with expansion can not tolerate stagnation, if you go through it it HAS to go away). IF you run from who you are now, you will be stuck as her. If you not only accept and like her but also function FROM who you are now, you are bound to change. And the issue the issue the issue the fucking issue is ALWAYS morality there are a billion reasons to hate the church and every patriarchal religion out there but the top of the list will always be morality. You can not like what you are because you think she is BAD and you want to be GOOD. EW.

So what even do I mean? If you are a liar just lieand soon the lying will go away, if you wnat it to. If yoy want to sleep around just do that and use it to get to your goals. Sleep your way to the top AND LIKE It. Fake your way to the top and like it. Scam people and get what you want by sinking into what you are right now and finding pleasure in it. If you just sink into it, into what you are RIGHT NOW and find pleasure in it and find a way to use it to get to where you want to be - all that will go away. The frustration the pain the struggle the all that- it will go away. All that comes from resistance. And sinking into the fact that you are a human being so you act like one will literally save you 3/4 of your pain (Another reminder to study evolutionary psychology and human intelligence so you stop punishing yourself for being a person) .

Ramble over.

BMAC