#and they got loved and cared for just like everyone else

[verstappenverse]

Give Me a Chance

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

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

12.1k words / Masterlist

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

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

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

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

There was always someone new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even when you swore you wouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happened slowly, then all at once.

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

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

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

Still, you don’t let yourself believe.

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

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

It happens one rainy night in Monaco.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, flat and certain. “Bullshit.”

You blink. Look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

You blink. “What night?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence crackles between you like static.

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

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

“Max…” Your voice breaks on his name.

“I’m in love with you.”

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You open your eyes slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re it for me,” he says.

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

There’s a beat. A heartbeat.

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

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

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

For a moment, the world stills.

Even the rain outside seems to hush.

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

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

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

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

He doesn't hesitate.

“I won’t,” he whispers.

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

You don’t tell anyone at first.

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

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

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

And he looks at you.

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

He’s softer with you now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grins, slow and fond. “You drool.”

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

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

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

“Still cute though.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad it’s you.”

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

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

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

“I love you,” he says.

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

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

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

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

“I panicked!”

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

He grins, smug. “Worth it.”

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “You love rom-coms.”

He squints. “I tolerate rom-coms.”

“Max you cried during The Notebook.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear.

“I’m sure,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

You never knew this version of him existed.

Not fully.

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

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

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

The first crack doesn’t shatter.

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

It starts after Silverstone.

Nothing dramatic. Just a silence.

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

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

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

You wait.

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

But the second day passes.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Your texts go unread.

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

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

Not angry.

Not guilty.

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

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

The apartment is a mess.

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

Everything looks… unfinished.

You glance around. Then back at him.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

He still won’t look at you.

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

That finally makes him look up.

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

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

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

He says the last part quieter. Barely audible.

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

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

“Feel like what?” you whisper.

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

“Like I could lose you.”

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

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

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

You laugh bitterly. “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

You try to move past it.

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

So you adjust.

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

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

But things don’t go back to normal.

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

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

“Do I have to?”

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

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

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

You frown. “What questions?”

He hesitates.

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

You blink. “Like what?”

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

Your heart stutters. “We’re not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You do matter—”

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

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

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

He flinches like the word physically hits him.

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

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

“You’re not—”

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes to know.

“I need time,” he says again.

It sounds like a door clicking shut.

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

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

He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak for two weeks.

When he finally texts, it’s short.

Can we talk?

You type three different responses before you settle on:

I don’t know else there is to say.

No reply.

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

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

“Please.”

You open it.

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

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

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

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

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

You step aside, wordless, and let him in.

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

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

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

His eyes snap to yours. “You aren’t.”

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

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

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

Max hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“I guess it depends,” he says quietly.

“On what?”

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

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

“Max…” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart splinters all over again.

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

Because that first chance was already hard enough to give.

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

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

He nods.

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

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

The days bleed into weeks.

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

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

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

Floating. Fragile. Half-hollow.

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

Hope you had a good day today.

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

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

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

I miss you.

I miss us.

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

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

Still, he keeps trying.

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

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

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Max is not fine.

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

But the truth is uglier.

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

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

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

Christian asks what’s wrong.

Lando asks if he’s dying.

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

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

He’s tired of being without you.

Two weeks before Zandvoort, Max does an interview.

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

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

The quote goes viral.

People call it poetic. A sign of maturity.

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

You type a reply.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

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

Then it happens.

It gets worse before it gets better.

The photo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s all there.

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

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

You don’t move to pick it up.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

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

You just sit there.

Staring at nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You read it three times in disbelief.

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

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

There’s a full minute of silence.

Then—

What are you talking about?

Almost a minute passes.

Then a second message.

Please let me explain.

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

You block his number.

And this time, you do cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The photo.

The messages.

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

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

You shift on the couch. “So?”

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

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

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

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

She looks at you then. Really looks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the truth is louder than your pride.

You still love him.

You always have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a beat of silence.

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

Max looks up. “What about her?”

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

Max hesitates.

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

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

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

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

And somehow, it’s enough.

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

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

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

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

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

So he keeps going.

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It breaks something in you.

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never stopped loving you.”

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

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

“Me neither.”

A pause. The kind that stretches forever.

“Not for a single second.”

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

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

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

And yet, he’s everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because waiting might protect your heart.

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

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

It’s late.

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

When you reach his door, you hesitate.

Then you knock.

It only takes a few seconds.

The door swings open.

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

You’re both frozen.

Then you whisper, “Hi.”

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

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

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

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

“You hurt me so badly, Max.”

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

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

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

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

You take a breath and step past him, into the apartment.

It still smells like him.

Still feels like home, in the way a bruise still hums beneath your skin, aching when you press it, reminding you of everything that came before. You look around, and your voice is soft when you say, “I told myself I was done. That I deserved better. That I shouldn’t come back.”

His breath catches.

“And I still don’t know what’s right,” you admit. “But I know this, waiting didn’t make it hurt any less. Pretending not to love you didn’t help, and maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe we’ll fuck it all up again, but I would rather risk everything than spend one more night wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just given you that second chance.”

Max is crying openly now, but he’s smiling, too, this broken, beautiful kind of smile that only comes from relief so overwhelming it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You still want this?” he asks hoarsely. “You still want me?”

You nod, stepping into his arms. “I want us. I want messy and real and worth it. But only if you choose me this time. Every time. No more halfway.”

He pulls you into him like he might never let go again, his whole body trembling. “I choose you,” he breathes against your temple. “Forever. I swear to God, I’m all in. I don’t want a life where you’re not mine.”

Without any warning you're crashing into him like waves that have waited too long, too long to break, too long to finally come home.

There’s no pause, no hesitation, no careful approach just your body folding into his, arms winding tight around his neck, his wrapped around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re both trembling, not from cold but from the sheer weight of it all, weeks of silence, of pain, of love held back like a dam on the verge of breaking.

Your forehead presses against his as your fingers twist into the familiar fabric of his hoodie, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sob, the words cracking in your chest as they leave your mouth.

Max lets out a sound like something inside him is breaking open. “I missed you every fucking second,” he says, voice thick with desperation and relief, like he’s been holding that sentence inside his lungs and can finally exhale.

Then his lips are on yours, messy, raw, and a little too hard, but you don’t care because it’s not careful, not poised, not the kind of kiss you save for clean slates or picture-perfect moments.

It’s real. It’s everything.

All the love, all the grief, all the fear and the hope and the need you’ve both been swallowing since the second things first cracked, it's all there, spilling out between your mouths in gasps and saltwater tears.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

Like his heart has been aching for this one small miracle.

When he finally pulls away, your chests are heaving, noses still brushing, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs swiping away your tears, his fingers trembling against your skin like he still can’t believe you’re here.

“I’ll do it right this time,” he whispers, voice breaking like glass in the quiet. “Whatever it takes. I’m yours, completely, stupidly, yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You don’t answer with words.

You kiss him again instead, slower this time, deeper. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just full of everything you couldn’t say before. Then you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, tears still drying on your cheeks as you both stand there in the silence, in the safety of each other’s arms.

It’s steady.

Sure.

Home.

Later, when the adrenaline has settled into something softer, when the tears have dried but the weight of everything still clings to your bones, you lie curled up beside him, limbs tangled beneath the duvet, the room dim and hushed, like the universe itself is catching its breath.

His arms are around you and your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The same heart that's trying truly, desperately to piece you back together again.

You tilt your face up toward him, your voice quiet but steady, raw from crying, scraped from truth.

“It meant a lot that you waited,” you whisper, your fingers drawing soft shapes along his ribs like you're still trying to memorise the feeling of being this close again.

Max looks down at you, and there’s something different in his eyes now, not panic, not fear. Just presence. Just him. A boy who’s made mistakes. A man who’s trying to do better. Someone who is choosing you, fully and without flinching.

He reaches up and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle.

“I hoped every day you’d walk through that door,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours like they’re the only truth he knows. “I swore I didn’t care if it was weeks, or years… or never… I would’ve still waited.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him.

It’s hope.

It’s trust.

It’s the belief that maybe, just maybe, love can survive the storm and still be true.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, in what feels like lifetimes, you both finally believe, truly believe, this will last.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy

[nausikaaa]

so the way you play cheat is to put somewhere between two and four cards face down on the centre pile each round and declare what you're putting down, for example "two aces" or "three nines", right? what you put down has to be one above, below or exactly the same as the previous go, so if the person before you plays "three tens", you have to put down nines, tens, or jacks. it works best with four players but you could maybe do five at a push.

but you can lie. and if you don't have two of anything you need, you have to lie, because you can't skip a turn, or just put down one card. but at any point, somebody can call "cheat!", and you have to turn over what you put down. if you did indeed cheat, you pick up the whole deck. if you were honest, the person who accused you picks up the whole deck. then you start afresh. so you've got to be good at bluffing, and counting cards to see if somebody else is cheating. obviously, if they play "three queens" but you have one queen and know there are two already in the pile, you know they're cheating.

the first person to be out of cards wins, so of course everyone gets accused on their final round, so you've gotta really play your cards right to make that last one honest. the best way to do this is to get to the point where you have only a set of matching cards left, then accuse the person before you, because if they did cheat, you can start the pile anew with the honest cards you have left. if they were being honest, though, you're fucked.

the fun starts when somebody plays "two fours", then the next person plays "two fours", then the next person plays "two fours", because clearly somebody is lying, but it's probably not the last person, so you know someone got away with cheating before.

the way to cheat in cheat is to do what my dad does. he puts down eight cards and says it's four, and because they're stacked nearly, it's really hard to tell. the top four will be what he said they were, too, so if you call him a cheat and he turns them over, it looks like he was honest. this trick obviously lets him offload cards quicker than is allowed, but he still doesn't win a lot of the time because he can't nail the ending. we often don't find out until the game ends and we look through the pile to see who cheated where, and then chaos erupts.

now we sometimes make him fan his cards out to prove there are only four, and sometimes that does catch him, but he still gets away with it about half the time. he doesn't care about winning either, he just loves being able to pull one over us.

i dont know why anyone else misses analog board games, but to me, it's because physical parts let me cheat. there's no moving pieces around when someone isnt looking in a chess app, no sneaking bonus pieces out of the graveyard in checkers, no double drawing cards in go fish.

i spent years developing those skills as a Professional Little Brother. what am i supposed to do now, go back to college? learn how to play games the right way? i mean, who gives a shit? the fun part was never the game, it was the Getting Away With It. or, you know, for the rest of my family, Catching The Bastard. now that was entertainment.

[edenesth]

ATEEZ as Marvel Superheroes

Pairing(s): marvel superheroes!ateez x female!reader

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Thank you so much, my lovelies, for helping me reach 2.8k followers! To show my appreciation, I'm back with another one of these hehe I'm a big fan of the MCU, and I hope you are too!🫰🏻 Also, I do apologise in advance because only after I started writing did I remember most of these heroes have tragic love stories😭

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong ↠ Iron Man

• Visionary • Bold • Burdened •

Based on: Tony Stark × Pepper Potts

The rooftop hummed with tension, faint jazz playing below from the afterparty no one really wanted to attend. The evening air was cool against your skin, but the press of Hongjoong's eyes on you felt warmer than the champagne you abandoned minutes ago.

He stood at the edge of his tower, staring out at the city like it held all the answers. His signature suit jacket was slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, and hair messier than usual—a rare, raw version of him few got to see.

This wasn't new. You'd watched him slip out of rooms like this before—countless times. He didn't care for the forced glamour of galas or the hollow praise from politicians who barely understood what he did. To the world, he was Iron Man—the billionaire genius, the weapon-turned-saviour, the man in the indestructible suit. But to you, he was your boss. Your headache. Your 3am emergency call. And, if you were honest, something a little more complicated than that.

You'd been with him since the beginning—when he still walked into meetings late with coffee stains on his shirt and bad excuses for skipping board briefings. Back then, you were the assistant with the clipboard and the sharp tongue, the only one who could organise his chaos and get him to actually listen. Somewhere between the prototypes and press conferences, your role stopped being about just calendars and contracts. You were the one who saw him—when the arc reactor flickered in his chest, when he got too deep into his head, when the weight of the world sat heavy on his shoulders.

And he always, always came to you when he didn't know where else to go.

"Why are you out here?" you asked gently, stepping closer, heels clacking softly on the rooftop tiles.

"I needed air," he replied, his voice casual, but his shoulders too tense to match. "And maybe… I needed to not be in a room full of people who only see me as the guy in the metal suit."

You crossed your arms, watching him avoid your gaze. "You're more than that. You know that."

He finally looked at you, and for a second, the flicker of something unguarded passed between you. "Am I?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, you walked to stand beside him, your presence grounding, quiet. He glanced at you sideways, then chuckled bitterly.

"I've built weapons, armour, an empire—and still, somehow, I can't figure out how to talk to you like a normal person," he said, eyes on the skyline. "That should tell you something."

Your lips curved. "You're doing fine so far."

"That's because you're here," he muttered, almost too low to hear. Then, louder: "You make it easier. Being… me."

He turned to you fully now, brows drawn together like the words hurt coming out. "I've spent so much time protecting everyone else that I forgot what it's like to want someone to stay—for me. Not because I'm useful. Or powerful. Or dangerous."

Your heart ached for him. "You don't need to be any of those things, Joong," you whispered. "Not with me."

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something smart, but couldn't find the wit. Instead, he reached for your hand—hesitant, unsure. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "But I want to try… if you'll let me."

You smiled softly, squeezing his fingers.

"Then try."

He looked at your joined hands, then at you—really looked. And for the first time all night, Kim Hongjoong looked less like Iron Man… and more like the man underneath.

Seonghwa ↠ Vision

• Graceful • Thoughtful • Profound •

Based on: Vision × Wanda Maximoff

The rain tapped gently against the wide glass windows of the compound, casting blurred shadows across the dimly lit room. You sat curled on the end of a sleek velvet couch, arms wrapped around yourself, staring blankly at a cold mug of tea that had long since lost its warmth—like you had.

You hadn't expected anyone to find you here. Not tonight. Not after the funeral.

They'd said all the right things. That he was a hero. That he made the ultimate sacrifice. That he died saving millions. And while all of that was true, it didn't matter. Not when he was your brother. Not when you were the one who held his bloodied hand until it went still.

No amount of medals or eulogies could fill the hole he left behind.

Everyone had given you space, unsure of what to say. Grief made people awkward. Grief made you awkward. You were used to being strong, used to being the one people turned to when the sky started to fall. But now?

Now you couldn't even make yourself take a sip of tea.

"You're still here," came a soft voice from the doorway. You didn't look up, but you knew instantly—it was him.

Seonghwa.

The android who wasn't supposed to feel. The creation who somehow became the only person who ever truly understood you.

"I thought I wanted to be alone," you murmured. "But now I'm not sure."

He didn't respond right away. He never rushed his words. Instead, he crossed the room with near-silent steps, the weight of him more emotional than physical. He sat beside you—not too close, not too far. Just there. Just enough.

"There's no shame in mourning," he said gently. "You loved him. That love doesn't disappear just because he's gone."

You stared down at your hands, clenched tightly in your lap. "I know. I just… I thought I'd be stronger than this. I've lost people before. Friends. Teammates. But this? This was different."

Your voice cracked, and you hated it. Hated how raw it still was.

"I can't stop thinking about when we were kids," you whispered. "He used to tell me that if anything ever happened to him, I had to promise not to cry. He hated seeing me sad."

A tear slipped down your cheek despite your effort to hold it in. "I broke that promise the second I saw him on that table."

There was a pause. Then, he reached out—not with urgency, but with infinite care—and placed his hand over yours. Cool, steady, real. You glanced down at the contact. His touch, though artificial in origin, felt more comforting than any human hand ever had.

"You haven't broken anything," he said quietly. "He asked you not to cry because he didn't want to see you in pain. But your tears… they're proof of love, not weakness."

You let out a shaky breath.

"How are you like this?" you asked, voice thick. "You weren't even supposed to be human."

His expression remained calm, but his eyes—those eyes that were never programmed but somehow still held galaxies—watched you with impossible depth. "I wasn't designed to feel," he said. "But from the moment I met you, I started learning what it means to care. To wonder. To worry. To hope. Maybe it's not biology that makes someone human… maybe it's simply the capacity to love something enough to hurt when it's gone."

You turned to him fully now, tears clinging to your lashes. "In that case," you said, voice trembling, "you might be the most human person I've ever known."

A flicker of something almost fragile passed across his face—like your words touched something inside him he didn't yet know how to name. "I'm not asking you to be okay tonight," he said softly. "I just want you to let me be here. With you. Until the ache dulls enough to breathe again."

You looked at him—really looked. And in the echo of your sorrow, surrounded by the quiet hush of rain and memory, you nodded.

Because grief didn't need to be fixed. It just needed to be felt.

And with Seonghwa beside you—wordless, patient, profoundly present—you didn't feel alone anymore.

Yunho ↠ Spider-Man

• Devoted • Selfless • Brave •

Based on: Peter Parker × MJ

The coffee shop on the corner had become your quiet place—a little escape from the chaos, the fights, the headlines. You used to meet Yunho here after missions, on stolen afternoons, when all he wanted was to share a pastry and rest his head on your shoulder like the world didn't need saving for a while, when he was just himself and not the Spider-Man everyone looked up to.

But now?

Now he stood across from you, shoulders tense, hands buried in the pockets of a worn hoodie, his smile forced and eyes far too sad for someone so full of life.

You hadn't seen him in weeks. Not since the sky tore open and everything went wrong. But the second he walked in, you knew. Something was different.

Something was ending.

"You okay?" you asked gently, wrapping your hands around the warm paper cup in front of you. "You're fidgeting like you've got a confession and a time limit."

That smile again—crooked, soft, but never quite reaching his eyes. "I guess I do," he said, voice lighter than the weight behind it. "It's just… hard to explain."

You watched him closely, heart already bracing. He had always been an open book. When he loved, he loved out loud—loud laughter, bright texts, full-body hugs that said I missed you without words. But right now, he looked like someone who had to seal off the pages.

"Try me," you whispered.

He hesitated. Then stepped closer. The sun outside hit his profile just right, highlighting the bruises he hadn't bothered to hide and the flicker of fear in his gaze.

"There's something coming," he began. "Something big. And to stop it, I have to do something... irreversible."

Your chest tightened. "What do you mean?"

His voice dropped. "Everyone who knows me—who knows who I am—will forget. You included."

Silence crashed between you.

You stared, unsure if you'd misheard. "Forget you? How?"

"It's the only way to close the breach," he said, eyes shining now. "The only way to keep you safe."

You rose from your seat, the air suddenly too thin. "So that's it? You disappear from my life, and I just wake up one day wondering why I feel like something's missing?"

"I don't want to," he said quickly, stepping forward. "God, I don't. But if you remembered me, you'd be in danger. They'd come for you. I can't—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I can't lose you. Not like that."

Tears welled in your eyes. "But you're okay with me losing you?"

"I'd rather be a stranger who watches you walk down the street alive than someone who holds your hand while the world burns around us," he said. "I love you. That doesn't stop just because you forget."

You reached up, hands framing his face, memorising him with trembling fingers. "You are the most stubborn, selfless idiot I've ever loved."

He laughed, shakily, pressing his forehead to yours. "I'll find you," he whispered. "After. I'll find you again. Even if you don't know who I am, even if I have to fall for you all over again—I will."

The pain in your chest splintered into something deeper, something sacred. "I'll wait," you whispered. "Even if I don't remember what I'm waiting for."

He kissed you then—slow, aching, infinite. The kind of kiss that stitched memories into bone, that would haunt your dreams long after you'd forgotten his name.

And when he pulled away and walked out the door, the bell above chimed softly.

You didn't know it yet, but that sound would echo in your heart for a long, long time.

Yeosang ↠ Doctor Strange

• Mysterious • Intelligent • Guarded •

Based on: Stephen Strange × Christine Palmer

The sanctum was quiet, except for the soft, rhythmic hum of magic pulsing through the walls—like the world itself was holding its breath.

You stood just inside the threshold of Yeosang's study, the air between you heavy with things left unsaid. Books floated lazily around him, sigils still glowing faintly on the floor where a portal had only moments ago sealed shut.

"I saw it," you said softly, stepping closer. "The universe where we made it."

He didn't turn around. His back remained to you, cloak draped over one shoulder like a curtain shielding whatever war raged inside him.

You swallowed the ache in your throat. "You were different there. We both were."

A pause. Then: "Did we win?"

You nodded. "We were happy."

He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling like the answer wounded him more than comforted him.

The multiverse had changed everything. Once just a theory whispered in secret texts and dismissed as dangerous speculation, it had now torn open in ways neither of you could ignore. You'd seen it—fragments of alternate lives, cascading timelines stitched together by decisions, accidents, heartbreak. There were countless versions of you and him scattered across the infinite—some together, some strangers, some never even meeting at all.

And yet no matter the universe, no matter the shape of your stories... the love never changed.

"I saw the version of you who let me stay," you said gently. "And you were still strong. Still brilliant. Still you. Just… not alone."

He finally turned to face you, and though his expression was composed, his eyes gave him away—tired, aching, full of things he'd never say aloud.

"I've seen what happens when I try to have both," he said. "Every time I let you in, something else falls apart. Sometimes the world. Sometimes you."

You nodded slowly. "I know."

A quiet beat passed between you. Magic crackled faintly beneath your feet, but all you heard was the thud of your heartbeat. The heaviness of goodbye. Again.

"You always had to be the one holding everything together," you said. "Even when it meant breaking your own heart. Even when I wished you'd just let me share the weight."

His gaze fell. "I didn't want to lose you."

"You didn't," you whispered. "But you couldn't keep me either. Not the way you wanted." You stepped closer, raising a hand to his face. He leaned into your palm like someone starved for the warmth of something real. Something human. Something that couldn't be conjured with a spell.

"I love you," he said, voice barely holding together. "In every universe. Even the ones where I never get the chance to say it."

"And I've loved you in every one," you replied, eyes glistening. "Even the ones where I had to let you go."

A long silence stretched between you, neither of you reaching for a solution because, for once, there wasn't one. Just acceptance. Just truth. "I hope you're happy somewhere," he said softly. "Even if it's not here. Not with me."

You smiled, bittersweet. "I am. I will be. And so will you."

You stepped back first.

Because this was the part you had to play—not the anchor, not the ending, but the memory he'd carry when he needed to remember who he was beneath the title.

And as the portal opened behind you, casting gold and firelight across your face, you lingered just one more second.

"You have to face your universe now," you said.

"I know."

"Be brave, Yeo."

"I always was… with you."

And then you were gone.

Not forgotten. Not unloved. Just… left behind by someone who never stopped loving you.

San ↠ Wolverine

• Wild • Passionate • Protective •

Based on: Logan × Jean Grey

The world was chaos.

You could feel it in the air—thick and charged—raw power pulsing out of you uncontrollably, shaking the earth beneath your feet. You hadn't meant for it to go this far. You never did. But the power had awakened again, darker this time, hungrier. And now, you weren't sure you could stop it.

You stood at the centre of it all—eyes glowing, hair whipping wildly in the storm you were unwillingly creating. Around you, people fled. Structures collapsed. Metal bent. Air cracked.

And then… he walked through it.

San.

Unflinching. Unafraid.

Walking straight through the inferno of your destruction like nothing in the world mattered but you.

Because nothing ever had.

Not since the moment he first saw you.

He hadn't come to Xavier's School to belong—just to recover. He arrived half-feral, bleeding from wounds that wouldn't stay closed, memories in fragments, rage barely kept in check. Everyone kept their distance.

Except you.

You were already part of the school—a teacher, a leader, someone respected and calm in ways he wasn't. You were also the first person who saw through his defensiveness. You didn't treat him like a threat. You treated him like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

He noticed you the moment he opened his eyes on the infirmary bed. You were the first voice he heard—low, steady, kind.

"You're safe," you'd said.

And for some reason, he believed it.

He watched you from afar at first, drawn to you and hating himself for it. You were everything he wasn't—disciplined, compassionate, good. But you didn't look at him with fear. You looked at him like you understood something about him that even he couldn't put into words.

And even though you had your own demons—your own unstable power humming beneath the surface—he never flinched.

Over time, that tension between you became something more. A stolen moment here. A shared silence there. Not loud, not obvious—but real. And dangerous. Because both of you knew what it could become. And how badly it could end.

Now, here he was. Standing in the eye of your storm.

"Stop!" you cried, voice echoing. "You can't be here!"

But he kept coming, body healing as fast as the storm tore at him—skin splitting, bones cracking, then mending again. "I'm not leaving you!" he shouted over the roar. "Not now. Not ever."

"Sannie," you choked, trembling. "I can't hold it back—I'll hurt you—"

"You already are," he said, stepping within reach. "And I'm still here."

Your knees buckled. Magic surged, uncontrolled. The part of you that once felt human was slipping fast. But his hands caught you before you could fall. Rough, scarred, but gentle.

Your voice trembled. "You have to stop me. Please."

He looked at you—eyes wild with pain, with love, with everything he'd never been able to say out loud without it sounding like a growl. He'd always loved you in extremes: fiercely, wordlessly, endlessly. And now, it would be no different. "I can't lose you," he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. "But if I have to be the one to end this… I will. For you. Because you asked."

Tears spilt from your eyes as the force inside you built higher, screaming for release. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

"I'm not," he breathed, voice breaking.

Then you kissed him—desperate, searing, the kind of kiss meant to be remembered long after everything else is gone. The kind of kiss that lives in the bones.

"I love you," you said. "I always will."

"I know," he said. "Me too."

And then, with his arms around you, his claws unsheathed—

And it was quiet.

The storm stopped. The earth stilled. The world was safe again.

But San dropped to his knees, holding your body close, shaking, broken in ways no healing factor could ever mend. Because even with everything he had—his strength, his rage, his fire—he couldn't save you from yourself.

But he did save you from being alone at the end. And that, more than anything else, was what made him human.

Mingi ↠ Star-Lord

• Charismatic • Playful • Devoted •

Based on: Peter Quill × Gamora

The music was still playing.

A soft crackle from a salvaged cassette tape echoed through the rubble of Ego's collapsing planet—tinny and warped but still playing. Somewhere, under the chaos and blinding energy blasts, you could hear the faint hook of "Bring It On Home to Me."

And then you saw Mingi, blood on his temple, eyes wide with disbelief, chest heaving like he'd just lost gravity. "I told you I wanted to believe you," he rasped, voice cracking. "You said you loved her."

He wasn't talking to you. Not yet.

He was staring down the man who called himself his father. The same man who had just confessed to killing his mother. And destroying the last real piece of her he had left—his Walkman.

The explosion came before you could blink.

Song Mingi, the self-proclaimed legendary outlaw known across galaxies as Star-Lord, who flirted with danger like it was a sport and wore charm like armour, didn't hesitate. Didn't joke. Didn't smile.

He opened fire, rage and grief pouring out like stardust.

You found him in the wreckage after it was all over—shoulders hunched, headphones cracked in his lap, fingers gripping them like they'd fall apart if he let go.

"Mingi…" you said softly, kneeling beside him.

He didn't look at you at first. Just stared at the broken tape player. "She gave this to me," he whispered. "Said it would keep her close. Now it's gone."

You reached out gently, brushing a cut on his cheek. "She's not gone."

"I know," he said. "I just… I built so much of myself around what I lost. And now I don't know who I'm supposed to be."

You remembered when you first met him—blaster slung low, grin cocky, eyes twinkling with trouble. He was loud. Annoying. Ridiculously persistent.

You were on opposite sides of a bounty job—he was after the reward, and you were trying to destroy the target. He tried to charm his way out of a fight. You knocked him flat.

You thought he'd walk away. He didn't. He showed up again. And again. With jokes. With food. With music. A walking contradiction: rogue, thief, soft-hearted orphan clinging to a mix-tape and memories of a mother he still missed like it was yesterday.

He flirted shamelessly. You ignored him. He made you laugh once—you hated that.

But somehow… he got in.

You saw through the persona, the leather jacket, the smooth one-liners. You saw the man underneath—the one who took every loss personally and loved like the universe was ending. Eventually, you let yourself fall. Not because he wore you down, but because he earned it.

Now, in the middle of a dying world, he was still the same. Wounded. Grieving. And yet, holding on.

You sat with him in silence, the dust settling around you both, the air still crackling with faint cosmic static. "You're still you," you said. "All the jokes. All the charm. That heart you pretend you don't have."

That made him glance at you, finally. "I don't pretend," he said, smirking weakly. "I just… edit."

You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Then let me read the unedited version sometime."

He went quiet. You thought maybe you'd pushed too far, but then his fingers laced into yours. "You already are," he said. "Every time you look at me like I'm more than just the punchline."

You turned to face him fully, nose inches from his. "You are."

And just like that, he kissed you.

It wasn't grand or perfect or polished. It was messy and raw and tasted like salt and ash and something honest. Like laughter after crying. Like letting go.

Wooyoung ↠ Deadpool

• Chaotic • Flirty • Loyal •

Based on: Wade Wilson × Vanessa Carlysle

You weren't sure if this counted as a date or a war zone.

There were bullet holes in the walls, smoke in the air, and some guy's flaming motorcycle helmet rolling by in the background. But in the middle of it all—covered in soot and blood and probably laughing too loudly—was Wooyoung.

Deadpool. Mercenary. Menace.

Your complete and total problem.

"You okay?" he called, leaning around a pillar with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm for someone who'd just taken a sword to the shoulder.

You blinked. "You were on fire."

"Hot, right?" he winked, lifting his mask just enough to show that too-wide, boyish grin that somehow always disarmed you. "I mean, what time is it?" He flicked up his wrist with exaggerated flair, flashing a cracked, dusty Adventure Time watch, its glass fogged with ash but still ticking like nothing had happened. "It's about… pain-thirty," he deadpanned. "Right on schedule."

You groaned and tossed him a spare mag. "One day I'm leaving you for a man who respects clocks."

"Too late," he called, slamming the clip into place with flair. "I am the time of your life."

You never intended to fall in love with someone like him.

He was too loud. Too unpredictable. Too him. The type of guy who flirted mid-battle, made crude jokes during hostage situations, and once broke into your apartment at 3am just to bring you a taco 'because it reminded him of your attitude.'

But you stayed. Because somehow, in all that madness, he gave you something no one else could.

It hadn't started with romance. It started in a crappy bar with sticky tables and a broken jukebox, both of you strangers clinging to bad nights and worse decisions. He slid onto the stool beside you with all the confidence of a man who believed the world owed him a drink and a laugh—and probably your number too.

Offered you his last claw machine token like it was a love language. Said he could win you a plushie or disappointment—dealer's choice.

You told him he looked like a disappointment.

He grinned like you gave him a gift. "That's the hottest insult I've ever received. Marry me."

The banter became a habit. Sarcasm turned into late-night stories. Somewhere between vodka shots and childhood trauma, something clicked. And suddenly, his chaos didn't scare you—it matched yours. It made you feel again.

He wasn't perfect. He was far from it. But he remembered your coffee order. He memorised your laugh. He stitched the ugly parts of himself into yours like it made something stronger. He called it dysfunctional. You called it real.

And now, in the aftermath of another mission gone sideways, he sat slumped on the ground, his mask peeled off, blood crusting around a cut on his cheek. His fingers toyed with the cracked kids' watch on his wrist, the plastic band fraying.

"I know I'm a handful," he said, voice quieter than usual, eyes avoiding yours. "Like… emotionally unstable with a side of mental mayhem."

You lowered yourself beside him, dirt smudging your palms. "That's putting it lightly."

He laughed once, under his breath, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You didn't sign up for this. You deserve someone normal. Someone who doesn't cry over dropped chimichangas or monologue in the shower."

You turned his face toward you gently, both hands cradling him like he wasn't all blades and explosions. "I didn't fall in love with normal. I fell in love with you, Woo. The chaos, the scars, the fourth-wall nonsense, and yes… even your disturbing relationship with street food."

He blinked at you, trying to make a joke but failing. So instead, he kissed you—hard and unapologetic, like he needed the reassurance that he still existed, that this was real.

It was messy. You tasted blood and smoke. Somewhere in the background, something else exploded. You didn't flinch.

His forehead rested against yours when he finally pulled away. "If you ever leave me, I'm keeping your Netflix password."

"You hate Netflix."

"I hate what it represents."

He said it with a straight face. You burst out laughing.

Because love with Jung Wooyoung wasn't quiet. It was loud, chaotic, and way too dramatic. But it was yours. And his. And somehow, that made it perfect.

Jongho ↠ Captain America

• Strong • Noble • Steadfast •

Based on: Steve Rogers × Peggy Carter

The world had been saved.

At a terrible cost, yes—but for once, there was peace. No more missions. No more orders. No more running from one crisis to the next, pretending that saving the world filled the ache in his chest.

Because it didn't.

Jongho had fought every battle they threw at him. Woke up in a world seventy years too late and learned how to live in it. He adapted. He endured. He led. People called him a hero. A symbol.

But behind all the accolades and duty, he was still just a man with a hole in his heart.

A man who never stopped thinking about you.

You had been his constant back then—steady and unshaken in a world that was crumbling under war. Where others followed orders, you challenged him to think. Where others admired him, you saw him—saw the weight he carried and loved him anyway.

You had met when he was still learning how to be more than just a soldier. Back when he was still unsure, still growing. And somehow, even then, your presence grounded him. You reminded him of the world he was fighting for.

He never told you how much he needed you. Not before the crash. Not before the ice. Not before he disappeared and left you behind.

When he woke up decades later, it hit him harder than anything else—not the time he lost, not the confusion of the modern world… but knowing you were gone. That he'd never gotten to say goodbye.

He tried to move on. Really, he did. But no matter how many missions, how many people he tried to protect… your memory clung to him like a ghost.

He'd see your favourite flower blooming on a street corner. Hear your laugh in the static of an old radio. Pass by cafés and wonder if you'd still like tea the way you used to. If you'd be proud of the man he'd become.

There were nights he couldn't sleep. Nights he'd sit by the window, replaying that last conversation. The promise of a dance you never got to share. The ache never dulled.

You had been his past. But somehow, you were still his home.

And then… came the second chance.

The mission was meant to end with him returning the Stones, fixing what had been broken. But somewhere along the way, he realised the truth: He didn't have to keep choosing the world over his heart.

For the first time in his life, he made a selfish choice. He didn't tell anyone. He just… slipped away. Back to the moment he left behind. Back to the time he belonged.

Back to you.

You didn't hear him come in.

You were at the kitchen sink, hands in the dishwater, humming to a tune that played low from the radio behind you—an old swing record crackling through the speakers.

He paused in the doorway, sunlight pooling behind him, framing the familiar silhouette you'd once thought was gone forever. Your back was to him, but everything in him stilled just watching you—still here, still real.

"Is this a good time?" he asked softly.

You turned, heart catching in your throat.

There he was. Choi Jongho. No shield. No uniform. No headlines. Just the man you never stopped loving.

Your eyes brimmed with disbelief and something deeper. "How…?"

He stepped forward, slower now, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, you'd disappear. "I promised you a dance."

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of years, of longing, of silent promises that were never meant to die.

You crossed the room before you knew it, falling into his arms like no time had passed. His touch was steady, warm, heartbreakingly familiar. Your head rested against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat—strong and real and finally home.

"I never stopped waiting for you," you whispered.

He swallowed hard, voice low. "And I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Not through all the years, or the wars, or the sleepless nights in a time that never felt like mine."

You held him tighter.

"Then stay, Jjong," you said.

And he did.

The record spun. The living room faded. The world outside could wait. Because at last—after everything—you were dancing.

And for Jongho, that was the real victory.

Tbh, I had a lot of second thoughts about this, but then I reminded myself that it's okay if not everyone likes it or agrees with the heroes or the scenes I've selected for the members, heh. YOLO.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[binmeister]

Kisses with Bodyguard!Reader(s) - Platonic headcanons

Huntrix & Saja Boys x Bodyguard! Readers (fem & male separate)

Self indulgent - platonic kisses / affection with Bodyguard!Readers (male & fem)

CW: not proofread, fluff

Male bodyguard!Reader x Huntrix & Saja Boys

You give Rumi forehead kisses / cheek kisses - 1 because they’re not too invasive, and 2 because if you do an over the top a little too much saliva peck or an obnoxiously loud smooch to her cheek or forehead she’s grimacing and yelling at you - smacking at your chest and saying you’re so gross and need to get away from her

Sometimes you’ll plant a kiss on Mira’s temple - when she’s frustrated you pinch her cheeks and then you’ll lock her in a headlock then plant one on her temple to really piss her off, she complains about it but she’s never denied the affection

Zoey adores affection. She’s already always clinging onto you and kisses all of you on the cheeks / faces so when you kiss the top of her head she’s ecstatic - loves when she gives you a hug when she’s feeling anxious and you turn and plant a light one on the top of her head, just a doting little reminder that you see her and you care

You’ve absentmindedly kissed Jinu on his cheek before, you’d been hanging out and you’ve got an arm over his shoulder as he shows you something on his phone and then just - your body instinctively goes in to show affection because that’s usually what you do with the girls, you apologised profusely afterwards and he brushes you off like ‘hah no biggie’ (it was in fact a big deal)

Abs and you have pecked each other on the lips a few times, it was all apart of the ‘gay chicken’ game that you guys played but it went from on the cheek, to the corner of each other’s lips to just outright giving a peck to each other and then giving a hug as you guys bid each other farewell. Neither of you think much on it but everyone else is always stunned whenever they’ve seen it for the first time

There’s instances that Mystery will quietly ask you if you can give him a kiss on his head, he hasn’t really had much affection aside from the guys all but hanging off each other and the request is polite enough that you just gently hold the back of his head - tilt his head down a little and press a gentle kiss to the top of his head, he thanks you with a little smile on his face and there’s the slightest amount of pep in his step when he walks away

Romance is always in your space, at first it was to flirt and mess with you and then over time it’s just the the enjoyment of each other’s company - there’s been some moments where he’s fixing your shirt collar claiming it looks messy or trying to play with your hair as you’re looking at something on your phone, and you just gently grab his hand and press a kiss to the back of it or against his knuckles and it stun locks him as you just let his hand go and go back to whatever business you were doing

Baby kisses your neck, not overtly sexual in nature it’s just whenever you’re giving him a piggy back sometimes he just presses a small one to the back of your neck or the side of it and occasionally when he wants to mess with you - he just licks a strip of skin to feel you tense under him and then complains when you drop him on his ass with a sarcastic ‘oh nooo’

Female bodyguard!Reader x Saja Boys

When Jinu is stressed out and is struggling to organise things he tends to mutter under his breath more, grows frustrated and you’d let out a sigh at his frazzled state and walk up to plant a kiss on the top of his head and ruffle his hair before reminding him to take a break and it helps him pause and take a breath - a quiet ‘thank you..’ under his breath as he calms down

Abs loves cheek kisses, sometimes he just walks up to you in an excited manner after he’s beat his PR and stares at you waiting for his reward which is just you giving him a quick peck on the cheek but if you’ve both beat your PR at the gym he loves when you give him a tight hug and plant a big ol’ kiss on his cheek - even when you’re both gross and sweaty

You already give Mystery plenty of affection, let him rest on your thighs or give him headpats when he follows you around like a little puppy but sometimes when you’re feeling extra affectionate and he’s done something cute like tilt his head when he’s confused - you gently grab his face and press a little kiss on his nose while gushing about how adorable he’s being (cuteness aggression)

Romance is always seeking out affection of some sort, he doesn’t get it nearly as much as Mystery does because you think he’s just trying to seek attention (he is) and that he’s just being dramatic (always) but every now and then you indulge in his desire for affection and just gently press a kiss to his forehead or temple to make him quieten up and he’ll be content again. For 10 minutes and then he’ll be asking for more

Baby is your BABY. That is YOUR baby now. Not even with his smug and bratty attitude it’s just, something about your dynamic means that he actually seeks you out when he wants something. Not always food or always after a entertainment, he just wants to be near you.. cause you provide him comfort and sometimes he’ll lean into you when he’s seated next to you and you bring an arm up and pull his head sideways towards you as you give a kiss to the top of his head and he settles in beside you as he plays on his phone after you let him go

[starkenobi]

FOR MY LAST TRICK | 1

masterlist — the pitt x avenger!reader crossover masterlist

Pairing: Jack Abbot x fomer avenger!reader.

Summary: The new attending on the night shift is a complete mystery. She carries herself as if she's seen something worse than hell but smiles as if she has no worries. There's at least 7 bets running about her, and Jack can't stop wondering if she has skeletons in her closet too... And then, her past comes crashing down on the ER like a ticking bomb.

chapter warnings: none, it's a strangers to coworkers through Jack's eyes.

read for my last trick snippet

It was mid-July, the day had started sunny and with a cloudless blue sky. The thunderstorm came without warning, bringing chaos into its awakening and drastically changing the mood of the people waiting in the chairs. The department was crowded and, with the sudden storm, it didn't seem like it was going to calm down any time soon. At least the thunderstorm also brought an angel sent from heaven - one wearing a long, heavy green raincoat, black cargo pants and combat boots. 

You introduced yourself as the new attending, shaking hands with Dana and Robby. And soon enough, you were speeding up the patient care of those who were not routine visits. Moving fast but with precision, making sure of asking the patients for a positive review with a charming smile on your face. It was like you knew the right words to say and what to do, no uncertainty.

After just one week working the day shift, you got all the department hooked and curious with how mysterious you were. It’s her thing, Robby mused one night during shift change with Jack, she’s chatty and smiles a lot but is very private about her personal life. 

After two months on the day shift, you started helping Robby deal with Gloria. However, with all the chocolates and sweets you offered both Robby and Gloria, as if it were a distracted and unplanned act and not you meddling in the conversation, Jack would call it training. 

Six months in, you got a double. And it was the first time Jack had really interacted with you. Sort of. He exchanged a few words and patient information. When a difficult case came in and Jack was already busy, you pulled Ellis into the driver's seat and guided her smoothly. You captivated everyone so easily, the night crew begged you to change shifts.

You compromised, changing your 12 hours so you could be on both shifts. Because of course you'd end up doing that. She's not exactly a cowboy like you, Dana stated on your first shift after the change, but I'm sure that her middle name is trouble. At first, Jack was offended with her comparison, until he understood what Dana was talking about. What usually would end up in a huge fight with Walsh over a patient treatment if it was him, you end up getting it your way. A sweet smile on your lips and honeyed words was quickly to convince Walsh.

You were trouble. But a good kind of trouble. 

Then six months became one year. Time flew by and it turned three years. You became a constant. The interns, med students and the residents would seek you out for inputs. Or when they needed help to solve a problem. Even the nurses and technicians would come to you. You knew everyone by name and occupation, some people you knew other types of information like birthday and coffee order, not because of gossip but because you just liked to know. You were just that considerate. 

But even after three years, no one knew for sure about your life before joining the ED. It drove Jack crazy. The firm hands and the way of dressing indicated a possible military (or similar) past, but there was no dog tags or tattoos, most of the jargon were ignored as if you didn’t know them - but your eyes said something else. You were excellent at compartmentalizing, even better than him.

Jack would never say out loud, but he loved to observe you work, from the most simple case of sprained foot to a bloody trauma. You were a light in the quiet moments. However, it was in the worst cases that you shone bright. He loved how well you two worked as a team. It was as if you could read his mind the same way he could interpret your movements and expressions. 

Of course, nothing was perfect. Even more so in an ER. You fought tooth and nail to save all the lives that came to your hands, but sometimes your everything wasn’t enough. And that night was one of those terrible nights. Three patients you were unable to snatch from the reaper's hands. Three deaths you had to explain to family members who couldn't understand the suddenness of the absence. You didn’t cry nor your hands shook, but your eyes didn't have the usual sparkle. You looked exhausted. 

“Here,” Jack murmured, sliding a cup of warm coffee and a chocolate bar towards you. Not daring to ask how you were, he points to the computer with his chin. “Want some help with those charts?”

Opening the chocolate and taking a big bite, you sighed in contentment. “Just reviewing information to avoid future problems.”

Jack nodded, pushing his hands deep into his pockets to prevent him from fixing the collar of your coat. “Drink your coffee and go home then.”

“You’re so bossy.” You retorted softly. But you quickly finished the chocolate before closing the charts and turning off the computer. You grabbed the warm coffee and got up from the chair. Standing close to him, you gently squeezed his bicep with your free hand. “Thank you, Abbot.”

“I got you.” Jack answered simple, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing to worry about.

You offered him one last soft smile, then turned on your heel toward the lockers. You didn’t look back, but Jack silently watched you go.

Three years working with you and you still were an enigma. Jack liked to think that he knew what mattered about you, but sometimes he wondered what made you be the way you were. What types of skeletons and ghosts were hiding in your closet? He hoped it wasn’t like the ones he carried with him. 

Little did he know it was worse.

Thank you for reading and supporting my writing 💜 Let me know what you think! Comments, likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated!

There's no taglist, but you can follow this story (and the other crossovers) through the tag #avenger!reader x the pitt!

[aventurineswife]

Salutations and good day to you, I have been a fan of your work for some time and I love all of them🥹🫶

If it's okay to request, how will the (characters of your choice from HSR and GI) react to a s/o who is gentlemanly in nature regardless of gender?

Like opening doors for them, doing the sidewalk thing (where the s/o is near the road), and light physical touches on the body just to guide them or urge them to move faster.

I'm sorry if this is too specific, but regardless, have a merry day!

Chivalry is Love in Motion

Synopsis: In a world where strength often takes the form of power, control, or duty, your quiet, gentlemanly care defies expectations. You hold doors, guide with light touches, and shield without asking—small gestures that leave deep impressions on the hearts of those unused to being protected. Your quiet chivalry invites even the proudest hearts to lean, just a little, into being cherished.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Kafka x Reader, Neuvillette x Reader, Navia x Reader, Romantic Fluff, Gentle Romance, Mutual Pining, Emotional Intimacy, Soft Interactions, Subtle Affection, Chivalrous Reader, Reversed Roles, Slow Burn Undertones.

Warnings: Mild emotional vulnerability, Light physical touch (non-explicit and respectful), Canon-typical melancholy/Angst undertones (in backstory and internal monologue).

The air in Sweetdream Paradise always smelled of lavender and false serenity. But when you, his ever-thoughtful partner, reached forward to open the ornate glass door of the Celestial Hall for him, Sunday paused.

“You truly insist on this,” he said, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“Of course,” you replied, with a soft smile. “You lead everyone else. It’s only fair someone leads you now and then.”

He let out a faint, airy laugh—a sound like wind stirring chimes. “You believe in fairness… even for me.”

It was not the first time you shifted to the side closest to the floating garden’s path edge, subtly placing yourself between him and any danger. Nor the first time your hand touched the small of his back to gently nudge him along when he got lost in thought. Yet every time, it disarmed him more than he’d like to admit.

“Such chivalry,” he mused aloud, eyes half-lidded. “You act as though I’m the one who needs saving.”

You didn’t answer. You just offered your hand when the cobblestone slope inclined too sharply—no words, only the quiet insistence that he take it.

And Sunday, dignified, composed Sunday, who held the weight of illusions and eternity in his grasp, took it.

“I could fall for you,” he whispered. “But I fear… you would catch me.”

And that terrified him more than any rebellion.

Argenti was used to being the gallant one. His life was a sonnet to Beauty, a march in honor of grace and glory.

But you—you with your quiet gestures, your protective positioning, your hand at his elbow guiding him away from passing hovercrafts—you threw off his rhythm.

He blinked as you handed him a cup of rose tea before he could even reach for the kettle. “I—ah—thank you.”

“You seemed tired,” you replied simply, with that polite smile he’d come to associate with comfort.

Argenti wasn’t used to being the one protected. When you opened doors for him, he would awkwardly reach to do the same at the same time, resulting in a brief, ridiculous dance of over-courtesy.

“Your devotion to honor rivals even mine,” he said, lightly amused. “Are you sure you weren’t also trained by the Knights of Beauty?”

You only chuckled and brushed some wind-tossed strands of red hair from his face before he could react.

That touch burned more than any battlefield.

He took your hand in his gloved one, kissed your knuckles, and said, “If I am Beauty’s knight… then you are surely its soul.”

Kafka was used to control. Control of situations. Of words. Of people.

But you? You weren’t one to dominate. You didn’t manipulate. You simply cared—in small, deliberate ways that unnerved her far more than threats ever could.

When your hand settled at the small of her back as a hover-limo sped by too close on the sidewalk, she narrowed her eyes. Not in suspicion. In… curiosity.

“You do know I’m perfectly capable of dismembering a hover-car with my mind, right?” she said, voice laced with mirth.

“I know,” you replied. “That’s not why I did it.”

“Oh?” she turned to you, lips curling. “Then why?”

“Because I want to. You’re important to me.”

She leaned close then, eyes gleaming behind the sheen of her glasses. “You do realize, darling, that chivalry makes you all the more interesting to break?”

You stepped around to open the door for her before she could take the handle.

Kafka paused.

Then she chuckled. Low. Sultry. Delighted.

“Oh, fine,” she sighed dramatically, stepping through. “I suppose I’ll allow you your little habits… for now.”

But when your fingers grazed hers later—light, grounding—Kafka squeezed back.

Because behind every calculated move… she liked feeling like she wasn’t always in control.

And that scared her just enough to keep coming back.

“Wait—let me.”

You stepped forward to open the ornate glass doors of the Court of Fontaine, your gloved hand meeting polished gold. Navia raised an eyebrow, the jeweled tip of her umbrella tapping against the tiled floor as she halted.

“You know, I can open my own doors,” she said, tone half-playful, half-challenging.

You smiled, sweeping a hand. “I know. But it’s a pleasure, not a task.”

She stared for a moment longer, then strode through, skirts brushing past you like a whisper of perfume and resolve. “You're dangerously charming, you know that?”

“I try,” you said, stepping in behind her—only to lightly touch the small of her back when a stream of people bustled past. She glanced up, surprised by the subtle, grounding touch, and the way you angled yourself between her and the crowd.

“Always walking on the road side, too,” she observed as you exited the chamber later. “That’s the third time today.”

“Habit,” you said simply. “I like making sure you’re safe.”

Navia looked down for a second, just enough for her golden curls to obscure her expression. When she raised her head, her smile was soft—slightly tremulous.

“You know, you don’t have to prove your care with these gestures.”

“I’m not proving anything,” you replied gently. “I just… like treating you with the respect you deserve.”

That time, she didn’t hide the way her eyes misted over.

“Then I’m afraid I might be falling for you, Monsieur Courtoisie,” she whispered, and this time she took your arm.

Neuvillette did not expect you to open the carriage door for him.

He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his otherwise serene expression.

“I do not require assistance,” he said, stepping down anyway.

“It’s not assistance,” you said. “It’s care.”

That gave him pause.

As you walked along the rain-dappled promenade of the Fleuve Cendre, you again subtly maneuvered him toward the inner side, placing yourself between him and the edge of the canal. The soft pressure of your hand at his elbow was gentle, respectful—but undeniable.

“You always position yourself as though shielding me,” he murmured, voice low and unreadable.

“Because I want to,” you answered. “Because someone should.”

Neuvillette looked at you for a long moment, his eyes reflecting the cloudy sky. “Many have spoken kindly to me. Few have acted kindly without need for recognition.”

You just shrugged. “That’s not why I do it.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

He walked in silence for a few more steps. Then—unexpectedly—he extended his arm, ever so slightly brushing against yours, a silent request for closeness.

“For someone who watches the rain fall over every sorrow… you deserve a little shelter, too,” you added.

For the first time in a long while, the Chief Justice felt his steps grow lighter.

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

🥰🥰🥰

“You don’t have to…” “I want to,” you interrupted gently. Because you did. You wanted this day to feel like proof that love could still be simple, even when everything else felt complicated.

“Anything?” “Everything,” you promised, and meant it. He exhaled, like he was steadying himself. Like he knew exactly how he planned to spend the day.

He has is all mapped out in his head 🤭

“Not wasting a fucking drop,” he intoned, the most serious he’d been about anything in his life.

That is so hot for no reason 😮‍💨

“I can feel it,” he whispered. “Feel my cum inside you.” Your knees went weak.

Valid reaction

God, he was beautiful. And he was yours. Despite being skillfully used, you grew hot for him again.

He really is

He kissed your hair, breathing you in. “Finish your breakfast,” he whispered against your temple. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”

I have a feeling that she will need all the fuel she can get 🤭

“You okay?” You looked up and saw how serious he was. How careful he was of you. “I’m okay,” you said. He nodded, understanding what you were in your head about, then pulled you closer and kissed the top of your head.

🥹🥹🥹

 “Look at it,” he ordered, his voice rough. “I want you to see yourself while I take you.” There was a tall glass panel beside the railing. Your gaze met your reflection, hair mussed, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. You looked ruined already.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmured.You swallowed. “That everyone can tell.” His blue eyes sparked, wicked. “They can’t,” he promised. “But even if they could…” He leaned closer, his thumb sweeping over your palm and your wrist, tracing the line of your pulse. “They’d just know you’re mine.”

Period 😌

“Full of me. Until you forget how it felt to be empty.”

🥵🥵🥵

“You make me feel like…fuck. Like everything else is noise.” Your heart fluttered. “I love you,” you said simply. His mouth curved, soft and a little sad in the way it always did when he didn’t have words. “I love you too.”

They are just perfect for each other 🥰

“I’m scared,” you admitted finally, voice small. “What if…?” “Peach.” He rolled you carefully onto your back, his gaze steady, so sure it made your chest ache. “If it takes another six months… another year… ten years… I don’t care,” he said quietly. “It’s you I want. Always you.” “You’re everything,” he whispered. And you believed him.

“I....I can’t look.” Something in his face broke, just a little, but his hand never left you. “Okay,” he said, so calm, so steady. “I will.”

Truly a dream team

Your vision blurred, a sob catching in your throat. And then you were in his arms, clinging to him like you were drowning. He held you so tight you could feel his heartbeat.

🥰🥰🥰

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice small. “I know.” He kissed your wet cheek. "I am too."

“You did it,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your hair. “We did it.” You pulled back just enough to see his face, tears slipping freely down your cheeks.

So happy for them 🥰🥳

But they will get through it, together 🫶🏻

Say Yes

Peach Masterlist

Summary: Steve fills you up over and over for his birthday. And you keep saying yes.

Word Count: 4 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (Mob Boss) Steve Rogers x Dancer!Reader (Peach)

A/N: This fic is a Peach Fic and is connected to the Knock You Down AU, and comes about 15 months after the events in Pop Fly and also some time after the Bucky fic At Last. I'm trying to get Steve and Bucky caught up to the same point in time as Ari. This might be a little too much. 😬 Let me know if you like it by commenting & reblogging.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Steve and Peach (they are warnings unto themselves, Beloved), Angst, smut, fluff. Talk of trying for a baby, anxiety about fertility, it's Steve's Birthday! Established relationship, Steve is all dom, all day, consentual free use, Good Girl and heavy praise kink, oral (f and m receiving), thigh riding, shower sex, multiple positions, BREEDING kink; raw p in v, pussy stuffing, dripping, cum play, over stimulation, after care, pregancy test. Basically porn for Steve's b-day!

I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

You woke up before him.

Steve lay on his side, one arm draped heavy over your waist. His face was smooth in sleep, mouth parted, dark blonde hair shining in the sunlight.

He looked younger like this. Less like the man who used to run half the city from back rooms and more like the one you’d married one early December morning, your hearts too full to wait.

A year and a half of marriage.

You’d had an entire year of planes and trains and beaches. Bi-weekly trips to Atlanta to oversee things there, the other weeks in Brooklyn and monthly escapes away to someplace special. 

It was a year of no expectations, no countdowns, no baby plans. Just you and him, learning each other.

Just being together.

But now, you were trying to have a baby.

And after six months of trying, some days felt easier than others. Some mornings you woke up sure it would happen.

Some mornings, you wondered if waiting had been a mistake.

But you’d decided to let go of all of that today, because today was special.

You studied the curve of Steve’s jaw as his hand instinctively tightened on your hip when you shifted.

God, you loved him.

Even if you never had a baby, you loved him more than you knew how to say.

You pressed a soft kiss to his temple.

“Happy Birthday,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he just looked at you, hazy and warm.

Then a slow grin curved his mouth.

“Mornin’, Peach.”

You smiled. “Morning, old man.”

He groaned, pulling you close and burying his face in your neck.

“Not old.”

“You’re a year older today,” you teased.

“And I’m going to spoil you so rotten you’ll forget to be embarrassed about it.”

His breath tickled your throat. 

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” you interrupted gently.

Because you did. You wanted this day to feel like proof that love could still be simple, even when everything else felt complicated.

You let him kiss you sweetly, your body already warming under his touch. When he pulled back, you rested your palm on his cheek.

“I’m yours today,” you said softly. “Anything you want. Anything.”

His pupils blew wide. His hand tightened on your hip.

“Anything?”

“Everything,” you promised, and meant it.

He exhaled, like he was steadying himself. Like he knew exactly how he planned to spend the day.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest loosened.

His hand went between your legs.

“Steve,” you whispered as your eyes fluttered closed, your breath already unsteady.

His thumb stroked slowly up the seam of your pussy, spreading the slick already gathering there.

“Eyes open.”

You blinked into the half-light, and his gaze was so hot it made you shiver.

“Say it again.”

“Anything you want.”

His mouth curved. “Good girl.”

Your heart stuttered.

God, he knew exactly what that did to you, how just those words made your body tighten, how that phrase made your pussy wet.

Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them deep. The slick sound of it made your face burn. Your hips jerked, and a ragged moan breaking from your throat.

“You’re already soaked,” he rasped. “You like this, don’t you? Lying here open for me?”

“Yes…”

His thumb brushed your clit, just enough to make your vision go white at the edges.

“You know what I’m gonna do to you today?”

You swallowed, breath shuddering out. “Yes?”

You didn’t know, but the answer would be yes all day.

He chuckled and leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“I’m going to fuck you as many times as I want,” he whispered.

“Fill you up until you can’t take any more. Until you’re so full of me it’s dripping out of you.”

Your whole body went tight, hips bucking helplessly into his hand.

“God. Steve…”

He smiled. “That’s it. Show me.”

He shifted over you, one arm beside your head. With the other hand, he guided himself to your entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against your slick heat.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did.

He pushed in slowly, inch by glorious fat inch, and you felt it, every thick stretch, every hot drag. Your back arched off the bed as a strangled cry tearing from your throat.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned. “Every time.”

His hips rolled deeper, bottoming out. You could feel every thick inch of him so deep it was almost too much.

“Say you’re mine,” he breathed, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

“Say you’re gonna take every drop I give you.”

Your breath caught. “I…I’ll take it…”

“All of it,” he growled.

“Every time I fuck it into you.”

You were already close, the heat building fast. But his words. 

This man and his words.

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, I need…”

“I know,” he rasped. “Give it to me.”

His hand slipped under your knee, pressing your thigh higher, opening you wider. The new angle sent you spinning, pleasure crashing over you so fast you couldn’t even scream.

You came clenching tight around him, trembling all over, the sound of your slick cunt stretched around him obscene.

He held you there, hips grinding through every wave. And when he came, when he groaned your name, it felt like he was everywhere. 

Flooding and marking you in the most primal way.

He stayed buried inside you, his breathing ragged against your neck. You felt the slow trickle of him threatening to slip free.

“No,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

One broad hand slid down to cup you, pressing you closed, sealing it in.

“Keep it,” he ordered softly. “All of it.”

Your breath hitched, tears prickling your eyes at how badly you wanted it too.

“Say yes,” he whispered, his thumb stroking where you were stretched around him.

“Say you’ll keep every drop.”

“Yes,” you choked out.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Good girl.”

And finally, finally, he eased out carefully. And despite yourself, you felt it slip free in a warm rush, and your face burned.

But before you could close your thighs, he caught your hip, holding you open.

He watched his cum slide down your pussy and gathered it on his fingers, pushing it back inside.

“Not wasting a fucking drop,” he intoned, the most serious he’d been about anything in his life.

—--

He didn’t let you out of bed right away.

Steve kept you in his arms and finally shifted onto his back, pulling you with him until you were sprawled over his chest. You felt the slow throb of him hardening again against your belly.

“Shower,” he murmured, voice still rough.

The water was warm, steam filling the space. You stepped under the spray, tilting your head back, letting the heat loosen the ache in your muscles.

Steve’s hands settled on your waist from behind. For a long moment, he just held you there, your back against his chest, the water rushing over both of you.

Then one palm slid up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaked tight.

“You have no idea what you look like right now,” he rasped against your ear. “How perfect you are.”

You swallowed, your breath catching when his other hand moved lower, fingers stroking between your legs.

“Steve…”

“You said anything,” he reminded you, his mouth brushing your neck.

His fingers found your entrance, still so sensitive, still slick from everything he’d left inside you. He groaned low in his throat when he felt it.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping.”

You braced your hands on the tile, shivering as he worked two fingers inside you again.

“I can feel it,” he whispered. “Feel my cum inside you.”

Your knees went weak.

“Please…”

“Please what?”

“I don’t know…”

He smiled against your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there.

“I think you do.”

His thumb circled your clit, gentle but relentless. You gasped, your body already spiraling.

“Cum for me,” he ordered softly.

“Show me how much you love it.”

You came hard, clutching the tile, your whole body shuddering as he held you up with one arm around your waist.

When it was over, he kissed the side of your neck again, voice rough but tender.

“That’s my girl.”

—----

You were still shaky when you finished your shower.

He let you put on one of his softest shirts and nothing else. And when you padded into the kitchen, he lifted you onto the counter. 

“I want to watch my Doll look pretty for me while I cook,” he said.

You smiled and watched him move around the kitchen, relaxed, in just grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips.

God, he was beautiful. And he was yours. Despite being skillfully used, you grew hot for him again.

When he finally brought your plate and set it on the counter beside you, you reached for his hand and pulled him in.

“Tell me what you want,” you said, your voice low.

He searched your eyes.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, the hunger there so raw it made you clench.

“I want you on your knees,” he said. 

His voice was quiet, but it held no uncertainty. 

“I want to watch you take me. I want to see your mouth around me.”

You swallowed. Your whole body went warm.

“Yes.”

“Here.”

He pointed to the floor in front of him.

You slid off the counter, the tile cold under your bare knees.

He stepped closer. One big hand cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking over your jaw as he looked down at you.

“Open,” he murmured.

You did.

He worked himself free of his sweatpants, and his cock was thick and heavy in his palm, already flushed dark with need.

“Look at you,” he said hoarsely.

“So fucking pretty like this.”

You flushed hot all over and looked up at him.

“Take it,” he whispered.

Your lips parted wider. He slid the blunt head over your tongue, groaning when you closed your mouth around him.

“Fuck…”

He let you set the pace at first, your hands on his thighs, your mouth moving eagerly, savoring the heat and heavy weight of him. But it didn’t take long before he threaded one hand into your hair, guiding you deeper.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Take all of it.”

You tried. But he was too big to fit all the way, so you worked him as deep as you could, your throat fluttering around the stretch.

He hissed, his hand tightening just enough to hold you in place as his hips rolled forward.

“Look up at me,” he rasped.

You did.

The sight of you, lips stretched wide, spit falling from the corners of your mouth, eyes shining, cheeks flushed, made his jaw go tight.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So fucking good for me.”

Your thighs pressed together at the praise. And when he felt you moan around him, Steve’s head fell back on his shoulders and he groaned low.

“You want it?”

You nodded as best you could, your tongue teasing the underside of his thick head.

“Then don’t stop.”

His hips rocked deep into your mouth, his free hand caressing your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

You took everything he gave you, every inch, every ragged breath, every curse whispered just for you. And when he finally pulled you off, your lips were swollen and wet, and you were gasping for breath.

He leaned down, kissing you hard, tasting himself on your tongue.

“Perfect,” he whispered against your mouth. “You’re fucking perfect.”

—-----

Steve didn’t let you stand right away. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked down at you. His breathing was rough, like he was trying to get control.

“You know how beautiful you are right now?” he rasped.

Your lips parted, but you didn’t know how to answer. You just looked up at him, flushed and trembling.

He smiled at you.

“The answer is yes.”

He swallowed, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Then lower.

“Get up.”

You rose slowly, your knees stiff from the tile. 

“Sit,” he ordered quietly.

He turned you with gentle hands and guided you to sit your bare cunt on the hard muscle of his thigh. The warmth of his skin, and the way the strength of it flexed under you made your whole body go tight.

“Eat,” he murmured.

You looked up, wide-eyed.

“Eat,” he repeated, voice low and calm, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t filthy and tender all at once.

You reached for your fork with a trembling hand. He watched you bring the first bite to your mouth, watched you chew and swallow.

“Good girl,” he praised, and the muscle beneath you tensed.

You gasped, hips rocking instinctively.

“You gonna cum on my thigh while you eat your breakfast?” he asked softly.

Your breath hitched.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

His strong hands steadied you on his thigh.

“Keep going.”

You lifted another bite to your mouth. You could barely taste it. All you could feel was the relentless heat building between your legs, and the slick glide of your pussy against him.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “You’d let me do anything to you.”

Your hips rolled again, a slave to the feeling.

“Tell me.”

“Yes…” you gasped. “Anything. All of it….”

He flexed his thigh again, the hard muscle pressing right against your clit. You nearly choked on a whimper.

“Keep eating,” he ordered.

You did, one hand white-knuckling the counter, the other shaking as you lifted the fork to your mouth.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes, please!”

“Do it.”

The next slow drag of your hips sent you over the edge. You came shaking, your cunt pulsing against his thigh, your body curling forward as your moan broke free.

His hands held you steady. His voice stayed low, warm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So fucking good for me.”

You collapsed against his chest, your heart racing.

He kissed your hair, breathing you in.

“Finish your breakfast,” he whispered against your temple.

“We’ve got a long day ahead.”

—------

He told you to change into a dress before you left the apartment, but no underwear. You obliged and then rode the elevator down to the lobby, where you and Steve started the short walk to the Rebirth Gallery.

You laced your fingers through his as you walked, Brooklyn moving around you at a low hum.

He squeezed your hand, thumb stroking the back. 

“You okay?”

You looked up and saw how serious he was. How careful he was of you.

“I’m okay,” you said.

He nodded, understanding what you were in your head about, then pulled you closer and kissed the top of your head. 

And you just walked like that. 

Like you hadn’t spent the last six months counting days.

—-----

The gallery was empty, closed to the public for the day. But you still felt exposed as you walked through the halls just a cream sundress that you bought in Positano, nothing underneath, his cum still sticky on your inner thighs.

Every time you stopped to look at a piece, he stepped close behind you, his hand sliding up under the hem to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

“Hands on the railing,” he murmured when you paused in front of a massive canvas.

Your palms pressed to the smooth wood. He lifted the shirt over your hips, baring you completely. The cold air made you shiver, and made you even wetter.

“Look at it,” he ordered, his voice rough. “I want you to see yourself while I take you.”

There was a tall glass panel beside the railing. Your gaze met your reflection, hair mussed, mouth parted, cheeks flushed. You looked ruined already.

“Beautiful,” he said, just before he slid inside you again.

You didn’t try to hide the way you moaned.

He fucked you there with slow, hard thrusts that made your reflection blur in the glass. 

Every time you shifted, you felt the slick slide of him, the obscene wetness of your own arousal mixed with what he’d given you earlier.

You watched yourself take it, watched your own lips part with a helpless sound when he bottomed out. When he came this time, it was quieter. Just a shudder and a low groan against the back of your neck, his hands holding you tight.

You felt the spill of him again, thick and hot, your skin sticky again where it dripped down your thighs.

And God, you loved it.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just breathed with you, his cheek pressed to your hair.

Finally, he eased out, and you whimpered at the emptiness.

He caught your chin in one hand, tilting your face up until your eyes met in the reflection.

“You good?” he asked softly.

You nodded, your pulse fluttering.

“Turn around.”

You did.

He smoothed your dress down over your thighs like nothing had happened, like you weren’t still trembling, your cunt swollen and dripping.

When he pressed a kiss to your temple, it felt more intimate than anything else.

“Dinner,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

“Like this?”

He smiled, slow and devastating.

“Exactly like this.”

—---

The restaurant was just a block away, one of those low-lit places you never visited without him, because every table felt like it belonged to people who could buy and sell your entire life.

The maître d’ greeted Steve with that particular blend of respect and wariness that always followed him.

“Mr. Rogers. Right this way.”

Steve held your chair out, helped you sit and settled into the seat across from you like he hadn’t just bent you over a railing ten minutes ago.

The waiter came with water, menus, and the quiet question.

“The usual for you, sir?”

“Yes,” Steve said, not bothering to look away from you.

“And for the lady?”

“I’ll have the same,” you managed.

When the waiter left, Steve reached across the white linen, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmured.

You swallowed.

“That everyone can tell.”

His blue eyes sparked, wicked.

“They can’t,” he promised.

“But even if they could…”

He leaned closer, his thumb sweeping over your palm and your wrist, tracing the line of your pulse.

“They’d just know you’re mine.”

He watched you closely.

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly.

You met his gaze, your heart thudding.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he murmured. 

“Because after this, I’m taking you home. And you’re going to spend the rest of the night exactly how I want you.”

You exhaled unsteadily.

“And how is that?”

His smile was lethal.

“Full of me. Until you forget how it felt to be empty.”

—---

Once in your bedroom, Steve didn’t rush undressing. 

He never did. 

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, letting you watch the way each new inch of skin revealed the hard lines of his body. He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, slid his trousers down those powerful thighs.

When he joined you on the bed, you shivered at the heat of his skin against yours. His big hands traced over your hips, your belly, and up to cup your breasts.

“You remember what I promised?” he murmured, voice rough.

You nodded.

“That I’d keep you full all night,” he supplied, as his hand moved lower, sliding between your thighs. He found you slick and swollen, still messy with his last release.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “So ready.”

You made a helpless sound when he pressed two fingers into you, spreading you wide.

“Steve…”

He shushed you with a kiss. Then he pulled his hand away, lined himself up, and pushed inside in one slow, steady thrust.

You both groaned when he bottomed out, the thick weight of him filling you completely.

“God, baby,” he breathed. “Feel how deep I am?”

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Good.”

He set a slow, rolling rhythm, his hips grinding deep, making you feel every inch.

“Not gonna stop,” he promised. “Not until you come for me again.”

His thumb found your clit, stroking in time with his thrusts.

“Tell me whose you are.”

“Yours,” you panted, voice breaking.

“Say it again.”

“Yours…yours…”

“That’s right,” he growled. “Always.”

When you came, it was sharp and bright, a rush of heat that made your vision go white.

But he didn’t let up. He flipped you over and pushed his thick cockhead into your abused pussy again. 

The angle was deeper this time, and every stroke punched a ragged moan from your throat. Your cheek pressed to the pillow and your body was boneless as he fucked you.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice so tender it made your chest ache.

“Taking everything I give you.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice raw.

He leaned over you, his chest warm against your back, his hand curling around your throat.

“You’re mine,” he breathed.

“Yours.”

“Forever.”

When he came, it was with a groan torn from deep in his chest, his hips pressing tight to yours as he filled you again.

He stayed there, breathing hard, hand still around your throat, the other over your heart.

And you just let yourself feel it. His weight, his heat, his love.

—--

He was gentler after, easing out of you slowly and gathering you against his chest as he tucked the blanket up around your shoulders.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just held you. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head against his chest.

“No.”

His hand smoothed over your hair.

“You sure?”

You looked up at him.

“I’m sure,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed, something unsteady in his eyes.

“You make me feel like…fuck. Like everything else is noise.”

Your heart fluttered.

“I love you,” you said simply.

His mouth curved, soft and a little sad in the way it always did when he didn’t have words.

“I love you too.”

“Best birthday I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped.

“Not because of the sex. Because you let me have you today. All of you.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. 

“I’m scared,” you admitted finally, voice small. “What if…?”

“Peach.”

He rolled you carefully onto your back, his gaze steady, so sure it made your chest ache.

“If it takes another six months… another year… ten years… I don’t care,” he said quietly. 

“It’s you I want. Always you.”

Tears pricked behind your eyes.

“I know. And if it happens…”

He kissed you. “When it happens.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, collecting the single tear that escaped.

“You’re everything,” he whispered.

And you believed him.

—----

Two Weeks Later

You hadn’t planned to take the test today; you’d told yourself you’d wait. 

But you’d woken up feeling different somehow. 

And now here you were, sitting on the closed toilet lid in your robe, clutching the little white stick like it was a live wire.

You didn’t hear him come in, didn’t realize he was there until you felt his hand on your shoulder.

“Peach.”

His voice was so careful.

You looked up, and he was crouched in front of you, hair still rumpled from sleep, eyes searching yours.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “talk to me.”

You tried to swallow.

“I....I can’t look.”

Something in his face broke, just a little, but his hand never left you.

“Okay,” he said, so calm, so steady. “I will.”

Your heart was a hurricane. He reached for the test and turned it over.

And he went very still.

You felt your breath catch, your whole body strung tight.

“Steve?”

He swallowed.

“It’s positive.”

The room spun.

“Don’t…” You shook your head, voice breaking.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He looked up then, and you knew in your bones he wasn’t lying.

“It’s positive,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“Baby…it’s yes.”

You pressed a shaking hand over your mouth.

“Yes?”

He nodded, tears gathering in his eyes.

“Yes.”

Your vision blurred, a sob catching in your throat. And then you were in his arms, clinging to him like you were drowning. He held you so tight you could feel his heartbeat.

“You did it,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your hair. “We did it.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, tears slipping freely down your cheeks.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice small.

“I know.” He kissed your wet cheek. "I am too."

You swallowed hard.

“But I want it,” you whispered. “I want this.”

His hand curved over your belly, thumb stroking the soft skin there.

“Say it,” he asked, voice low and rough. “One more time.”

You met his eyes, and even though you were trembling, you said it without hesitation.

“Yes.”

His smile was all wonder. All love.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Me too.”

And when he kissed you again, it was confirmed.

[writing-mlm]

So, I was thinking about a Spider-Man x Male Reader x Iron Fist, I haven't thought of the story idea yet, but I just wanted to know what you think of the three, but I can think of other rival Marvel characters

When in Krakoa

Summary: It’s nearly the start of season two, marked off by Emma Frost throwing a gala on an island with some secret caves. It’s the perfect spot for the proposal Lin and Peter have for you. Pairing: Lin Lie x Male!reader x Peter Parker Word Count: 4.9k Tags/Warnings: smut, m/m/m threesome, bottom reader, mean top Lin, soft top Peter, oral (r receiving, Peter receiving), semi-public sex, Marvel Rivals talk, spit as lube, Eiffel tower, double penetration, established safe-word, A/n: I was waiting to see if Lin and Peter got gala outfits but I don’t think they will so I just used the outfits they got this season

The Doom’s, or Doomed Squared, you’ve since dubbed them, have decided that their catalog of heroes and villains are in need of a break from the fights. The first season came to an end sooner than you expected it to and to celebrate the start of a new season, you’d be going into the Hellfire Gala hosted by Emma Frost. Joining her would be a new map, one of two based in Kraoka. 

And, seeing as it was a gala, everyone was given new outfits. You’d gotten a handful of outfits so far, three aside from the one you joined in. One that was just your regular outfit in different colors, one that was more cowboy-ish, and another that was apparently from a movie you were a part of in a different universe. Each time they came in a box and would randomly appear on your suit stand when it was your time to fight. This one was different, though. When you tried it on, your whole appearance changed. 

There was something different about this outfit. Something about the fancy-ness of it felt different and when you used your powers, there was a harp tune. It was different for each of your abilities. 

“The moon,” You hear on your way to the kitchen. 

“Yes, Steven, the moon,” Tony replies through a sigh. 

“I’m Marc,”

The base is set up like those reality shows games; you think Big Brother is a close correlation. Everyone has their own room and bathroom but there’s a communal kitchen sort of thing. There’s a pool, too. In the backyard, there are rumors that the base is going to switch with the seasons and you’re going to get a beach soon. Can’t wait for that one. 

“Hey, did you read the patch notes for this season?” Bruce asks, briefly looking up from his tablet. Every half season, the Dooms find things that they would like to see or don’t currently like and… well patch the little game they’ve created. Whenever they do they send what’s basically a company-wide email but everyone gets the SparkNotes version from either Bruce, Tony, Strange, or more recently, Reed. Everyone else either doesn’t care or doesn’t want to read all of that. 

You included. 

“Oh no, they sent them already? Anything about me?” Bruce hums, scrolling up and down trying to remember. 

“Alright, yes, Kurage. It says: (Y/n) will get some adjustments to his survivability and offensive capabilities. He will be getting an increased AoE on his plunge attack from 5 meters to 10. Increase base health from 250 to 270. Decrease range from his Water Daggers from 40 meters to 25 meters. Reduces cooldown time for Bake-Kurage from 10 seconds to 7.5 seconds and increases the range from 10 meters to 20 meters.” As he’s talking, some of the others enter the living area, gathering around to hear their changes. 

“Decrease my range? Fuck, man,” You sigh, leaning against the counter. “Do I get any new team-ups? Do I keep my Luna team up- fuck, Bruce I love my ice shards!” Bruce pushes his glasses up and looks at you, he knows you love those shards, he’s been on the receiving end more than enough to know that. “Sorry,”

“You’re getting 4 buffs and 1 nerf. Some of us got only nerfs,” Natasha points at Strange who’s leaning with his head in his bands, his tablet tossed on the coffee table. Rocket isn’t doing any better, he’s scratching up one of the sofa cushions. 

“Shit, sorry, dude.” 

“You have two new team-ups,” Bruce says and you perk up, looking back at him. “And yes, your Luna team-up is still active. But you’re the anchor for a new team-up called: Karmic Waters. It is with you and Lin Lie. It says; ‘As the Team-up Anchor, Kurage gains a maximum health increase of 100 and a 2 percent boost in damage output. Iron-Fist unlocks a new ability, through his team-up up he is able to combine his attacks water! My assumption is that the water will splash and either heal him or deal damage to whoever it splashes on.” Not boring, but it’s nothing really for you. 

You blink, messing with the fabric of your shirt. “Wha— what’s the other team-up?”

“Ah, yes. It is called…” He scrolls before he finds it. “Sticky Waters. It is with you and Peter Parker. It reads: As the Team-up Anchor, Spider-Man gains a maximum health increase of 100 and a 5 percent increase in movement speed. Kurage unlocks a new sticky water.” Fucking score!

“Oh, that’s dope!” You grin, looking around for Peter and Lin. They’re both on the couch, whispering to each other but when Lin catches your gaze, he raises his hand for a two-finger wave and Peter turns, his ears red as he waves too. “We should head to the practice range to test it out.” 

Both of them share a look before readily agreeing. “No time like the present, right?” Peter stands up and cracks his back. Lin stands too and you shrug. Sure, why not? With the three of you in agreement, you each head upstairs to change. You’re not allowed out of the compound without wearing one of the Doom approved outfits, so. 

Your hero outfit, in your opinion, is sort of pirate-meets siren. Which is understandable, considering you’re a siren-like-mutant. You have a big ole black leather trench coat with a red trim, brown leather boots with shell anklets, an open shirt with a silk belt, and a literal fishnet as an additional belt over top bell-bottoms that looked like flowing waves. You’re glad they didn’t include a pirate hat. 

Each step you take towards the portal sounds like the ocean, a slight ocean smell naturally rolls off of you when you wear that particular outfit. It alerts Peter and Lin as they wait in the spawn room, leaning against the wall and talking about their various combos. Peter finally perfected getting to point from one of the spawn rooms— but he wouldn’t get into too much detail. You all still fight each other depending on the teams. 

“Ready?” Lin asks, pushing up from the wall. He’s in his basic outfit while Peter is in his Scarlet Spider outfit. Nodding, the three of you head down to the training room— Peter quickly makes a race out of it. He swings out of the room, flipping behind a wall and you look at Lin who grins and uses his abilities to run to the practice room. 

By the time you get there, they’re already messing with the settings on the purple tablet. Taking the timer off, no music— that sort. And once you’re there, you apply the team-ups. 

You test out your sticky water on Lin, finding that when it lands on him he gets stuck in place for around two seconds before his movement is slowed for another two. He tells you that it did some damage, around five and tries out your team-up on Peter. Peter, against his will, has to take the flurry of punches from Lin and finds out that the team-up is exactly what they thought. When the water splashes it deals damage and heals Lin. 

Once Lin is done, Peter says he’s at half-health and looks at you expectantly. You laugh as you place down your healing jellyfish next to him, unaware of the glare Lin is giving to Peter. 

The three of you spend another hour or so in the training area. It’s mainly Lin and Peter fighting each other and then rushing to you to get healed. And you guess at some point, Peter was too tired to run to you like Lin was. So while you were distracted with Jeff who had wandered inside, he webbed you over to him. 

Now, you’ve been on the receiving end of Peter’s web’s numerous times. He’s spawned camped you and every other healer a million times before, so you know the feeling of his web wrapping around you and that feeling of him yanking you. But you’ve never felt him pull you into him. 

“Caught you,” He grins, his mask pulled up over his nose and his hands placed firmly on your lower hips. “Do I get my prize?” You’re too caught up in the proximity to notice Lin sneaking up behind you and flinch when his chest is to your back, his hands above Peter’s. 

“What?” He teases looking at Peter. “Can’t keep up with me? Peter frowns, turning his attention to Lin as he tries to pull you closer. You’re nearly pelvis to pelvis at this point and Lin is no help, you can feel his thigh pressing against your ass as he leans in closer. 

Truth be told, you’re enjoying this little sandwich moment. Even more when you see them glaring at each other, trying to pull you closer to each of them but neither is giving up. 

“Are you three done?” Loki groans from the stairs, his heeled shoes clicking with each step. “Some of us would like to use the training room, too.” Both of them pull away and Peter sputters out some response before the three of you leave Loki, Adam, and Mantis to their training session. 

—

With the gala starting in ten minutes, everyone is dressed and ready to have some fun and meet Emma. You glance over everyone’s outfit as you wait for the portal to load in the lobby area. T’Challa’s Damisa-Sarki, Tandy and Ty’s Dance Partner, Widow’s Runaway Veil, Steve’s Star Spangled Style— dozens of amazing outfits that everyone looked amazing in. Your eyes catch Lin and Peter, the two of them off in a corner again. 

Peter was in a new outfit; Spider-Oni and Lin had Immortal Weapon of Agamotto. Neither of which really screamed gala but hey, they didn’t pick the outfits anymore than you picked yours. Peter straightens up, looking around before his eyes land on you and he waves. Damn Spider-sense. Waving back, you’re pulled into a conversation with Ororo. 

You’d be a fool to think that Lin didn’t look— putting it in a less crass way— amazing in his outfit. The cropped jacket with a dragon painted on his chest, his pants low enough that you can see the end of his happy trail— it was... It was hot. You wished the Doom’s would give Peter a maskless outfit because you think seeing his face on your team more often would definitely boost your morale but no. They’re hard-stuck on keeping his stupid mask on. Starving you of the face you’d see in your dreams. 

When the portal sparks to life the conversations around you die down and everyone perks up a little. The invitation said eight sharp and it was seven-fifty. 

“Go ahead, Rogers,” Tony coughs into his fist, pretending like he wasn’t speaking. Steve looks at him, clearly unamused but walks through first. When nothing bad happens, everyone trickles inside. 

“To all our new guests from across the timeline, I welcome you: The Hellfire Gala!” Emma says as she walks towards the group, a blue champagne glass in her fingers. “Welcome, one and all to: Krakoa. This living island may be a sovereign mutant nation but tonight our home is yours.” You can see a sort of red carpet in the distance, automated cameras waiting for someone to go into frame, tables with no real seats and even the Dooms. Emma raises her glass into the air. “Enjoy!” 

Your eyes trail back to Emma as she joins the older X-Men, along with Sai and Illyana. You’re unsure of what to do with yourself, so you drift about, looking at this Krakoa. It’s very similar to the one from your universe— timeline. You wonder if your little hideout is still in the same spot. 

Grabbing a vine of grapes, you wander around the area, trying to find a good moment to leave when a hand on your shoulder startles you. “(Y/n),” Emma says and you turn to look up at her. She’s different from your Emma, her hair is different, she’s buffer, her outfits aren’t that white you’re used to. But she still stares at you with that arched eyebrow because she knows you’re up to something. “You wouldn’t be trying to leave, right?” She muses. 

“Not for long,” You awkwardly laugh. “I just wanted to explore,” Emma crosses her arms under her chest and you swallow your spit, looking away from her.

“It’s nice to see you’re still similar to my (Y/n),” She says. “Tell me, are you still one of mine?” 

“I am,” You nod. “I work under you and Ororo back in my timeline.” She smiles, patting your shoulder before leaving. As she walks away, you can see Lin and Peter again shoulder to shoulder, whispering to each other. They’re near the cameras, scanning opposite sides of the gala venue before you lock eyes with Lin. He points at you and then beckons you over, telling something to Peter. 

Walking over, you see Peter take his mask off before attaching it to his hip. He looks flushed, his hair is messier than usual so you can imagine how stuffy that mask must’ve been. Lin seems fine in his mask, grinning as you get closer. 

Once you’re at arm's length, Lin licks his lips while Peter smiles gently. “Pictures?” Peter points at the red carpet. “The three of us,” He adds. You agree, and follow them to take a couple of pictures. You couldn’t help but notice that you’re in between the two of them for all of the pictures and they were both always touching you in some capacity. 

Not that you minded. They could touch you any day of the week ending in Y. 

Once the pictures are taken, Lin offers to go and explore. He’d noticed you walking around before and figured that three sets of eyes were better than one. 

“I was actually looking for my old spot,” You admit, looking between the two of them. “Back in my timeline we had a Krakoa. Maybe there’s one here, wanted to check it out and stuff.”

“Can we come?” Peter asks and you nod, pointing your thumb in the general direction of the place. 

It doesn’t take long before you find your old spot. A little cove next to the water. It’s different than you remember, of course. Two side entrances and you can see several portals waiting to be turned on, you can only assume it’ll be a new map of some type. 

You walk to the center, staring at the two trees that wrap around a purple ember, and then at Cerebro in the center, contained in bark. 

“This is nice,” Peter whistles. 

You hum, walking towards the water just beyond some walls. “It’s probably a new map,”

“Domination,” Lin guesses. “Between this place and the gala hall, Krakoa will be a domination map.” Peter frowns at that, he much prefers convoy matches since people are always moving on those. Plus, Namor is amazing at domination games. 

“Check this out,” Peter grins and you turn, seeing him staring at Cerebro. 

Walking over, you take in the area again, a little hurt that they’d changed your hideout so much. “That’s the professors,” You tell him and then squint. “Or maybe Emma’s, depending on the timeline.” Lin hums, removing his mask and tucking it into his waistband. Unintentionally, your gaze follows as he accidentally pushes the band too far down and the start of his dick peeks out. Quickly looking away, you see that Lin is already watching you, his head tilted and a grin on his face. 

“I won’t bite if you don’t,” He says, catching Peter’s attention. He looks away from the helmet and between the two of you before he huffs. 

“You said you wouldn’t make the first move!” He whines, pushing Lin’s shoulder. 

Lin laughs, shrugging. “(Y/n) was looking at my dick, I couldn’t pass on the opportunity.”

“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean—“ You stutter, twisting your fingers. 

Lin rolls his eyes and loops his arm around Peter’s shoulder. “I’d be offended if you weren’t. Considering we’ve wanted you for some time now,” Your eyes widen at the confession, unsure if you heard him correctly. 

“That is not how we planned this,” Peter whisper-shouts before turning to you. “(Y/n), sorry if this is… bold to say but, we’re both into you and we wanted to know if you were into us…?” He cringes as he says it, his face heating up again. Inhaling, you look between the two of them. Had that been what the whispering was about? You’d thought they’d just become good friends or something and were oblivious to the weird touchy-feely things with you. 

Carefully, you look between the two of them. “Like…” You swallow. “At the same time?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Lin shrugs. “One, both, none. Up to you,” Peter nods, running his hand nervously through his hair. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come up with a response as you take them in again. “Okay,” You agree. Peter grins and webs you closer to the two of them before Lin pins you against the bark. 

Lin’s mouth is on your neck as your back hits the Cerebro helmet, Peter’s hand darting out to make sure you don’t bang your head while he kisses you. You’re unsure of what to do with your hands, so you hold their waist, keeping them close. “If you want to stop,” Peter says as he pulls away from the kiss, his eyes glued to your glossy lips. “Just say the word, okay?” 

“Okay,” You nod, breathless. He nods back before his lips crash into yours again, the hand behind your head gently pulling at your hair. Lin hasn’t stopped, either, his kisses getting lower and lower until he’s blocked by your clothes. He groans and nudges Peter out of his way, working on undoing your outfit. Peter gets the hint and starts helping, the two of them while you stand there, panting as they slowly lower to their knees. 

Peter pulls your pants to your ankles while Lin yanks your boxers down, watching as your dick springs free. They look at each other, grinning before looking at you and lick either side of your dick. Moaning, your fingers dig into the bark and you force yourself to keep eye contact with them as they continue licking and sucking your dick. “Please,” You whimper, watching as Peter closes his lips around your tip while Lin licks up towards the base. 

Tilting your head back, you inhale while they continue. When they switch positions, Peter holds your hips, trying to buck you further into Lin’s mouth. He chuckles when it works and Lin gags at the sudden length in his mouth while your stomach clenches. His mouth is so warm and Peter’s… “Fuck,” You breathe. “I’m so close,” Lin takes that as encouragement as he lightly drags his teeth across your length, just hard enough that your thighs clench but not hard enough that it hurts. Peter gets from his knees and starts kissing up your chest, biting your nipple before sucking at your neck. 

Gripping the fabric of Peter’s suit, you slowly roll your hips into Lin’s mouth as desperate moans slowly escape from your lips. Peter wishes he’d brought his camera but he’ll settle for committing this— committing the way you look when you cum to memory. The way your eyes flutter closed, eyelashes slightly wet, lips parted, and chest rising rapidly. 

When your eyes open, you watch as Lin stands up and grabs the back of Peter’s head, smashing their lips together. As they make out, you can see your cum leaking from the corners of their mouth. Peter moans at the taste, his thumb rubbing over your nipple while Lin’s hand trails up from your stomach to the side of your face. Once his fingers feel your hair, he pulls from Peter and kisses you. It’s messy, sloppy, wet— words you’d never use to describe Lin but you never thought Lin would be on his knees sucking you off, either. 

As you’re kissing, Peter gets undressed. You can hear the ropes dropping and the sound of fabric sliding off; he grunts because it’s a complicated outfit, muttering about just ripping it off before he finally gets it off. Running your hand down Lin’s exposed chest, you tug at his belt and he gets the hint within seconds, dropping his pants. 

“Sorry,” He grins as he pulls away and spins you around. 

“Careful,” Peter hisses before caressing your face. “He’s not being too rough, is he?” You shake your head, smiling as Lin nudges your legs to open up. You hear Lin spitting onto his hand and arch your back for him— just to make his job easier and not because you absolutely want his fingers inside of you faster. That’s absurd. Peter watches as Lin slowly works your hole, his eyes darting between Lin’s hand and your face as you slowly pant. He’s making scissoring motions while slowly pumping in and out of you. 

“He’s so tight,” Lin muses, adding another finger. “You wanna feel, Peter?” Peter nods and they switch places, with Peter spitting onto his hand as he slots behind you. His fingers are slimmer than Lin’s but they’re longer, reaching further and when you feel him drag across your g-spot, you reach out to hold Lin’s shoulder. 

He looks Peter up and down before removing Peter’s hand. “I think he’s prepped, aren’t you, (Y/n)?” Lin turns you around, looking at the sweat on your forehead and then your eyes. You nod, licking your lips. He turns to Peter, motioning something before he spikes you around again. You feel like putty in his hands, letting him manhandle you around before you feel his hand grab onto your shoulder. 

“Bend over f’ me,” He grunts while pushing you down. With you at a ninety degree, you have a perfect view of Peter’s dick. He’s hard, the red leaking and twitching as you accidentally blow on it. Looking up at Peter, he smiles at you, reaching for the base of his dick before inching closer. Your mouth opens when you feel Lin’s tip poking at your entrance, slipping just the tip inside. 

Peter uses that to slip inside, half of his dick shoved into your mouth. “Yeah,” He moans, his head tilted back while you hold onto his hips to keep your balance. “Just like that, (Y/n).” 

“Mm, that’s no fair,” Line chides before ramming into you. Crying out, you’re thrust forward until you’re taking his whole dick in your mouth. “Yeah,” He drags out, watching as you clench around him. The head hits the back of your throat and you fight back a gag, eyes watering. Lin’s fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as he starts with slow, shallow thrusts and Peter starts meeting them. You moan at the feeling, Lin’s dick curved at the perfect angle that he’s hitting your g-spot with nearly every thrust. “It’s like you’re made for us,” He moans, his hips snapping against yours. 

You don’t try to talk, not between your moans and mourn being full but you think he can get your point when you try to. From above you, Peter’s a mess, between your tongue working under as you lick along his veins and the way your mouth is hollowed around him, he can barely think. “Shit,” He drags out, his voice a half pant half moan. When you moan from Lin fucking you, it vibrates on his dick and he swears it’s not fair. 

You just feel so good, you’re taking all of him and Lin so perfectly he feels like he should’ve done this ages ago. Lin’s not doing much better, he’s just able to push through enough to say something other than the occasional curse but trust, if you could turn around you would see how his face was red, how he was biting his lower lip because he didn’t want to sound desperate, and now his eyes kept rolling to the back of his head. 

He loves the way you’re wrapped around him, how you sound with each thrust. He’s trying so hard to focus on not cumming early but it’s so fucking hard with you like that. So perfect for him and Peter, how your body reacts so naturally to him. Lin tosses his head back, trying to delay the inevitable while Peter is twitching across from him. 

You can feel them twitching inside of you, how Peter’s dick hits the roof of your mouth, how he’s bucking into your mouth like he’s lost what rhythm he was focusing on. How Lin’s fingers keep digging into you, how silent he’s gotten aside from the occasional grunt and gasp of a breath. “Ah— ‘m sorry,” Peter pants, running a hand down his face. “Can I… in your mouth?” Being unable to verbally respond, your grip on his hips tighten as you pull him closer, keeping his twitching cock in your mouth. 

He takes that as permission and stops thrusting into your mouth, moaning as he cums. The warm liquid pours down your throat and you choke, tapping him until he backs away. Taking a deep breath, you’re not giving much respite with Lin still pounding into you. Swallowing Peter’s cum, you stare at him, eyes half-lidded. 

Peter watches as Lin lifts you up with ease, his hands gripping your thighs as he thrusts up into you. “Like the view?” Lin grunts, peering over your shoulder, his eyes dipping to Peter’s once soft dick getting hard again. “Can he join, baby?” He asks you and you nod, whimpering. “Why don’t you ask him, hmm?” Your eyes meet with Lin, seeing the sparkle in his eyes. He points his head at Peter and you look back at him, trying to find your voice. 

“Peter,” You moan. “Please— fuck— Please fuck me.” You slur and Peter nods, stepping closer. While he gets closer, he’s stroking his dick, trying to get it fully erect again. 

“It’s gonna be a stretch,” He warns and you nod, chewing on your lip, eagerly waiting. “Remember, just say stop if it’s too much,” Peter looks down at where Lin is fucking you. How his dick disappears into you, how you seem to swallow him up and he shudders. If he thought your mouth was amazing, how would fucking you feel?

Lin slows down as Peter angles himself, watching as his dick slides against Lin’s. “At the same time,” Lin tells him, just his head inside of you at this point. “And then we can set our own pace, okay?” Peter looks at him before nodding. He slips his tip inside and then watches you as the two of them bring you down on their dicks. You groan at the pain, dropping your head back and Peter starts kissing your chest, trying to mitigate the pain. 

“Ready?” Lin asks and you nod, eyes closed and hands on either of their shoulders. He looks at Peter, nodding as they start at different paces. Peter’s fucking you like he’s on a mission, his pacing his damn near brutal while Lin is taking things slow. He’s too close to go any faster and then with Peter added he wants to last more than five seconds inside of you. 

With them being so close to you, you can hear their moans clearly now. Each breathless inhale, each shallow moan and grunt sounds against your ear as they fuck you. You can’t even think, your mind focused on the way their dicks feel inside of you. How you can feel how different they are. Lin is longer and curved while Peter has more girth and veins. 

Your jaw drops as you moan, your body going slack on them as white cum spurts onto Peter’s chest. Your dick jumps, and not just from the fucking, until to goes flaccid and you’re truly putty in their hands. Lin doesn’t last much longer, he’d tried to make it, he truly did but there was no amount of will to keep himself from cumming this long. So, soon after you went slack, you felt the warm liquid filling you up. You heard it acting as lube with how Peter kept fucking you even when Lin slowly pulled out. 

Lin spends his time kissing you, turning your head away from Peter and swallowing your moans until Peter stops thrusting, spilling into you. He moans one last time as he pulls out, his stomach slowly relaxing as he comes down from his second orgasm of the day. 

You’re slowly set back to your feet, with Lin and Peter making sure you can stand before they help you get dressed. As you sit on a stair, watching them get dressed you can’t help but notice that Lin’s painted dragon on his chest is smeared, dripping on his chest and parts of it are clearly smudged off. Undoubtedly they’re on your back, the idea making your dick hard again. 

Peter notices first and he nudges Lin, pointing at you while you stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore your hard-on. 

“Wanna ditch the gala?” Peter suggests. 

You grin, looking between them as they’re in front of you now, tents pitched in their pants. “Whose room?”

[save-the-villainous-cat]

villain has never had anyone to take care of them, they’ve always been self sufficient. they don’t know how to react when hero takes care of them and treats them well

sorry if this is too specific, love your writing!

"So—" the hero pushed the glasses they only wore when cursed with desk duty up the bridge of their nose "—according to our analysts...those guys are actually quite lovely, did you know I was supposed to stay in the IT apartment before I got transferred?”

The hero looked up from the file they were reading. Big doe eyes. Perfect hair.

“I did not know that, no,” the villain answered. It was strange to see the hero in office attire and not the suit. They didn’t look bad per se and the villain couldn’t tell if they preferred the suit, but it was definitely very different. The hero seemed like usual. More tired, maybe. They definitely smelled better, now that they weren't sweating their ass off in a tight suit.

The villain guessed no matter the kid of work, the hero always tried to give it their best shot.

"Well, that was until they realised they could actually send me on missions. Being good at fighting and all - they were surprised I wasn't on any sports team in high school." The hero gave one of their sweet smiles, as if they were cheering up a child they had just saved. "Not really my thing. Running around, teamwork. It's exhausting, but I decided it would be best to..."

The villain looked down at the handcuffs around their wrists, then back at the hero.

"According to your analysts…?"

The hero's eyes widened, embarrassed.

"Oh, right. According to our analysts, you have committed thrice as many crimes as usual in the last month." They took off their glasses. "…is there any particular reason for that?"

The villain stared at them.

In this city, the hero was the sun and everyone else was just orbiting around them. Whether the others were big planet-like politicians or little asteroid-like citizens. The hero was the centre of everything, either admired or hated, criticised or followed obediently.

The villain’s original hatred for the hero was barely alive anymore. Years ago when they had met each other, they had somehow gotten along quite well. What could be considered a friendship had ended badly with broken bones and blood pooling out of each other's mouths, though.

It wasn't an easy relationship, if something like that even existed.

But now, the villain simply didn’t care that much about the hero as a concept.

"Dunno." The villain took in a deep breath. The lack of sleep was slowly getting to them. Their eyes burnt and they craved coffee, but honestly, it was somewhat better to be here in the hero's office than at home.

Home wasn't home anymore. Not really, not fully.

It stung to go through their door. Their bed felt hard and uncomfortable. Food didn't taste good. Their apartment was getting dirty.

"I mean, to be fair," the hero leaned back in the office chair, "you are highly skilled and trained. Your stamina is impressive and your creativity and endurance…"

The hero stared at the villain rather intimately.

Suddenly, their gaze turned somber and the villain was greeted with the hero that was ready to break bones again.

"I know you well enough to tell that it isn’t like you to go out and commit random crimes. I mean, what is this? Theft? Assault? Since when do you pick fights and draw unwarranted attention to yourself? You’re being sloppy."

Were they being sloppy? The villain couldn’t tell, they could barely recall this last month.

"What is it?" the hero asked, no, insisted. They leaned over the desk.

The villain’s eyes slowly went back to the hero, but they looked away quickly and focused on the desk decor.

That shining, wonderful hero. So bright. So scary.

"Nothing," the villain said, but their voice was so hoarse that the word barely made it out of their mouth. They cleared their throat. "It’s nothing."

“What is it?” the hero asked again. Their tone hadn’t changed, but it seemed more powerful, more demanding.

The villain felt like if they didn’t answer they’d be cut into pieces. The hero looked persistent, they looked determined. The villain knew what that meant. There wasn't any room for debate. The hero would get their answer eventually, one way or the other.

"My cat died," the villain finally said. To say it out loud was even more surreal than accepting it.

Hell, they had never considered themselves to be a cat person. They hadn’t even planned on getting a pet, but a few years ago, this very sweet and injured cat had run towards them on their way home, meowing and begging sadly in the rain. The villain had stared at that tired little creature, even though they themselves had come back from a fight, limping and bleeding.

They had stared at that drenched animal. Both of them bleeding, both of them soaking in rain water.

Of course, they had taken her home. Of course, they had bathed her, fed her, nursed her.

They looked at their handcuffs and expected the hero to laugh. After all, this was just a cat, right?

Not a family member, not even a pet they’ve had since childhood, not a cat they had found as a kitten.

Just a cat.

A cat that had always slept on their stomach when the villain had returned from an exhaustive fight. A cat that had hunted spiders and flies, a cat that had sat on the windowsill and looked out of the window.

A cat that was a little angel, whenever the beams of sunlight had illuminated her fur.

The villain blinked tears out of their eyes, but they were ready to be scolded by the hero, ready to be made fun of.

"Oh, God. You must be exhausted, then," the hero said. The villain managed to meet their eyes and the hero looked cruelly gentle.

"It's fine," the villain lied. "Just lock me up, get it over with."

"Losing a pet is very different to losing a person. That animal you provide for...you are their entire world, even when they don't show it to you." The hero looked at the papers in front of them. "You are everything to that animal. That pain never really goes away. For a time, it doesn't even ebb."

The villain refused to believe they had gotten that attached to an animal. They had never attached themselves to anyone or anything. Never.

And now, they were here, crying in the hero's office because their cat had died. Hell, that cat didn't even have a name, they had just called her the Cat.

They sniffled, refusing to let the tears drop.

They couldn't go home anymore. It was different, it was so very different now. So quiet, so empty.

The hero pushed a box of tissues to the middle of the table. Softly, they spoke the villain's name.

"...I can tell you are not doing well right now. Please…" The stood up and walked around the table. The villain didn’t process what was happening, didn’t even know what the hero was doing.

However, it did help a little when the hero leaned down and hugged them gently. When they guided the hero’s head to lean against theirs, when their cheeks touched.

"You're upset for a good reason, I understand why you acted the way you did," the hero whispered. They were closer than they had been in years. The hero definitely did smell better. The villain let the tears drop. "Let me hold onto you for a while. I don’t want you to be alone."

Eventually, the villain allowed themselves to let their tears drop and lean against the hero. It was beyond embarrassing, but they couldn’t deny that they really needed this.

[maeshoneyles]

quiet mind

pairing: alexia putellas x reader

wc: 2.3k

tags: 18+!!!! smut, fingering (a receiving), overstimulation, denial, teasing, dirty talk (i think), sub!alexia, alexia is sad after a loss, a little angst, aftercare and fluff after

a/n: first time posting anything i wrote for woso 🙃🙃 also my first time writing smut, open to any feedback ofc!!

To the rest of the world, Alexia Putellas was, well, Alexia Putellas. Ballon D’or winner (twice). Captain of Spain and Barcelona. One of, if not the, best female footballers in the world. La Reina.

To you, though, Alexia was none of those things. She was Ale. Your light. Your baby. Yours to keep, to care for. You put the pieces back together when the world was done looking and scrutinizing and judging.

You assumed that most people had made their own conclusions about what your relationship looked like behind closed doors, that the tough-as-nails captain of the best football club in Europe would never allow someone else to take the reigns or have any kind of control over her, right?

Wrong.

Well, not at first. When you and Alexia first met and starting dating, she was just as everyone assumed. Never let you take control, never went on the bottom, even refused to be the little spoon.

But it wasn’t until that fateful night that things changed forever.

It was an El Clasico. One of those matches that had Alexia acting more obsessive than usual, setting up shop with her iPad and notes at the kitchen counter for days leading up to it. She broke down the strategy, weakness, strengths, tendencies of every player on the roster. You flitted around the apartment, making sure to drop plates of food near her every so often, leaving a kiss on her cheek and a squeeze of her shoulder.

But, despite her best efforts, Barcelona fell short. 3-1. You didn’t say much when you found Alexia on the pitch after the match. Just a kiss, a hug that you could feel that she didn’t want to break, and a whispered “I love you, I’ll see you at home.”

You had learned fairly quickly to give Alexia space immediately after a tough match. Usually the process of getting changed and showered, plus the drive home, was enough for her to calm down and be your usual, albeit sad, Ale when she got home. She would hold you against her in bed extra close for a night or two and then be back to business as usual. Something inside you, however, knew that this outcome would be especially difficult for her to bounce back from.

You quickly exited the stadium and made your way back to the apartment you and Alexia shared. You quickly showered and set the lights in the house low, knowing Alexia would be tired and would appreciate the soft lighting when she got home.

It was a few past 11 when Alexia finally trudged into the house, the disappointment written all over her face and imprinted in her body language. You crossed the small living space and reached out a hand to her arm, not bombarding her with too much, but providing something small. “Hi baby…how are you?”

Alexia shrugged you off the dropped her bag by the door, burying her face in her hands and sighing. “Necesito dormir,” she mumbled.

You nodded. “You want to eat something first? I think we hav-”

“No! No, Jesus, I need to sleep.”

Your eyebrows raised at her tone. Sure, you had dealt with a grumpy Alexia after a match before, but her snapping at you like that? That was not normal. “Okay, I was just making a suggestion. No need to snap.”

“I don’t need your nagging, I’m going to bed.”

“Alexia,” you sighed, following her into the bedroom.

“I don’t need you hovering over me either,” she snipped as she went into the bathroom. You followed her. “Amor,” she bit, glaring at you.

“The ‘capitana’ look doesn’t work on me, remember?” I raised a brow and stood my ground in the bathroom as she brushed her teeth.

“Can you go away? It’s late. Go to bed.”

“No.”

Alexia rolled her eyes again. She had brushed her teeth, brushed her hair twice, and was now pacing the length of the bathroom over and over again as I watched from the doorway.

“I’m not going away, if this is your way of trying to break me down or something.”

Alexia had no snarky remark, and you couldn’t see if she had rolled her eyes again because she had stopped turning her face towards you. You took a few steps forward and reached out, only to be met with her hand swatting at your wrist, quickly turning her body away from you. “No, irse,” she choked out, emotion breaking up her words in a way you had never heard before.

“Ale…”

“I said go away!”

“Baby you’re upset, I’m not just walking away.”

“Yes you are. I’m telling you to.”

“Why?”

“Because…because I- I can’t let you see me like this!”

You exhaled in sudden understanding. “Alexia, baby. It’s okay that you’re upset.” She just shook her head. You should hear the shutter in her breathing. You realized you had never, in months of dating, seen her cry. You slowly approached her, settling a hand on her hip and pressing your body against hers. You wouldn’t force her to look at you, not yet, but she needed to know you were there and not leaving.

“S-stop. You don’t need to-”

“I’m not here because I need to be. But you’re upset and I’m here because I want you to feel better because I love you,” you spoke softly. You slowed spun her hips around so she was facing you again. Her eyes, usually fierce and sharp, were red-rimmed and tired. It broke your heart. Your hands cupped her face, your tender touch sending tears rolling down her cheeks that she quickly tried to wipe away. “It’s okay, you can feel it.”

Alexia shook her head, eyes down.

You stayed right there, holding her face, looking up with all the love in the world in your gaze. Eventually, Alexia’s eyes found yours again. She looked up timidly, like a little kid who had just broken a rule. Like she was scared of your reaction.

You felt your heart crack in your chest, but you schooled your face into an encouraging, soft smile. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay,” you whispered, leaning your foreheads together. “I’m proud of you, today and every day. No matter what, I love you. Okay?”

More hot tears fell down Alexia’s cheeks. “I don’t—” she hiccuped, “I don’t d-deserve that…”

“Yes you do. I don’t care what happens on the pitch, I love you the same. Your worth doesn’t come from football. You aren’t worthless if you have a bad game.”

“I-I…” Alexia started, her words caught in her throat as a sob threatened to rip from her chest. You moved your hands from her face to wrap around her frame, one coming up to hold the back of her head.

“You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to be strong. You can cry, you can break, and I’ll still be here. I still love you, even when you’re not strong.”

Your words only stirred the emotions threatening to break down the walls she had spent years putting up, the words poking at her insecurities that had existed in her mind since she was a child. “N-no..” Alexia hiccupped. Her breaths were shaky and you could tell the dam was about to break. Her knees gave out as the sobs ripped from her chest, frustration and guilt and self-loathing exploding from within her.

“I gotchu, I gotchu..” you lowered both of you to the floor of the bathroom, holding her close. She gripped your shirt in her hands like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. The two of you stayed like that for a long time, until Alexia’s sobs dried up and were replaced by sniffles and occasional shaky breaths. “What do you need from me, baby? We can go to sleep, whatever you need,” you spoke softly.

Alexia swallowed. “I…” she hesitated, whispering so low you could barely hear her, “I need to feel…feel like I’m…good again…”

You shifted slightly. “You need to feel like you’re good?”

Alexia nodded against your chest.

“Look at me.”

You softened when her gorgeous hazel eyes, now red-rimmed and swollen, met yours. “Quieres ser mi chica buena?” you whispered. Her cheeks flushed red, but she nodded, so small you could barely see it. “Use your words.”

“S-si..”

“Do you need me to be aspre?”

“Si”

“Good. Go to the bedroom. Take all of this off and lay down.”

Alexia stood up on shaky legs and obeyed without a second thought. You were a little bit in awe, to be honest. This was completely unlike anything you have ever seen Alexia do before. But you knew there would be time for questions and thinking and emotional unpacking later. This is what Alexia needed now, and you were here to help her.

You took your time getting over to the bedroom, letting the tension build up. You rounded the bed, taking in Alexia’s bare form splayed out on the bed. “You can listen. Buena.”

You could’ve sworn you heard a whimper come from Alexia at the praise.

“Sit up.”

Alexia obeyed so fast her head spun.

You threaded a hand into her hair, tugging her head back and exposing her neck.

“Do you like it when I pull your hair, chica?”

Alexia nodded. You tugged at her roots again. “Y-yes,” she choked out.

“I want words from you. I want to hear when I break you apart.”

“Yes senyora”

“Spread your legs for me.” You saw the glistening wetness of her center immediately. You smirk. “Lay back.”

You hovered over her, bracing yourself on your forearms on the side of her head. The tips of your fingers dragged randomly over her body, tracing her neck, collarbones, sternum, everywhere but where she wanted it. Your touches were lighter as you got further down her body. She squirmed and whined, not used to not waktkng. “Patience.”

“H-ho intento”

“Are you trying to tell me what to do?”

“No!” Alexia hastily tried to correct her mistakes.

Your pointer finger ghosted through her folds, accumulating wetness. You hummed in thought, “You may be a capitana, but I’m in charge here.”

You drew wide circles around her core, purposely avoiding her clit.

“Amor…si us plau”

“Tingueu paciencia,” you shushed. “Sigues bo per a mi”

“Estic fent el possible”

“I know, you’re being good. You can be patient.”

“Okay, okay,” Alexia took a deep breath.

You continued to tease and ghost over her core. After 10 or so minutes you decided to take pity on her. Just a little bit. You had been peppering kisses and bites over her neck and collarbone, and you moved down to take a nipple into your mouth. Alexia gasped and arched her back, desperate for anything more. Your tongue ran in circles over the nipple before sucking lightly. Alexia moaned and panted at the sliver of stimulation. You laughed against her chest, switching to the other breast and repeating yourself. If you thought her pussy was wet before, now it was flooded.

“What do you think, bebe? Should I touch you? Do you deserve it?”

Alexia whined, loud and pathetic. “S-si. Si. I need- ho necessito-!”

Her accent was thick and Catalan had taken over any English she had in her head. She was desperate, more so than you had ever seen her. Probably the most she ever had been. It was amazing, honestly, how Alexia had given herself to you completely.

“You’re a good girl Ale,” you whispered as you moved your thumb in small circles over her clit. She yelled out, Catalan nonsense spilling from her lips. With all the buildup, it was expected that she wouldn’t last long. Her toned legs were shaking, her breath quick. “Are you close?”

“Si!”

”Hold it.”

”Que?”

“You heard me,” you said, never breaking in your punishing rhythm against her clit.

“No puc!”

“I thought you were my good girl?”

“Ho sóc, però-”

“No. Ser bo.”

Alexia whined, loud. The tremor in her leg had increased, and her lip was trapped between her teeth as she tried to starve off her orgasm.

“You look perfect like this, so gorgeous,” you praised. “Come for me”

Alexia’s body convulsed and she screamed your name. Her head was still hazy when she was ripped back to reality by the realization that you hadn’t stopped. Your thumb was still making circles over her clit, and two fingers had slid into her cunt with no resistance.

“Q-que fas?’

“Com es veu?”

“No puc!”

"Sí que pots.”

Alexia thrashed and moaned at the overstimulation, babbling nonsense like you had fucked every thought out of her brain.

Her fingers gripped the sheets below her so her knuckles were white. You held one arm over her hips, pinning her to the mattress.

You wrist moved at a punishing pace, grazing that spot inside of her that made her see stars.

“Come again for me, come on Ale.”

Alexia had never had an orgasm so intense. Her vision went white. All she could hear was blood rushing in her ears. She felt it in her toes.

You eased off, slowly pulling out of her and moving up to kiss her gently on the head. “Back with me, amor?”

“I…uh..” Alexia tried to talk, her eyes blank.

You just laughed and kissed her forehead again, “Shh…don’t try to talk just yet. You were so perfect Alexia. So good. My good girl.”

You repeated all the praise and sweet nothings she needed, over and over again so it stuck in her brain when she was conscious again.

You disappeared and returned with a water bottle and a rag. “I’m gonna clean you up, okay?”

Alexia hummed, eyes still closed. You chuckled at how she still seemed to be in post-orgasm shock. You were extra careful when cleaning between her legs.

You then held the water to her lips, “Drink.”

She drank small sips, eyes still closed.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“How’s that head?”

“…Quiet.”

“Good. Now sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

Alexia just hummed, mind quiet, the result of that evening’s match far away. She let you spoon her as she drifted off into a deep sleep.

[laserbobcat]

No beef here, open to chat. I'm chill (well, usually lol)

Under cut cause this whole thing is getting too long

I see what you mean with my harsh answer, but I stand by every word I wrote. I would have been softer and understanding if it wasn't anon. Anon cuts you from 1) constructive exchange and 2) accountability. It made me mad. I think I have excellent reasons to be mad (like everyone else in the replies) using anon to say this tells me that person knew they were doing something bad and hypocritical but did it anyway. And if it was just bitterness, I wouldn't even have bat an eye and continued scrolling past the whining. But this is pointing someone and making them responsible for said bitterness, and with that person all artists in one bag. It's not even about Bam. It's just plain awful to point anyone in particular. Unacceptable, and the blog owner didn't realize that general confessions are one thing, targeting someone is another. If they had realized it, they wouldn't have gotten this out of the askbox in the first place, they seem chill af. This whole thing took them by surprise. In my opinion hey got tricked by the "no hate but-" and don't have an artist pov of the situation. This is not "no hate" it's pointing at someone. If it was me getting some criticism like "No hate but you're flooding the Leshycat tag you draw too much" or something like that, I would have thought "lol" and scroll past it. It's not about who has anxiety and who doesn't, it's about assuming in the first place that you might hurt someone and restraining from doing it. You say it's not hate, but just after the "no hate love u" they use heavy words like sick of, and suffocate. And favoritism, again, implies injustice. It's a word used by pissed off children who are angry at their siblings. Bruh you suffocate because people like a good fic? Go touch grass. There's nothing constructive here, the point would have come across absolutely the same without mentioning trod. "It's always the same fics that are recommended and art always gets more views than writing" would have been only whining and not targeting someone openly. Annoying controversial opinion, but not hurtful to one singled out person. I would even have sympathized a bit, cause yeah, like I said, it's true that writing gets less attention. But no, they had to point. People in the comments would have been just as mad for another artist. Again, Bam or anyone else, unacceptable. (I sound like Lemongrab) Also, this is 100% about THEM not getting attention. Why else would they whine? With that conflict attitude, it's obvious they're not frustrated for their dear friends other writers. It's about them. I've never met a good artist so bitter about attention to the point they blame someone or something else. So I'm gonna assume your stuff sucks because that's what my experience is with negative attention seeking people: they make one (1) thing that is average at best, don't have a billion asks right away and throw a tantrum instead of trying again. I've met these people, you have to patiently explain to them that they're here for sharing and communicating, not for a contest. So incredibly annoying, and I stand 100% by what I said. How many beginner artists out there take the lack of notes graciously, and genuinely enjoy sharing despite it. And don't point salty fingers. Again, it's anon, so no idea what that person makes and how, no way to reach out and help them. So I'll assume it's shit and I'm not sorry about it. And like "please recommend something else" ayoooo, tags exist on AO3. Just do like the rest of us and dig into everything. You can't act like you care about less popular fics, and then refuse to give everything a try yourself without recommendations.

I'm glad you see that these takes are shit, but I don't think that my answer is disproportionate as I just explained. If you're throwing shit takes under anon, you have to expect these kind of reactions. I get why it shocked you, I'm 100% being cutting, I get where you come from. I just see past the hypocrisy of the "no hate but" intro. I hate hypocrisy. This is, again, shameful. And this attitude has no place in a community where people exchange about their interests, passions and hobby. Especially one where people are particularly friendly, there's collabs and art shares left and right. And I'll be angry everytime I see harmful shit like this.

I talked a bit about what attitude people should have here because again, I've seen my fait share of frustrated people, and when I can reach out I am, believe it or not, as kind and understanding as possible.

Before I start this, I love TROD. Fantastic fanfiction, beautiful art, wonderful story. Absolutely no hate to the AU or the creator because I love both.

This fandom also loves TROD… and nothing but TROD. The favoritism is getting really annoying. I’m sick of looking for fic recs just to see TROD every other comment. It’s like being recommended Percy Jackson over and over. Everyone’s read it, everyone loves it. PLEASE recommend something else.

Tied with that: please share fics that don’t have art. This fandom (and every fandom but especially this one) has such a suffocating preference for fanart and I’m sick of it. You can be a wonderful artist but a learning writer and gets loads of attention, but if it’s the opposite? If you’re an incredible writer who can just sorta draw? Good luck getting noticed for your talents. Doesn’t help that Ao3 doesn’t have an algorithm but art-based platforms do and will, by default, flush out all the pure writing content/creators.

All art is art. Please show it the love it deserves, and don’t toss aside a story just because there aren’t visuals accompany it.

.

[yukalovestopgungays]

Tired of pretending that Mav is the one in the relationship that cannot cook for shit and will burn water if trusted with a pot.

In my heart, Mav, who spent his whole life jumping from foster home to foster home, knows more than just cooking something edible for the sake of not dying of hunger.

Most times he doesn't have the chance to prepare elaborate dishes, so he sticks to the simplest stuff he can cook that will still be nutritious and delicious enough. He likes experimenting, and while sometimes shit doesn't come out right, some other times he learns something new he applies to other recipes.

When he became an adult and started living alone, he lost a bit of his passion for cooking—it became something he did out of need rather than enjoyement.

Then he met Goose. His RIO, Nick Bradshaw, callsign Goose, who could not prepare a singular piece of french toast to save his life—his wife Carole though, bless her heart, was indeed a good cook. It didn't take much for Mav to join her in the kitchen whenever he tagged along the Bradshaws for dinner (and never once during Carole's pregnancy he allowed the woman to cook. Mav took care of everything).

Baby Bradley loves his dishes, but the biggest fan of Mav's cooking isn't anyone else but Iceman. He doesn't know when they got so close—one day they had been getting on each other's nerves, and the next one Mav was cooking for him.

And no, it's not that Iceman can't cook either. He can, he truly can, but he hates it. If he can get takeout instead of making his own meal, he will. His fridge has just the right amount of food for a midnight snack and copious amounts of the booze that everyone in the Navy seems to drink (unlike the very expensive bottle of vodka Iceman has stored under his bed. Just for safekeeping, he says. Can't let Slider get a hold of it).

So when Mav actually cooks for him (and it's the best goddamn meal he's had in his life, but he'll jump out of the USS Enterprise before admitting it out loud; to Mav, no less), Iceman can't help but crave more. He tries not making it too obvious, but he keeps coming back to Mav when he's craving something appetizing.

And Mav actually cooks for him. Ice doesn't want to dwell on it too much, but he seems almost happy to do so. Happy to cook for Ice, if the cheeky smiles and friendly remarks he gets are anything to go by.

After each meal, Maverick asks him with an almost shy smile for his opinion on the dishes, and Ice can't help the way his heart skips a beat when Mav's smile widens into the brightest thing Ice's ever seen after he compliments Mav's cooking

[rebeccasteventaylor]

Sometimes I wonder if Ethan gets a little more reckless around Benji (at the beginning) because while everyone else just looks at him like ‘what the fuck are you doing’ Benji looks at him all starry-eyed and amazed and that is a wonderful feeling to have. Even if Ethan is not sure he can do something now, he’ll do it for Benji.

And then Ethan dies doing something for Benji and Benji becomes aware Ethan has limits and can die.

And after that Benji gets so worried and Ethan kind of likes that too, because it makes him feel cared for. (Though benji does still have to tell him to do it, it’s nowhere near as lightheartedly as in RN)

But also after that - Benji starts to do more himself. Takes on more of the stunt driving - crashing the car into Delbruuck. Drives the boats. Apparently can fly an airplane by TFR (there’s no reason for Ethan to know degas can fly and anyway Degas wasn’t even supposed to be there)

I think part of that is Benji taking on as much as he can so Ethan doesn’t have to do it all. He can’t do the hanging off the airplane but if he can drive the car then Ethan can rest and recover and maybe his chances of getting himself killed while driving drop by 20%

Anyway. This all comes from me noticing how peaceful and calm Ethan always looks when Benji is driving the boat - which is a skill I didn’t realise Ethan has until I saw MI2 and realised Ethan can drive boats. It’s just now Benji can, Ethan always leaves it to Benji and rests.

And I think the boat thing and Benji driving thing helps Benji look after Ethan by giving him time to rest and recover. It’s Benji expressing his care for Ethan on the only way he can.

And it’s Ethan feeling safe and cared for, perhaps for the first time ever in the field. He can sit still and appreciate the city he is in, knowing he can currently place his life and the life of everyone he cares for in Benji’s hands safely and Benji will take care of him and everyone else.

And do course it all got taken to an extreme in TFR where Benji is, at the beginning, taking care of Luther and doing everything in London and then Ethan handing his team over to him and relying on him to get the information and find and revive Ethan.

I just feel for Ethan, Benji has turned from someone impressed by Ethan’s stunts into the ultimate place of safety, the one piece of equipment he can rely on, the only person he knows will come for him and save him and everyone he loves.

And Ethan loves him for that

Sorry - that all turned into a bit of an aimless ramble../

[littledes1re]

Can you please do a story where Joel takes you to his home and takes care of you when drunk, before anyone else tries to touch you (jealous). Maybe You were really good friends then, but being drunk, you can't help and say how much you love him and want a life with him.

Jealous?

Warnings: None really, Fluff, Jealous Joel, alcohol use

A/N: This is actually so cuteeee. I hope you like this anon

„Wild little thing ain‘t she?“ Tommy murmured to Joel, who was too focused on watching you. Your hips swayed from left to right, your hair messy, throwing it around to the music.

You were drunk. But you caught the way he was watching you. Focused. Going up and down your body, looking left to right—seeing if anybody disturbed you. And you couldn‘t help but smirk. He would never admit his feelings for you, Joel is too stubborn for that. Ever since you came to Jackson, his eyes were on you. Following you around like a lost puppy. „Teaching you.“ that‘s what he called it. Always on your ass to show you something, help you with patrol, always disguised as an old wise man who just taught you shit.

And if he wasn‘t so damn handsome, you would ignore it, call him a pervert when you gossip with your friends, and his teachings would come unheard. Admittedly you developed a crush on him.

„She is.“ he answers through gritted teeth, his eyes landing on the young men beside you, watching how you dance to the music.

„Do me a favour and take care of her, she has patrol tomorrow with Dina. Make sure she comes home safe. Maria is waiting for me.“ Tommy said his goodbyes to everyone and made his way out of the pub.

Joel understood why you‘re going off the rails. Coming to Jackson, with nothing but a small knife and a backpack, seemingly lost everything that you once had. And then working your ass off, every single day in this town, to keep everything going—not to lose your mind in this chaos. So drinking and dancing seemed like a great way to release all that built up tension. Only, if Joel wasn‘t a jealous, jealous man, he would‘ve left you to dance there, for the whole night.

But the eyes from the other guys and the way one of them got up to you, and asked for a dance—that‘s where he drew the line.

„Joel—I wanted to dance more!“ you whine.

„course ya‘ do.“ he murmurs as he drags you out of the pub, his hand squeezing tightly on your arm.

„Where we going?“ you ask, your head dizzy, the streets of Jackson looking wonky and not familiar.

He doesn‘t answer. Instead, he drags you back to your house, a grumpy expression on his face—as always.

„Where are your keys?“

Joel watched you as you clumsily search for your keys on your jacket, a sigh leaving his lips because you are taking way too long.

„I think I left them in my house.“ you mumble, looking down, trying to avoid his gaze because you knew he was now completely annoyed with you.

„You have to be kidding with me.“

So Joel dragged you back to his house.

„Oh wow, why is yours bigger than mine?“ your mouth hung open as you soaked in his house from inside. Everywhere little wooden carved animals sitting, sweet pictured with him and Ellie and his owl mug, half empty sitting on his table.

„Because I‘m older.“ he murmurs and suddenly pulls you on your left arm to the couch so you can sit down. You welcome that, your mind being dizzy and hazy, it felt good sitting down.

„You‘re sleeping here. And tomorrow we are going to the locksmith, before your patrol.“

Oh how lovely he was, wasn‘t he? Taking care of you, making sure no ones touching you and now letting you sleep in his house? You found him so much so lovely that you started to babble out, how much you actually appreciated him.

„Joel, you‘re so handsome.“ you mumble, dramatically putting your legs up and laying down on his couch. „If you were not so stubborn I would ask you for a date…“

Joel‘s cheeks heat up as he listens to your nonsensical ramblings. Talking about wanting a life with him, then sweetly telling him that you fell in love with him.

„And you wouldn‘t care would you?“ he sees the way your eyes slowly close after that question.

He chuckles to himself.

„I‘m gonna remind you about all of this in the morning.“ as he puts a blanket on top of you, and leaves the room with the widest grin he has ever had.

[wolfstarsjegulus]

noise - word count: 470

@into-the-jeggyverse

prompt: chest

James’ head was constantly full of noise. Usually, he could tune it out, ignore it, and focus on his friends or Quidditch, but sometimes the noise just got too much.

It was for this reason that he was under his cloak outside the Slytherin dorms, waiting so that he could slip in and see his boyfriend- the only one able to quiet the chaos in his head.

When he eventually got into Regulus’ room, he didn’t need to announce himself. They had been together only a few months, but Regulus was already accustomed to James popping up out of nowhere.

Regulus looked up from his book as James stepped out from under the cloak.

“Hi.”

“Hey love,” James said as he made his way over to Regulus’ bed, lying down next to him as he moved over to make room.

“Are you alright?” Regulus asked, noticing the look on James’ face. “Is the noise loud?”

To everyone else, Regulus Black was cold and stoic, never letting even a slip of emotion show, but with James, he softened. With James, he was kind, sweet, and caring, and the fact that no one else got that side of him made James even happier.

James had talked to Regulus about the noise in his head in the past, something that he hadn’t been able to explain to anyone else, even Sirius, but Regulus understood it.

“Yeah, a little,” James sighed, “I just wanted to be with you for a bit.”

“Come here,” Regulus said as he gently pulled James into him, letting him rest his head on his chest.

The minute James’ head hit Regulus’ chest, it was like the world faded away along with the noise. All he could hear was his love’s heartbeat, and to him, it was the most soothing sound in the world.

“Better?” Regulus asked.

“Much better, thank you.”

It wasn’t long before James fell asleep with Regulus stroking his fingers gently through his hair.

Regulus wished he could just wrap James in his arms forever and protect him from everyone and everything; he was too good for this world.

As he watched James peacefully asleep on his chest, Barty and Evan came barging into the room ranting about some professor giving them attention. They stopped in their tracks when they took in the scene in front of them.

Cold-hearted Regulus Black with James Sunlight Potter sleeping on his chest, wrapped in a blanket with his hair being carefully stroked.

They go to laugh but think better of it when Regulus hits them with his ‘I will hex you’ glare.

“If you wake him, I will hurt you,” Regulus whispered, without an inch of humour in his voice.

Barty and Evan were stuck sneaking around quietly for hours as Regulus continued to stroke James’s hair through his sleep.

[tinysunshine]

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐱 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

cw: daddy kink, negan is a bad man, dubcon, dacryphilia, finger sucking, extreme manipulation

you’re a mess. but even with your puffy face, eyelashes wet, eyes red - you’re still the prettiest little thing negan’s ever seen.

you’re crying your heart out. and truth be told, negan finds that pretty fucking hot. he cares about you, he really does, loves you even, although he’d never say the words out loud.

but even so, he loves to break you down. scare you bad enough with stories about what happens outside and inside the sanctuary walls. he tries to keep you away from the rest of the population, but he doesn’t make it a rule. knows, that a woman like you has no interest with the men that live here, and he knows that you have zero desire to hang out with his other wives. who would want to?

you’re pretty isolated, which gives him plenty of room to twist stories and make things seem worse than they really are. true, life is pretty gruesome for negan and everyone that follows him, for anyone who’s alive these days, but he can spin stories that’d make even some of his toughest men lose sleep at night.

he loves to get you all upset and frightened, and he can see in your eyes before your tears fall, that you’re not sure what to really be scared of. negan himself, the man you married, or the shitty new life everyone’s been forced into because of the walker virus. one of these days, he hopes he’s appreciated - kind of remarkable, that he turned a pile of shit into something he could be king of. nobody appreciates that.

especially not you.

he knows that it’s probably him that you’re scared of more than just life itself, or maybe it’s a little bit of both - but you’ve got no one else to go to for comfort. so you straddle his lap and wrap your arms around his neck, and he hugs you tight, tells you that everything will be alright in a mocking tone, lips by your ear and his voice soft.

“i know, honey, i know,” he’ll coo, rubbing your back while you sniffle into his shoulder. you can’t see how big he’s grinning, loves the fact that he’s broken you down enough to seek comfort from the man you should be seeking vengeance against, for what he’s done to you and the people you love.

but you squeeze him tighter at that, like his comfort actually means something, and you’re always so warm, always smell so sweet. negan thinks it’s just your natural scent. his dick chubs up at the thought. “i’d never let anything bad happen to my girl,” he’ll tease, pressing a kiss to your temple. “favorite wife of mine.”

you’ll lift your head from his shoulder to look at him, fear on your face, or maybe something like disgust. negan doesn’t really care. it’s pretty fucking sick, this whole game he plays with you. even more sick, because he’s the only one who knows the game is being played.

you bite your lip, blink slowly, and your wet eyelashes make him think of the way you look when you’re on your knees, sucking him off. for a woman that says that she hates him, it’s sort of funny how much you act like you don’t. sitting here, clinging to him. the way you blow him, like it’s something you really enjoy doing.

he makes a mental note for the next time you suck him off, to reach his fingers into your little panties that he makes his men travel far and wide to find for you, so he can see if sucking him off makes you as wet as he thinks it does.

“you know, i really shouldn’t tell you those stories. i’m sorry, sweetness, i just,” he pretends like he fucked up by telling you anything, as if he doesn’t spend most of his day, thinking about ways to shake you up. it’s pretty twisted, but damn is it fun.

“i just forget that you’re a sensitive thing. world’s too scary for a girl like you, huh?” and he’s being mean. mocking you. reminding you that you’ve been reduced to this - something for him to fuck and play with, like a little mouse that somehow wandered into a cat’s reach. remind you, that you’re not the woman he found you as. you’ve got no fight left in you, you’ve got no stupid fucking boyfriend, no group. those were all things you had, key word. but now you’re just -

negan’s.

you manage to calm yourself down, probably because you don’t want him to be right, that you’re sensitive and unable to handle the reality of the world. even if the world he’s talking about is just a scary story. god, negan is good sometimes. he impresses himself, with his dark little games.

he slips a hand under your skirt to rest it on your plush little ass. the material of your panties feels so delicate under his palm, and when you rest your hands on his shoulders, he places his other hand on your waist. you’re so perfect, every single curve of you. absolutely beautiful, especially when you’re crying.

“guess ‘m just a little sad today,” you explain, as if this isn’t your regular mood most days. you shrug so cutely, and negan has to fight back a grin. you are such a fucking cutie pie, that’s for sure.

“aw, honey,” he mocks sweetly, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. you don’t even flinch, don’t pull back. maybe it’s just his imagination, but it feels like you lean closer. “‘s okay to be sad. god knows i am most days,” another lie, but who’s counting? you nod, like he’s giving you life changing advice or something. and instead of straddling him, you sit down fully on his lap, little thing you are. you move your hands to rest on his chest.

he wonders if you can feel his hard cock. maybe you can, and you just pretend not to. either way, you’re going to get fucked soon, but for now, negan’s content playing the good guy.

“you want me to stop telling you those scary stories?” he asks, like he’s doing you a favor. but he knows what you’re going to say. you’ve still got some dignity left in you. you shake your head, try to wipe some tears off your face. jeez, you’re really fucking pretty when you’re upset.

“no,” you say, biting your lip. “i want to hear them. i need to hear them. i just,” you trail off again. looking away from him, and he can’t have that.

he moves his hand off your waist and cups your pretty face, gently forcing you to look back at him. uses his thumb to wipe some of the tears off your face -

and then, because he’s negan, because he can do whatever the fuck he wants, he brings his thumb to your lips, presses softly against them until you open up, suck his thumb into your mouth. he nearly groans at the sight.

“know what you need, honey,” he murmurs, trying not to smile too big, because he’s got to act like this is for you. getting you all upset, turning you into a nervous crybaby - it’s all for you to look to him for comfort.

you’re the only wife he can be sweet to, because you’re the only wife who fell for this fucked up little game he plays. he feels your tongue against his finger, and he has to make a point not to thrust his hips up for some friction.

“just need daddy to take care of you,” he says, and he means it this time. there’s no mocking, no degradation. he really knows what you need - because he’s the reason you need it. you nod with his finger in your mouth and it looks so silly, but that only makes his dick harder. your hands wrap around his wrist to hold his hand in place so you can keep sucking on his finger, and yeah - he does smile at that.

you calm yourself down with your mouth on his thumb, and he bounces his knee and gives you different fingers to play with. you suck on his pointer and middle finger while he tells you how brave you are, when you’re the farthest thing from it, tells you how safe you are, here with him.

and then he pulls his fingers out, uses that same hand to dip into your panties, feel your soft, wet folds with his spitty fingers, and he knows how much you like this too.

shit, he thinks, leaning in to kiss you. your lips taste sweet, and he wonders if it’s your lipgloss or the strawberries he fed you earlier. you let him kiss you, no fight left in you. in fact, you chase after his tongue with your own. maybe you’re playing the game too.

“daddy,” you murmur against his lips, and out of everything he’s done today to get a reaction out of you that he wants, this is by far the best. “want you to fuck me. pretty please, need it.”

so he does. of course he does.

negan never said he wasn’t generous.