#he just doesn’t break down about it as much

[pucksandpower]

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

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

Based on this request

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

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

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

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

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

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

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

“On me, Lewis.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then prove it.”

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches. “What?”

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

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

“Dead serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

One Year Later

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you doing this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

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

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

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Tonight is one of those nights.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How incredible you are.”

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

“Max, I …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he does.

***

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

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

And he does.

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“But-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s do it,” you say.

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

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

A girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Max.”

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

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

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

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

But she does come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Max-”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you whisper.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Nine Months Later

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

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

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

He knows what he has to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

“Ready for what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Two Years Later

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

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

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

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

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

There you are.

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

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, she notices him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The memories flood in uninvited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[chaosartic]

Throw away the caution! | LN4

word count: roughly 2k

warnings: overprotective brother Max Fewtrell, mutual pinning (a bit), Oscar is confused most of the time, bad writing (yes it requires a warning)

summary: Lando (annoyingly) has a crush on non other than his best friends younger sister, Y/n Fewtrell. It was his well kept secret. Why? Because he knows how overprotective Max is of you. What happens when Carlos and Oscar find out about it? Will a drunken night out celebrating a race weekend change their relationship?

a/n: Originally this was supposed to be a one shot but I’m turning this into a mini series. They’re probably going to be three parts. Please note that english is not my first language, I’m sorry for any mistakes in advance.

Lando and Max have been through a lot together as long as both of them can remember. And for just as long Lando has known y/n, Max slightly younger sister. What started as a harmless friendship slowly turned into something more, at least in Landos eyes.

It wasn’t until he was a teenager that he admitted his feelings to himself. He kept them hidden and a secret from everyone. At first he thought that they’re just temporary. The girl he used to climb trees with and joke around for hours grew into a beautiful young lady after all. But the feelings only grew stronger.

Lando was well into his twenties when he talked to someone about his crush, it was no other than his friend and ex teammate, Carlos Sainz. At first he tried to talk Lando into admitting his feelings to you but that was without success. Carlos tried to figure out if the feelings are both sided but he simply didn’t see the Fewtrell siblings enough for that.

He was the silent emotional support through everything after that, trying to get them together alone as much as possible without Max noticing. After all, Carlos didn't know how he would react to the news of his childhood friend loving his younger sister. There were a few close calls in the past but as far as anyone was concerned neither Max nor y/n knew about Landos feelings.

If anyone would ask him why he doesn’t confess his answer would probably be along the lines of wanting to concentrate on his career first. In truth he was scared of your rejection and your brother's disappointment. He and Max are friends after all and it might feel like some sort of betrayal to the older Brit.

Lando was currently in London since he had to be back at the MTC for his pre-season training and meetings. He loved being in his home country even if that meant that winter break was over. It means that he gets to spend time with his friends. Like this evening for example.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You hate being late. It wasn't even your fault that a meeting with your boss ran over the scheduled time or that traffic today was worse than the past few days. You were meeting up with your brother, childhood friend and his teammate. And while Max assured you that your late arrival wouldn’t be a problem, anxiety and guilt still washed over you. You navigate your car without a problem down the familiar street to your brother's appartement. The night was cold but with a clear sky, a rare occurrence.

“You know you don’t have to get me anything when you come around.” Max greets you at the door as soon as he sees the flowers clutched in your hand. “Yeah yeah” you wave him off. The apartment was quiet, too quiet for the normal chaos that erupts when Lando and Max are together.

Max notices your confusion. “They got caught up with work stuff too. That’s why I told you not to worry.” He grabs the flowers ready to put them into an improvised vase while adding, “they should be here any minute though.”

“You could’ve added that little detail in your sentence,” you sternly joke with him. He pulls you into his arms mumbling something about next time he will. You missed this, the familiar feeling of being in your brother's arms. Work has been hell for you recently and you didn't get to spend much time with your family or friends. That’s why you didn't think twice about coming around tonight to spend a relaxing evening with your brother and an old friend of yours, Lando.

Before you could do anything else the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of the McLaren drivers. “I’ve got it,” you said to Max before walking towards the door. When you opened it, you were a bit surprised when you saw only Oscar standing there. “Hey Oscar. Where is Lando?” you ask him after you let him into the flat. “Oh, he’s still parking the car or something,” Oscar said, “he’ll be here shortly.” You nodded your head at his explanation, softly closing the door behind him. You didn’t lock it though so Lando could get in easier.

Max came out of the kitchen to greet Oscar. While the two aren’t that close they still get along well, spending their evenings occasionally in bigger groups together. The Aussi was quickly accepted into the little group of you three after he joined Lando as his new teammate two years ago. You went back into the kitchen grabbing drinks for everyone while the boys already chatted about racing. The table was set, the ordered food waiting on the counter. There is only one thing missing now.

You still had a slightly anxious feeling that you couldn't shake off. Maybe it was because you would spend the evening in such close proximity to Lando. You haven’t said it to anyone out loud but you knew what the butterflies in your stomach meant. While you didn’t want to admit it to yourself just yet, you couldn’t hide it anymore. You were crushing hard and of course that person has to be your brother’s best friend.

“Hey mate”, Landos voice rans out through the apartment. He came into the kitchen with a wide smile, dimples showing on full display. He quickly pulled each of you into his arms as a greeting. His arms lingered around you for a bit longer, both of you silently enjoying the feeling. “Come on guys, the food is still warm.” Max called out while putting the boxes in the middle of the table. His voice was a bit rougher than usual, almost like he was hiding his emotions. You didn't notice it nor did Lando. Oscar however did notice it and for a millisecond a confused look crossed his face. It was gone before anyone could really notice it.

The four of you sat down at the table, a comfortable silence washing over the room. You sit next to your brother across from Lando. You noticed him looking at you a few times out of the corner of your eye. The butterflies in your stomach were running wild, but you hoped that it didn’t show. As much as you like the idea of being together with the Brit, you knew that it wouldn’t be a good idea. Not only because of his career but also because of your brother. You and Max were close and you know his overprotective sides when it comes to the topic of boys being around you. He was always a bit worried about them, maybe given the fact that he raced professionally. It didn't help that you know most of the formula one grid. He was scared of someone using you for your connections, he would not mention this fear though.

You aren't sure how Max would react to the news of you crushing on his best friend nor did you want to find out anytime soon. You talked about everything over dinner; racing, the upcoming season, video games and just what everybody did during the break. You remembered about a year ago when you were all sitting at the same table. Oscar was still new to the group and quite shy, but he opened up which was good to see.

“All right, how about we talk about something different than just racing,” you said. “Not everybody’s life depends on it.” You jokingly added, knowing that the boys love nothing more than to talk about it, especially when they were off for a few weeks. At some point the conversation shifts, now the talk was all about. testing and the upcoming season. “I have a question guys,” Lando suddenly said. His cheeks are a bit pink, unusually so. Your eyes looked over to Oscar slightly, he looked just as confused as you felt. It almost seems like Lando was shy about something perhaps not knowing what to do with the situation. “Do you have anything planned during the weekend when the season starts?” He finally blurted out after a longer pause.

“Not that I could think of,” you replied, looking at your brother. He also shook his head no. “Why do you ask?” “How about you come to watch it?” It was actually Oscar who voiced the question, his eyes always flickering up to you. It was almost like he was saving Lando from something, maybe embarrassment. “For sure,” Max answered quickly, not having to really think about it. The three men turn their heads to you waiting for your answer. “I’m not sure if I can get time off,” you said. “And also don’t exactly have the money for this trip.” You said shyly.

“Sweetheart, do you really think you have to pay?” Lando asked. You look at him shocked, did he really just say that? “I got it covered. Don’t worry about that.” He added quickly. Maybe it was your imagination, but he looked a bit embarrassed about saying it. Max looked at his best friend, confusion all over his features, shaking his head as if he was having a silent conversation with himself.

“Please y/n, it would mean the world for both of us,” Lando added, pointing at him and Oscar. He was almost begging at this point. You didn’t know why it was so important for him to have you there. A small part if you wanted to believe that it is because he also had a crush on you. But honestly those were unrealistic expectations. No, Lando could never have a crush on you. That’s for sure.

“Okay okay,” you gave in with a small smile. “I’ll see if I can get a few days off so I can join you in Australia,”you said. You see from the corner of your eyes that your brother has a sour look on his face again. An uneasy feeling settles in your stomach. ”Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m done.“ You try to ignore the look on Maxs face by changing the topic.You took both plates and put them into the dishwasher. You miss the way Oscar looks at both Max and Lando. Ever since this conversation started he has had a slightly confused look on his face, not that you noticed.

It was only a few days after that night when your request for the time off was accepted. That night you spend an hour or maybe two on FaceTime with Lando. He was back in Monaco preparing for the testing in Bahrain. It may have been a few days since that call but you can still see the way he smiled when you shared the news. It was one of the best things ever.

You already talked with Max about when you were leaving to Down Under. While you were more than excited to be in the paddock, see the race and talk to some of the drivers that you know, you couldn’t shake off this weird feeling in the pit of your stomach. It felt like this little trip would change everything but you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was because recently you and Lando have talked almost every night, intensifying your crush on the curly haired man. And even though you were nervous you couldn’t wait to see him in person again in Australia.

part 2 (coming soon)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

I hope you enjoy it! Any feedback is appreciated!

Requests are open! Want to be added to the taglist? Feel free to reach out.

[nosyrobin]

Damian who’s a little sneaky bastard. He plays the “innocent” child card. Making you dot on him.

Damian who forces you to take a small form of your bear shape. Mostly so he can hold you like the true teddybear you are. Forcing you to stay in his room as he sleep.

Damian who actually gets terribly upset when you actually start to ignore and find ways to avoid him.

Damian who is close to making his father force you to get into mind control so you can listen to him

Tim who always uses you as a pillow. You could try to get away from the coffeeholic man. But he could only smile with you having a muzzle on, roaring to be free. You’re his sweet experiment.

Tim who gives you coffee when you let your guard down. Don’t worry about the funny taste, it’s just to make you obey and stay with him longer when he studies.

Tim who smiles when you act so loopy and hug him, growling softly in your bear form and nuzzle into his neck in your human one. You’re just so sweet….

Tim who sometimes designs chips, he made one that completely will force you to be the mind slave you were originally to be. Maybe even keep your spirit in that teddy bear form of yours.

Jason who tries to soothe your pains, but he’s only causing more when he stares down at you backing away from him.

Jason who still vents to you about his much he’s in a frenzy between liking Bruce and not liking him. It gets tiring.

Jason who declaws you, you could try and regenerate your body. He’ll only do it over and over again for the times you clawed at his face.

Jason who wants to break you mentally, who wants you to depend on him. So he can take you away from this place.

Dick who gets sickly sweet with you. You can’t tell if he’s actually being nice or not.

Dick who coos at you, he hugs you tightly In your human form, making sure you have no space to transform. Learning you need an amount of space to transform between forms

Dick who babies you too much, it’s sickening how he could make you seem so childish when you’re years older than any of the men in this place.

Dick who has Barbara always give him secret photos off of the cameras in the house of you. Aren’t you his cute teddy bear.

Bruce who only watches, not even caring if you actually trusted him or not. You’re only here to please his sons.

Bruce who has a perimeter around the house that the chip Tim made can alarm him or any of the boys that you tried to escape. Oh well, guess it’s another dose of honey for you.

Bruce who has cameras watching you 24/7. Don’t worry, he doesn’t watch you that much. Unlike Tim.

Bruce who agrees to Damian’s plan to put an another chip. This time in your brain.

You who’s starting to snap….

You who’s is starting to isolate yourself from the bat and birds. They notice, but you are calculating how to escape.

You who finally found your source to escape this hellish mansion

You who fall to the ground when trying to escape late at night. You fall with a hard thud as the chip under your skin, your fur, it shocks your your entire body. You couldn’t help but see feet come towards you. You try to roar only for a syringe enter your neck. Dark figures surround your body as you start to black out.

You who are their perfect teddy bear…..

Teddy bear!reader who’s trapped in the Wayne household.

Teddy bear!reader who’s practically some weird cuddly entity that resembles a teddy bear with a human form

Teddy bear!reader who has to endure all the venting, ranting the batfamily has to tell them. They can’t help but frown as it starts to get draining.

Teddy bear!reader who’s always hugged when seen. They can’t get out of the tight hold the boys get them into to. Even Bruce doesn’t let them go easily.

Teddy bear!reader who has a chip in them, shocking them when they don’t keep up the “happy bear” facade. You’re supposed to be the cute teddy they love.

Teddy bear!reader forced to be into human form so one of the boys can take them out and spoil them. But it’s only to show others that you belong to them if you somehow escape them.

Teddy bear!reader who’s starting to crack. The cuddly teddy is starting to be a grizzly bear.

————-

But that only stops when you get shocking pain in your neck. You roar, clawing at your own skin and fur. You transform between bear and human. Dick frowns as he hold the controller down. Damian could only hold a scowl watching his beloved animal act out.

Jason sits watching you beg for the pain to stop, Tim could only smile. Bruce has a hand on Dick’s shoulder. He squeezed it seeing you about to pass you. Dick stops the shocking pain.

You whimper, holding your arms. You feel your claws poke your own bruised body. Bruce kneels down, lifting your head as you flinch at his touch. “Our poor teddy….” He says lowly, he shows pity more than guilt.

It makes you sick as you try and roar at him, growl. Anything. But in the corner of your eye, you see Dick ready to press the button. You immediately stopped trying to fight. “You seem cranky..” Bruce says, he then helps you sit up as Damian moves by his father.

“Father, maybe it’s time for them to eat some honey?” He questions.

Honey…it’s not honey. It’s a drug to make you loopy. To make you obey them. To make you happy and do anything they wish to do to you.

To make you their perfect little teddy bear.

A/N: UH OH??? DID I EAT? OR DID I EAT🗣️‼️

[moonstruckme]

Hi lovely, any chance you could do James x reader who is stressing over exam season?

Thanks for all the great work bb we appreciate it so much :)

Thank you angel, I love you <3

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 768 words

“Hey, lovely girl.” James comes up behind your chair with an arm around your front and a kiss to your head, surreptitiously slipping away your coffee. “How’s it going?” 

“It’s going fine,” you say. It’s a lie, but you have larger concerns. Your boyfriend is acting suspicious. “What are you doing?” 

“Just checking in on you.” 

“No, what are you doing with my drink?” 

“I was thinking we could make an exchange,” James says casually. 

You sigh, both craving and resenting the break. “I need to focus. No side quests.” 

“This isn’t a side quest. It’s a…a brief deviation—”

“That’s another way to say side quest.” 

“You didn’t let me finish. A brief deviation which will ultimately result in you being more productive.” 

You pause. “Okay…” 

James stamps a happy kiss to your hair. “So, first, I was thinking we could pick up some matcha or something—” 

“James,” you cut him off gently, “that’s a sweet thought, but matcha doesn’t have any caffeine in it.” 

“I’ve heard that, yeah. That’s a key feature of the plan, as it happens.” 

“I feel like I sort of need caffeine for my studying, lovely.” 

James makes a wishy-washy humming sound. It buzzes against the top of your head where he rests his chin. “Have you noticed that you’re vibrating?” he asks.

“I’m…” You take a quick stock of yourself. You feel exhausted, drained. Not vibratey. “No, I’m not.” 

“Mhm. I can actually feel your heart beating against my arm right now.” 

Now that he says so, you can feel it too. “Well, I’m nervous.” Your voice takes on an unintentional sharpness. “I’ve got three exams this week, and I want to do well. I can’t just check out.” 

James might have been anticipating you’d get prickly. He stays perfectly calm, only sweeping his thumb over your collarbone mollifyingly. You feel instantly ridiculous for your small breakage.

“I know, angel,” he says, in that everything’s-just-fine voice of his. “I get that you’re stressed. And it sucks that it is so stressful, but I’m not saying you should check out. I just want to make your studying go easier.” 

You’re quiet, guilty and embarrassed for sniping at him when he’s so relentlessly kind to you. James never does anything but make things easier for you, even when he’s not trying to. He makes your life easier just by existing. 

James lets go of you with the arm across your chest to squat by your chair, looking up into your face. He touches his thumb to the top of your cheekbone. 

“You look like your eyes hurt.” 

“They do,” you admit. 

He smiles ruefully. “Can I tell you the rest of the plan?” 

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

“I was thinking we’d take our matcha—or uncaffeinated beverages of your choice—and go to the park by Remus’ place. It has that little quiet area down the trail, remember? You could bring your books. It’d still be studying, but” —James shrugs, looking at the bright light you’ve positioned above your textbook, your grimy coffee mug, the chair you’ve been sitting in since you got up this morning— “this isn’t good for you. Maybe a change of scenery will help.” 

Now it’s you wanting a deviation. A side quest, an excuse to check out. You want to take James’ face between your hands and spend the rest of the week ensuring no inch of it goes unkissed. Screw exams. When he looks at you like this, so wholesome and earnest and chock full of good intentions, you genuinely think you must be the luckiest girl in the world. 

“That sounds nice,” you say. 

James grins, and god, his dimples dig in so deep you really could get lost in them if you let yourself. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You give in slightly to indulgence, leaning down to press your lips to his cupid’s bow. Retracting before you forget about exams altogether. “That’s a really lovely idea, Jamie. Thank you for thinking of it.” 

“Well, it wasn’t hard,” he says breezily. “All I had to do was think to myself, if I were wearing my eyes out being a swot all day, where would I rather be?” 

You smile. James’ doubles in wattage because of it. “Well, you nailed it. That sounds perfect.” 

“Plans are my forte, lovely. Let’s see, maybe we try studying there until the sun starts to go down, and then you can call it quits for the evening.” 

“I thought we agreed on no checking out.” 

“But what if I put cucumbers on your eyes? That’s not checking out, that’s just rejuvenation.” 

“I…might be slightly more amenable to that.”

[takenbypeter]

<3

Bucky Barnes x reader

Words: 682

A/N: Just a lil pure fluff for Bucky. I’m in my Bucky era again

You stared at your phone. Something was wrong. 

Right?

See you soon <3

You read the text again focusing on the heart at the end. This wasn’t him, right? It must’ve been somebody impersonating him.

You sat at the counter of your kitchen in thought with your phone laying screen up while your hands were interlaced pushed against your lips. 

You were starting to get worried. Should you call somebody, should you call Sam? No they were together, if someone got to him then someone got to Sam too. Your mind was racing in thought. The only thing that broke its focus was the sound of the front door unlocking. 

Your eyes darted to the sound as you grabbed a nearby knife. But the hammering in your heart stopped once you saw Bucky entering your apartment. 

You let out a sigh putting the knife down as he threw his duffel bag to the floor before looking at you for the first time. 

“Woah, is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine. I just thought something went wrong on the mission for a moment, that's all.”

He frowned, taking his shoes off and stepping closer. “I said I’d see you soon, why would anything be wrong?”

He planted a kiss on your cheek, passing by you to grab a plum from the fruit bowl. 

“I don’t know, I guess your message just threw me off.”

He let out a hmm, sort of in agreement. But that was it. 

“Well the ending was the part that really threw me off.”

He nodded again as if that was that. 

You were going to have to yank the bull harder to get the answer from him. 

“So yeah, what was up with that? That’s not like you?”

“What?”

You pick up your phone, “Bucky, come on…” he looked at you as if having no idea what you’re talking about, you had to fill in the answer for him to continue the conversation, “the heart at the end! You’ve never done that before.”

“Oh I just thought it was a nice thing,” he shrugged it off as if it was no big deal. 

“It is a nice thing, a really sweet nice thing but it’s just it’s so random, you know?”

Bucky sighed, “yeah I figured, you know I don’t tell you enough how much I care for you, so I figured I’d start doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Telling you I love you.”

Now that. That took you aback. 

“Huh? You don’t tell me how much you love me?”

“Yeah…it took me so long to say it and some guys were talking on the mission and it just made me realize that I don’t say it as much as I should.” He finally turned to you fully, “I’m sorry, I’ll say it more often from now on.”

You wave your hands in the air trying to shut down this whole claim of his, “stop just stop. You say it all the time. It might not be verbal but you say it in the little things; when you make dinner, when I fall asleep and you carry me to the bed, when you buy me something because it reminds you of me—that’s all you telling me you love me Buck. Come on now don’t be silly,” you continue, clearly upset that he would even accuse himself like this, “and you do tell me you love me, so whatever those guys said they can buzz off. If anything it’s not you who doesn’t say it enough it’s me who doesn’t say it enough, so Bucky,” you go to where he’s now seated on a stool and you put two hands to his cheek squishing them in the process, “I love you.”

Bucky’s stoic expression breaks in your hands, knowing you’re passionate about his feelings and that you just want him to know how good he is, “I love you too.”

You grin and kiss him chastely. “Now aside from that, the heart was a cute touch. I'm definitely screenshotting this.”

Bucky rolled his eyes while a smile continued to decorate his lips. 

[wendichester]

I'm gonna be a little bit greedy because I loved the first one. 😁

I can't think of a particular situation, but can you just give me your best, heart-wrenching dean x reader angst? I know you'll do great cuz you write Dean so well.

Thanks love your stuff so much!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ghost of you,

summary. you're gone and dean doesn't know how to cope

pairing. dean winchester x reader ; super angsty!

wordcount. 499

notes. first, thank you for the leap of faith!!! i hope this manages to bring a tiny tear to your eyes ehe 🥺

Dean Winchester is good at losing people.

He’s been doing it his whole life.

His mom. His dad. Jo. Ellen. Bobby. Cas.

And now you.

You, who was supposed to be the exception. The one person he swore he wouldn’t lose, the one person he couldn’t lose, because if he did—

If he did, there’d be nothing left of him.

But life doesn’t care about what Dean Winchester swears.

It takes anyway.

He doesn’t remember much about the hunt.

He remembers blood. Your blood.

Pooling beneath you, warm and red and so much, spilling through his fingers as he pressed down, as he begged—

"Stay with me, sweetheart, c’mon, please—”

You were shaking. Your lips were turning pale. But you still managed to smile, soft and sad.

“Dean,” you whispered, and he almost screamed, because it sounded too much like goodbye.

But you died before he could make you promise it wasn’t.

The worst part isn’t the funeral. It isn’t the silence, the emptiness, the quiet ache of absence in every part of his life.

It’s the almosts.

The moments where he forgets.

Like when he’s driving, and he sees something stupid on the side of the road and thinks, She’s gonna love this, only to remember—

You’re gone.

Or when he wakes up after a hunt, body sore, reaching for you without thinking—

Only to find the other side of the bed cold.

Or when he hears someone laughing, and for half a second, his heart lifts, convinced it’s you—

Only for the world to gut him again.

You haunt him more than any ghost ever could.

Sam worries.

Dean knows he does. He sees it in the way his brother watches him, cautious and quiet, waiting for the day Dean breaks.

But there’s nothing to break.

One night, Dean dreams of you.

Not in the way he usually does—not memories, not shadows, not echoes of the past.

You’re there.

Standing in the bunker’s kitchen, barefoot and beautiful, wearing one of his old shirts, looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters.

“Hey, baby,” you say, soft and sweet, like nothing’s changed.

Dean can’t breathe.

He rushes toward you, grabs your face, touches your skin like he’s trying to memorize the way it feels before you disappear again.

You don’t disappear.

You lean into him, warm and real, fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “I’m here.”

Dean swallows hard. His vision blurs.

“This isn’t real,” he whispers.

You smile. “No.”

And then, quieter—

“But I wish it was.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, presses his forehead to yours. “I can’t do this without you.”

You kiss him. Soft and slow and final.

“Yes, you can.”

When he wakes up, there’s an ache so deep inside him that he doesn’t know how he’s still breathing.

But he does.

Because that’s all he can do.

Because no matter how much he loves you—

No matter how much he misses you—

Ghosts don’t come back.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

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[voitier]

𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽... your angel of a boyfriend always respected your wishes and boundaries. but what happens when you feel your resolutions slowly crumble to the ground?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈... [smut!] teasing, making out, mentions of dry humping, fingering, reader's first time, softdom!gguk × inexperienced!reader, gentle sex, mentions of discomfort during penetration.

▸ 𝓔𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓰𝓮

▸ 𝔀.𝓬: 2𝓴 +

There were certain things you absolutely loved about your boyfriend, like the way his eyes lit up in excitement when you cooked him his favourite meal, or the way his natural non-toxic masculine energy immediately put you at ease, making you slide into your soft feminine energy naturally. This was probably one of the first things you noticed even before you got together, slowly becoming aware of how well you fit into a balanced dynamic that you both felt comfortable in.

But, most of all, you loved the way he never pushed you to do things you weren't keen on doing, never made you feel like you had to something for him "because he said so", never forced anything. Always treated you so well, so gently, so lovingly. He held you at night tight enough like he was afraid you would slip from his arms, but also so delicately like he was scared he could break you if he made a tiny mistake, the same way glass shatters to the ground if you're not careful enough.

So it shouldn't have been a surprise when you told him you weren't ready to have sex just yet, tears striking down your face in fear he would leave you right then and there, and he didn't even appear to be annoyed by that. If anything, he ran you a warm bubble bath, hugging you from behind while cuddling you and whispering sweet nothings to reassure you that no, he wouldn't leave you for that and yes, he would wait as long as you needed. 

"Thank you," you had whispered, sniffling softly as the sobs finally subdued. Jungkook gathered the bubbles in the palm of his hand, blowing them in your face. His expression visibly relaxed as you giggled, wiping the scented bubbles that landed on the tip of your nose. 

"Princess, I don't want you to feel pressured about doing anything with me, got that? I could never leave you, I love you too much. Also, your cute little face got me wrapped around your pinky."

A few months had passed from that moment, and he had kept his promise. This doesn’t mean that you never shared moments of intimacy, but rather that you both opted for things that you liked and were comfortable in, like grinding while making out, or giving and receiving oral. And you always felt so at ease, so sure that he would never take advantage of you in any way or form.

But as time went on, you felt your resolutions slowly crumble to the ground: it all started with following him on set, watching mesmerized as he posed for the camera. He was magnificent in his expressions, in his demeanor, in the way he rocked the outfits given by the CK company. He was confident, alluring, his muscles moving in a way that made you feel tingly all over. His eyes caught yours, crouched on the chair behind the camera, trying to be invisible to the eyes of all the professionals that hurriedly walked around you. You watched as a weird glint sparkled in his eyes, his lips curling in a knowing smirk briefly before he snapped back into character, leaving you a flustered, breathless mess. You weren’t entirely sure, but after that it looked like he posed even sexier for the camera, manipulating his body so that it could allure you in the same way a siren’s song allures pirates before devouring them. and god, did it work…

You shifted around uncomfortably, fiddling with your phone, looking around at anything to tear your eyes from your boyfriend, trying to ignore the wetness pooling between your legs. and Jungkook took notice of every effort you made to hide your need, quite amused by it all. Soon after, the director called for the end of the day, screaming loud enough for everyone to hear “good job, guys, see you tomorrow!”, clapping his hands and stopping by the photographer to discuss something about the lightning of some photos. 

Jungkook shrugged his shoulders, stretching his body to relax his tensed limbs before making his way to you, chuckling darkly when he noticed you acting like you weren’t paying any attention to him. he leaned over you, trapping you between his arms as his lips hovered your ear. “What's wrong, princess?” he purred, nibbling softly your earlobe. Your breath struck in your throat at his sultry tone, and you prayed he couldn’t hear your heart thrumming in your chest, or your hands shaking by your side. You felt like you were floating in a bubble where nothing mattered aside from his presence, and his musky cologne that clouded your senses and made your head dizzy. You closed your eyes breathing it in, parting your lips slightly to let out a soft breath.

Jungkook hummed pleased at your responsiveness, cupping your jaw with his warm hand. He traced your bottom lip with his thumb, staring at it almost as if hypnotised by his own action, pulling it down softly before murmuring “let’s go home, princess”, a tinge of urgency lacing his words. 

The drive home was probably the quickest you’ve ever been in, with Jungkook’s foot slamming the pedal to the ground, one hand grabbing possessively your thigh and fingers touching where you most need him with featherlight pressure. As soon as the car pulled into the driveway Jungkook was quick to pick you up and bring you inside, pushing your back against the door as soon as it closed behind you. 

His lips immediately found yours, pulling you into a desperate kiss. He gently pulled your hair at the back of your neck, angling your face better in order to deepen the kiss. You moaned, the sound swallowed by your boyfriend’s lips, hands tugging at his shirt to take it off. Jungkook pulled back slightly, groaning at the sight of your swollen red lips and hooded eyes. “Bedroom?” he asked, throwing his shirt on the ground.

“Yes, please” you whispered, following him around the house as more kissing and more stripping occurred, ending up in the bedroom already half naked and even more worked up than before. You wiggled out of the shirt that covered your chest and your panties-clad bottom, straddling your boyfriend’s lap as he sat against the headboard.

“C’mon, princess, you know what to do” he said, hands holding your thighs firmly while you rocked back and forth, whimpering as his still clothed boner provided the perfect friction against your aching clit. “Want… more,” you cried out, hips rutting desperately. Jungkook’s lips latched on your skin, sucking deep purple spots all over your neck and collarbones. “Yeah?” he asked against your flesh, “what is it that you want, princess?”

Your cheeks burned at the embarrassment, yet it didn’t stop you from whimpering “want you inside me”. You felt your boyfriend’s body tense beneath you, his kissing stopping on the spot. His hand cupped your jaw, keeping you in place as his eyes locked with yours. “What did you say, princess?”

If possible, you felt your whole body catch on fire just from his tone alone, trying to divert your gaze as you repeated shyly “want… want you inside me. Please”. You swore you felt his cock throbbing at your words, his pupils completely blown out in lust. The fingers that held your jaw twitched briefly before he asked “you’re sure, princess?”, struggling to hide the restraint in his voice. You nodded, rocking your hips tentatively to spur him on.  

He bit his lip, trying to hold back the smile that threatened to break over his face. He failed at that, though, and a happy giggle escaped his lips as he switched your position, letting you fall on the soft pillows, your back landing on the mattress. He showered your face in excited kisses before he finally calmed down, a serious expression on his face. “Promise you’ll tell me if I'm hurting you or if you want to stop”. You smiled, nodding your head. “Pinky promise”. And just like that he was on you again, reaching a hand behind your back to flick your bra off your chest, sighing in pleasure once he cupped your breast in his hand, gently rolling your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger. 

“Always looking so pretty,” he purred, reaching a hand down to unzip his pants, trying to take some pressure off his painfully hard member. He groaned, muttering a small “fuck,” before lowering his head on your torso, kissing his way down all the way to your panties. He pressed a hand on your thigh, keeping you spread over in front of his eyes. He smirked pleased at the wet patch on the baby blue fabric of your thong, rubbing his thumb up and down your clothed slit, then pressing his finger on your clit. “Oh fuck- please, Kook,” you moaned, bucking your hips up to gain some more friction. 

“Patience, princess,” he whispered, blowing softly on your clothed sex. You gasped at the feeling, trying to press your thighs back together, but you were stopped by Jungkook’s firm grasp that pinned you to the bed. “How sensitive,” he chuckled, teasingly licking a stripe up the drenched fabric. You whimpered, a string of pleas falling repeatedly from your plush lips as you grew progressively more desperate for more.

“Oh I know, I know, princess,” he cooed, hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties and pulling them down, throwing them somewhere on the floor. “Gonna make you feel so nice,” he continued, stopping to admire your glistening folds, all wet and leaking just for him. He ran his pointer finger between your folds, gathering your moisture before slowly slipping the finger in. 

“Oh-” you gasped, closing your eyes as Jungkook’s finger stroked your walls, curling it just right. “Gonna put another one in,” he murmured, slipping another finger in. A loud moan escaped your lips, spurring your boyfriend to move in quicker and deeper movements, his fingers hitting repeatedly your g-spot almost as if in a quest to let you release as many sounds as possible. Slick sounds and ragged breaths filled the room, your mind clouding into a hazy state. The bands in your stomach threatened to snap at any moment now, your walls fluttering around Jungkook’s fingers.

Said man, of course, wanted to toy with you a little longer before giving you the relief you needed, and that’s why he immediately pulled his fingers out, chucking darkly at your disappointed whines. He slipped the same two fingers in his mouth, moaning around them as your juices dripped on his tongue. “Always taste so good,” he groaned, leaning down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Think you’re ready for me, princess?”

You nodded eagerly, though you couldn’t hide the nervousness pricking at the back of your neck. “Can you just… be gentle? Like, a lot? Pretty please”.

“Of course, princess, you don’t even have to ask. We’re gonna take it nice and slow, yeah?” of course there was no doubt that Jungkook already planned on taking it easy with you, nevertheless the confirmation was much needed for you, helping your nerves ease even a tiny bit. 

The man sat back on his knees, taking off his pants and briefs in one go. Even though it wasn’t the first time you had seen him completely naked, you couldn’t help but stare at him mesmerised. He was just that good looking, his body built the same way the greeks carved their most beloved statues. Your mouth ran dry at the sight, and your hands itched to explore every inch of flesh. 

Jungkook leaned back down, caging your head between his arms. He stroked your cheek lovingly, kissing you softly before asking “Do you want me to put a condom on?”

You shook your head, whispering “I’m still on the pill, it’s fine. Wanna feel you raw”. Your boyfriend closed his eyes at the confession, your desire of feeling him bare both arousing and touching. “Okay,” his hand reached between your bodies, holding his member in a firm grasp as he ran his almost purplish tip over your folds, gathering your wetness. 

“Oh god,” you choked out, your walls clenching around nothing. Finally, Jungkook aligned his cock with your entrance, looking at your face one last time before slowly pushing it in, holding you closer to his chest as you gasped in discomfort. “Kook…ngh, wait…”

“I got you, princess,” he cooed, stopping his motion immediately. He stroked your hair, and he didn’t even wince when you bit his bicep to ignore the discomfort between your hips. “‘s alright, love. I promise it’s gonna feel nice really soon, hold tight for me”.

You nodded, taking a shaky breath in before your boyfriend pushed a couple more inches or so inside you, settling deep before he stilled his movements, waiting for you to give him permission to do anything. Despite the uncomfortable sensation, you couldn’t ignore how full you felt and how good it felt to have him nestled inside your walls completely bare, allowing you to feel even the littlest throb. Meanwhile, your angel of a boyfriend did everything in his hold to distract you, from kissing your lips to nibbling your earlobe, wanting you to feel good yet feeling guilty because he couldn’t do anything to let the pain subside faster.

“Mmh- Kook… I think you can move now,” you croaked out, catching Jungkook’s attention. The man whispered a soft “okay,” then locked your lips in a slow and passionate kiss as he began moving, pulling out almost entirely before pushing back in, over and over again. Soon, you whimpers of discomfort turned into moans of pleasure, and Jungkook followed you by example. Noises of skin slapping skin echoed in the bedroom, almost harmonising with your moans and grunts. 

“Princess… can I- fuck, can I go faster?” you nodded again, throwing your head against the pillows as Jungkook’s hips picked up their pace, almost snapping against your body. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, jaw hanging low while your boyfriend got drunk on the sight, hissing as he felt himself approaching his orgasm at light’s speed. His hand reached down, toying with your clit to bring you closer to your finish line. However, he almost lost it all when you let out a loud, almost pornographic, moan, your walls sucking him in greedily. 

His brows furrowed in concentration, determined to make you cum before he did. “C’mon, princess, give it to me,” he grunted, applying the right pressure to your clit to make you completely unravel under him, whimpering and shaking as your walls fluttered around his dick. “Fuck!” he exclaimed, pulling out just in time to spill his warm milky white cum on your tummy, decorating your skin in ropes of white. 

He laid beside you with a huff, scanning your body with his eyes to check that everything was alright. He took a strand of hair falling onto your eyes and lovingly pushed it behind your ear, smiling at you softly as you opened your eyes back. “Doing alright, love?”

You hummed, feeling too weak to mutter out anything. Your body still shook with the aftershocks of your orgasm, and you felt your sensitive sex still pulsing uncomfortably, but overall you felt great, and your mind wasn’t running miles per hour for once. 

Jungkook pulled you in closer, wrapping his arms around you, holding you tight. “C’mon, I’ll run us a bath. You’ve been so good, I love you so much, princess.”

© voitier 2025

⭒ a.n: first fic on here! let me know what you guys think, I'm so excited!

[midnightsnyx]

come back home - jack hughes

pairing: jack hughes x reader warnings: angst with a hint of fluff word count: 879 requested: yes / no author note: i have like a million other projects i need to write but i just need to get my sad feelings out so yeah, sorry lol masterlist requests are open

It’s quiet when you step in to the apartment you and Jack shared which wasn’t unusual in the past few months. Quiet was how the two of you lived lately. Tip toeing around each other as if you were walking on egg shells.

Part of you was tired of it and asked yourself if it was really worth it. But the other part of you wasn’t sure if you knew how to live without him anymore and that thought alone scared you. It made you realize how much you had grown to depend on him.

You hear his voice before you see him.

“You’re home.”

His voice is hoarse and you know that he just woke up from a nap. His ruffled appearance confirms it when he meets you in the living room.

“Yeah,” you whisper, staring at the floorboards. You hadn’t been home for days - not since the fight the two of you had. Your best friend let you crash at her house after you told him you needed space which explains his next question.

“Why?”

Truthfully, you aren’t sure what made you decide to come home. Your friend had told you that you were welcome to stay as long as you needed and had even put her two cents in on the whole situation.

Her words stuck with you since you broke down and told her everything that had been going on.

“He may love you. He probably does… or at least he maybe thinks he does. But that’s not what matters, sweetie. What matters is what he is doing to show you that he does and right now… he isn’t doing anything.” She squeezed your hand and smiled gently. “You deserve someone who goes out of their way to show you how much they care about you.”

The worst part was that she was right. When was the last time he had went out of his way to do something for you? It made you think back to the beginning of your relationship when he treated you like you were the most important thing in his life. But you suppose that all new relationships begin like that.

You realize that he’s still staring at you intently and you try to come up with some reason you came back rather than the truth, which was that you were too dependant on him and you felt like you needed him as much as you needed air to breathe.

“Can you at least tell me one thing?” he asks after you’ve been silent for so long and all you can do is nod.

“Why did you leave?”

You don’t have to think about the answer to this question because it was something that had been haunting you for quite some time.

“I guess I started to feel like I needed you more than you needed me,” you tell him quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself tightly.

“Look at me,” he says and you let your eyes meet his. “I love you.”

You want to believe him but your friends words keep coming back to haunt you. Did he love you or was he drunk on the idea of it? Something your mom told you a long time ago was that there is a distinct difference between loving someone and being in love with them. It’s easy to lie to yourself about loving someone but you can’t lie to yourself about being in love with them.

“How are you so sure?” you ask him.

“How could I not?” he says and you’re about to tell him that his answer isn’t good enough but he doesn’t stop there. “Baby, you’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of when I’m falling asleep at night.” He slowly walks over to you and reaches out with one hand, letting his thumb run across your cheek. “I think about your smile and your laugh and about how you are the only person I want to come home to.” You watch as he looks away from you and stares at a picture of the two of you. It’s from a trip the two of you took last summer during break. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit. You’re scared that if you let things go back to how they were before, you’ll end up back here in this exact situation. “I’m afraid that this will become a cycle and I can’t do it, Jack. I physically can’t handle that.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just looks at you as if you’re the only thing in the world, his world, that matters. It makes you weak in the knees and this is the Jack you fell in love with. 

“Just come home,” he whispers. “We can figure everything out. Together.”

It’s a risk, deciding to give everything another shot. To put your heart on the line. But you remember something else your mom told you once.

“The right people are worth staying for”, she had told you.

You take a deep breath and nod, hoping that you’re making the right decision.

“All right,” you tell him and he grins, kissing you for the first time in months and it feels like coming home.

[suzukiblu]

welp I remain INCREDIBLY weak to positive reinforcement, haha, so day two of “Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it” behind the cut. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Tim takes the obvious opportunity that Bernard chattering and Kon being a little bit dumbstruck gives him–because like, of fucking course he does, he’s a Bat–and offers Kon the caramel-dipped waffle quarter again, and Kon, like . . . okay, well fucking obviously he’s gonna eat it, Bernard made the damn caramel from scratch and Tim is offering it to him. Like, there is not a world in which he does not eat that. 

He takes a bite, mostly distracted by what Bernard’s going on about with whipped cream and hand mixers and whatever and idly having some related kinky thoughts because, like, in his defense, whipped cream, and then forgets completely about what Bernard’s going on about with . . . whatever Bernard’s going on about. 

“Oh my god what did you put in this,” Kon blurts, half-covering his mouth with a hand before he accidentally spits out any waffle crumbs and staring at Bernard for a moment. Like, the waffle is warm and basically the perfect mix between outside crunch and inside fluff, but also it tastes like–what the fuck is in this, seriously, is there sex pollen in this or something? 

“Oh, it’s actually basically my banana bread recipe, so . . . banana? Like a significant amount of banana, and then some sour cream, and a little cinnamon, brown sugar, and vanilla,” Bernard ticks off, gesturing with a waffle chunk of his own before spooning some whipped cream onto it, because Bernard apparently just made . . . everything on this breakfast tray from scratch, okay. Like . . . yeah. Okay then. “And also there’s some chocolate chips and chopped pecans in there, because like, literally what is not better with chocolate, seriously. Admittedly I don’t actually know how good it is with peaches, haven’t tried that one before, but I figure at least the caramel should be good.” 

Kon stares blankly at the dude and resists the instinctive marriage proposal currently warring with his natural “kept boy” instincts, then takes another bite of waffle when Tim offers it. It keeps tasting, like, fucking delicious, and also now he can break down “fucking delicious” in a little bit more detail than, like . . . just “fucking delicious”, basically. 

. . . will Ma kill him if he asks another cook for their waffle recipe? Is that a thing he might have to worry about? 

. . . . . . could be worth it, honestly. And she might let him live if he shares. 

“Do you, like, cook a lot, or . . . ?” he asks, half-trailing off when Tim feeds him more fucking deliciousness, which is in his defense pretty distracting. Like–Jesus, how did Bernard get an alleged banana bread recipe to make waffles this fluffy? Like, what fucking witchcraft was involved in that one? 

“Constantly and all the time and nowhere near as much as I wanna, so honestly the excuse to make an extra sauce was kinda nice, not gonna lie, it’s very relaxing,” Bernard replies frankly, stacking up some banana slices on his waffle chunk and then making himself a little waffle sandwich to stuff into his mouth effectively whole. The little waffle sandwich is weirdly adorable. Like, to the degree Kon would probably find it adorable even if he weren’t high on pink kryptonite right now, but like, maybe that’s the banana bread waffles’ fault. “Well, actually caramel is low-key the devil because you cannot ever take your eyes off it ever without it burning to shit and ruining your godsdamn pot, but it’s not like I didn’t have time to baby it so it’s whatever. Why, do you cook?” 

“Um . . . naw, just I help, um . . . well, there’s, like–I help bake, a little?” Kon replies hesitantly. Which, like, is mostly just him fetching shit and kneading stuff for Ma so her arthritis doesn’t act up as a dumb little excuse to, like, hang around the kitchen and living room area when she and Pa are talking, sometimes, but . . . technically it counts, he guesses? Like, technically? 

Bernard perks up, like–instantly, and to a really surprising amount, which is a little weird, and Kon isn’t sure what that’s about. 

“Oh, so the most evil culinary art then, wow,” Bernard says, sounding impressed. Which is definitely not what he is actually is, unless Kon has somehow given him a very incorrect impression of his baking skills, but still feels a little flustering to hear in relation to, like, something besides being good in bed. Like, just given the nature of this particular long weekend and all. 

“Uh–what?” Kon asks, trying to figure out what Bernard’s actually talking about here, and Bernard starts making himself another little banana/whipped cream waffle sandwich with an easy little shrug. 

“You know, like how the first rule of cooking is have fun and be yourself and the first rule of baking is stay calm because the dough can smell fear, is what I mean,” he replies reasonably. 

“I mean it’s not that hard, honestly, I can kinda like, just feel when it’s baked enough without having to check, so . . .” Kon shrugs himself, feeling a little awkward about it. Like–it’s kinda cheaty, honestly. “Or like, proofed or whatever.” 

“I hate you, come work at the restaurant I’m gonna open when I’m thirty-two, you can make all our bread in-house,” Bernard says very feelingly, and Kon forgets the awkward feeling to start snickering, because this dude is ridiculous, and still funny as fuck on top of that. 

“I literally just help out, man,” he says. “I am at best the actual baker’s errand boy.” 

“You just told me you can feel when the bread’s risen enough, you bastard, I am gonna press-gang you into this restaurant if I have to,” Bernard retorts huffily, then pauses, looks speculative, and asks: “Does that work on souffle, actually?” 

“I mean, I guess it would?” Kon replies with a frown, tilting his head a little. “Never tried, but–” 

“Hey Tim, I’m press-ganging your boy onto the line, good news, you won’t have to deal with me ranting about how much I hate my pastry chef every morning over coffee when we’re thirty-two,” Bernard informs Tim casually, and Tim’s mouth quirks in amusement and Kon just laughs helplessly again. 

“Oh my god, Bernard, I am the last person you wanna get to make pastry, much less restaurant pastry,” he says, still laughing. 

“I don’t know, your presentation skills would be pretty good, I’d think,” Tim says reasonably, which totally derails Kon’s cracking up. “You’re pretty artistic when you want to be. And definitely creative, and good with your hands on top of that.” 

Kon feels briefly startled–like, startled enough to not even make a sex joke about the “good with your hands” comment–because he like . . . basically never does anything that’d really count as “artistic”, as far as he’s concerned, and he’s really only “creative” in terms of coming up with creative new ways to curbstomp bad guys or whatever, not . . . 

He bites the rest of the waffle quarter out of Tim’s hand, mostly to give himself a second to process all the weird things he’s feeling about Tim saying something like that, and then has some more weird feelings when Tim swipes the pad of his thumb across the corner of his mouth to get up a smudge of caramel and then taps it lightly against Kon’s mouth to like . . . invite or offer, maybe, Kon’s not sure which. 

Though like, obviously he licks it clean either way. 

“Ohhhhh, hey, so how delicate does the TTK get?” Bernard asks, his eyes gleaming. 

“Uh–I mean, borderline atomic-level, depending?” Kon replies, a little bewildered still. “But like, that’s kinda an adrenaline-fueled apocalyptic sitch kinda thing, so mostly just . . . I dunno, tweezers? Mini-screwdriver? Somewhere in there?” 

“Okay, so when every single fine dining establishment in Gotham tries to poach you from me, I need you to remember how much you liked my dick when you were gay and pay that favor back by not accepting their disgusting amounts of money and prestige,” Bernard says, and Kon can’t help laughing again, or feeling, like–kind of warm, again. Like, kind of in the horny way, but also kinda . . . not, maybe. 

Seriously, it’s so weird how much hanging out with Bernard feels like getting a crush on a girl he’s just met. Like–very, very much so. Increasingly so, at this point. 

“I dunno, man, unless your fine dining establishment has a pink K chandelier . . .” he counters teasingly, and Bernard looks straight-up delighted by that idea. 

“Ooo, I bet that lighting would be sick, very romantic ambiance for the customer base,” he says with a grin. “What do you think, I could do my supervillain career in Metropolis and then retire to Gotham with all my ill-gotten gains and invest in a chandelier or twelve. You totally wanna get fucked after-hours on my prep counter under flattering rosy lighting, right?” 

“Come on, man, I look good in any lighting,” Kon scoffs, making a show of preening. “Or on any counter, as a matter of fact.” 

“Valid,” Bernard agrees with a sage nod, and Kon feels an irrational level of heat in his face but grins at him again anyway. Like–whatever, it’s the kryptonite; doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the ride. 

“Yeah, I’m sure the health department would love that, you two,” Tim says wryly, the corner of his mouth ticking up in amusement. 

“Oh my god, Tim, like we wouldn’t clean up after,” Bernard huffs, making a show of rolling his eyes. “Like I don’t know basic food safety standards. But fiiiiine, I’ll put in a special counter just for fucking your boy on when I’m doing the initial remodel, would that make you feel better?” 

“You designing your future professional kitchen with a specific place reserved to have sex with my best friend in it?” Tim asks, tilting his head slightly with a briefly speculative expression. 

“Yes, obviously,” Bernard says. 

“If you made sure the security cameras’d have a good view, I guess,” Tim allows. 

“Why would I need to, look at him, the cameras will be magnetically attracted to him,” Bernard scoffs, and Kon feels sort of–flustered, maybe, and flushed, and kinda–flattered, almost? Just . . . something about that particular sex fantasy is . . . 

Like, it’s just–it's still just a jokey fantasy, yeah, but it's one that sounds like, like . . . like an actual plan would, almost. Like, obviously still just a joke, but . . . he doesn’t know, just a more flattering joke, somehow. Kinda. Also, if he’s really thinking about it . . . well, obviously there’s sex in it, but it’s really less a sex fantasy than it is just, like . . . 

Well. Just . . . a fantasy, he guesses. Like . . . like they’ll all just still know each other in their thirties and know each other well enough to wanna hang out that much and . . . 

Just–yeah. So it’s a little more flattering, kinda. Like, as a fantasy and all. 

It is also making it real fuckin’ hard to concentrate on breakfast, under the circumstances. 

Tim offers him another slice of peach, and Kon bites his lip and glances up at his face again. 

“Rob, man, yours is gonna get cold,” he points out. 

“Really not worried about it,” Tim says, which is sort of hard to argue with, but like . . . 

“But–” Kon starts reflexively, and Tim taps the peach slice against his lower lip. 

“Eat your breakfast like a good boy, and I'll give you something good while I eat mine,” he says, and Kon’s brain fritzes out completely and his gut goes absolutely molten. “Open up.” 

Kon doesn’t even take a moment to actually say anything or even nod, just immediately opens his mouth. 

Tim smiles down at him soft enough to really fry his brain and sets the peach slice on his tongue. There’s some caramel sauce on it, and Kon flashes back to Tim doing the same thing to him with the candy with his own damn come on it and kind of, like, spontaneously combusts or explodes into a supernova or just melts down into caramel himself. 

Tim taps his mouth shut with two fingers under his jaw, and Kon just about fucking swoons over it. 

So–yeah, he is definitely not gonna be arguing about the temperature of anybody’s breakfast right now.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

House’s girlfriend forcing him to go to Wilson’s because she has the flu and doesn’t want him to get sick? I’m currently sick with the flu because my brother went with my dad knowing he was sick then my dad came to me knowing he was sick so now I’m suffering. Yay

A/n: I am so sorry I missed this! i hope you feel better.

You were laying on the couch, bundled in a thick blanket with a warm cup of tea that was left untouched, because the thought of drinking anything make you sick. Your nose was red, your voice was hoarse, and you had a miserable scowl on your face as you looked up at your boyfriend, the man you loved...Gregory House, who was sitting on the arm of the couch, twirling his cane between his fingers.

“Greg, I’m serious,” you croaked. “Go to Wilson’s. I don’t want you getting sick.”

House smirked, reaching over and placing the back of his hand against your forehead before you could swat him away. “I hate to break it to you, but if I was going to catch your plague, I already have it.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, pushing his hand away. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re delirious,” he shot back. “If you think I’m leaving, you clearly need your fever checked again.”

You groaned, shifting under the blanket. “You hate being sick.”

“True,” House admitted. “But I hate Wilson more.” He smirked at yourweak glare. “Besides, if I go to his place, he’ll start analyzing my emotional state, force me to watch boring movies, and try to convince me to talk about my feelings. Staying here and mocking your suffering is much more entertaining.”

You sniffled, looking at him with tired eyes. “You’re the worst.”

House reached over and tucked the blanket more securely around your shoulders, feigning nonchalance. “I know.” He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before you could protest.

You huffed. “You’re going to regret that when you wake up sneezing tomorrow.”

House gave you a smug grin. “Nah. I’ll just make Wilson take care of me.”

[ryomensdoll]

thinking of smitten!sukuna is my rawest guilty pleasure smitten!sukuna who swears up and down he doesn’t give a damn about you, yet somehow always finds himself watching you like a predator with a lustful gaze.

smitten!sukuna who claims he doesn’t have time for stupid mortal attachments, yet his body betrays him when he pulls you into his lap without thinking, fingers gripping your waist, pressing you flush against him. “You make me soft, brat,” he mutters. “Should punish you for it.”

smitten!sukuna who says he doesn’t care what you do, but the moment you look at another man a second too long, he’s forcing your wrists above your head with a grip so tight you can’t move. “You think anyone else could control you like I do? You belong to me, and I’m going to remind you of it.”

smitten!sukuna who’s used to pushing boundaries and loves hearing your desperate moans as he drags you to your breaking point, but when you wince just a little too hard under his touch, his grip softens for a split second, as if worried he’s done too much. “I don’t want to hurt you… though I might if you keep suppressing those pretty little moans.”

smitten!sukuna who still won’t call it love, but when you’re trembling underneath him, moaning his name like a sinful prayer, he can’t help but grin uncontrollably, muttering, “Mine.” over and over until you understand.

[paishoeyeroh]

Bearer And The Bound

☰ Pairings: Sukuna x Reader, Slight Megumi x Reader

✧ Summary: When you stumble upon an ancient ring in an abandoned house, you unknowingly bind yourself to a cruel, powerful demon who thrives on torment. Trapped in a reluctant bond and forced to navigate a shared existence, Sukuna plots your downfall while you fight to survive his sadistic games. But as your fates entwine and secrets of Sukuna’s dark past begin to unravel, the lines between enemy and ally start to blur.

✧ Tags: True form Sukuna, Enemies to Lovers, Dark Romance, Demonic Bonds, Heavy Angst, Slow Burn, Sukuna is Bad at Feelings, Possessive Sukuna, Tension, Forced Proximity, Eventual Smut, College/University AU, More Tags To Be Added Later

✧ Status: Ongoing

✧ You can also read it on AO3

☰ CHAPTER TEN: Fracture

Chapter Summary: You push. Sukuna breaks.

☰ Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Sukuna is ignoring you.

At first, you don’t think too much of it, assuming he’s just quiet this morning. You hadn’t seen him since last night, after all, and you figured things might be a little… tense. But by the time you’re sitting through your first lecture, tapping your pen against your notebook in distraction, the truth becomes evident. He’s doing it on purpose.

No odd comments thrown your way, no dry observations, no flickering glances. He follows, because he has to, but he doesn’t acknowledge you once. It’s as though you don’t exist.

You try to push it aside, to focus on your professor’s voice, on the words you should be writing down, but it hurts. There’s no denying that.

There’s really only one explanation for his coldness. Last night. The way you were drawn to each other like magnets. And then, Megumi’s call. A reminder of the one person Sukuna seems to despise, though you’ve never been entirely sure why. He’s never liked Megumi, never tried to hide his distaste. Whatever his reasoning, you know the timing isn’t a coincidence. Whether it was the moment itself or the interruption that followed, it’s clearly bothering him.

And if it’s not? If there’s something else behind his silence? That thought is even more frustrating, because it means you still don’t know what’s going on inside his head at all.

Between classes, you catch sight of a familiar head of pink hair bobbing above the crowd. Yuji. At the sight of him, you remember your conversation with Megumi last night. You decide to call out his name.

He turns immediately, eyes lighting up the second he spots you. A wide grin spreads across his face, and before you can brace yourself, he’s bounding toward you, all but skipping across the hall.

“Hey!” he exclaims, wrapping you in a tight, familiar hug. The embrace is warm, effortless, and you sink into it without hesitation. A real, genuine smile tugs at your lips, one you didn’t have to force. His energy, so bubbly and contagious, fills your insides with light, chasing away the darkness you’ve been carrying all morning.

“I was just thinking about you! Nobara and Megumi are coming over later to hang out. Wanna come?” he tilts his head closer to you, his hand coming up to cup the side of his mouth as he lowers his voice, “there’ll be weed and snaaaacks,” he sing-songs, as if he’s trying to bribe you into coming.

You giggle at his antics, but you feel a tight pang in your stomach at the realization that he’s trying to convince you, probably because he thinks you don’t want to go.

“Alright, I’ll come. But I’m not smoking any of your weed. Not after what happened last time,” you say with a grimace. Yuji’s weed is always incredibly strong, and since you’re not much of a smoker anyway, it had too great of an effect on you the last time you tried it. You don’t even want to think about it. The head spinning. The paranoia. The crying. Not fun.

Yuji throws his head back as he laughs, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and you have no doubt the memory is playing back through his mind.

“Oh yeah! I forgot about that. Good times,” he mocks as his hand comes up to squeeze your shoulder. “Well, just come over whenever after class. Nobara and Megumi are catching a ride with me, so we’ll all be there.” He waves his hand at you as he walks away. “See ya later!”

You find yourself still smiling long after Yuji passes by you in the hallway, his bright and bubbly mood never failing to cheer you up. Tonight is going to be just what you need.

As long as Sukuna behaves with Megumi around.

Your smile immediately falters at the thought. You glance over at him, standing a few feet away leaned up against the lockers, looking in the opposite direction of you. You sigh as you head to your next class.

The rest of the school day goes by quickly, now that you have something to look forward to. As Sukuna continues to neglect your existence, you become more and more certain that he will keep up the charade at Yuji’s place. The thought almost comforts you. Maybe it’ll feel like old times again, before you ever put on that damned ring.

You make your way up to Yuji’s apartment, lightly rapping your knuckles against the door.

It flings open suddenly, and Yuji’s standing there in all his marijuana-induced glory, having clearly started smoking already. His eyes are half-lidded and red rimmed, and there’s a wide, goofy smile plastered across his face as he welcomes you.

“Heeey! Guys, I told you she’d come!” he shouts back to the others, before beckoning you inside. You take a step in, with Sukuna following behind you before Yuji closes the door.

The moment you step inside, the thick, unmistakable scent of weed hits your nostrils. It’s warm in here, cozy in that lazy, indulgent kind of way. The coffee table is a mess of half eaten snacks—open bags of chips, crumpled candy wrappers, a box of cookies that’s already looking dangerously empty. And right in the middle of it all, Yuji’s bong sits proudly, a testament to the night they’ve obviously already been having.

Megumi is sprawled out on the couch, legs spread wide, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in months. His head tips lazily toward you, and a slow, lopsided smile spreads across his lips as he greets you. You return it, unable to control the tugging at your lips at the sight of him so at ease for once.

Yuji flops down beside him with a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. Meanwhile, you settle onto the floor next to Nobara, who turns to you with a look of pure relief.

“Thank god you’re here. I can’t listen to those two anymore, especially Yuji. I think I can actually feel him making me dumber.”

“That’s not because of me, it’s the weed, idiot,” Yuji quips, ducking to avoid the pillow she throws at his head in response.

You laugh, shaking your head, as you turn back to Nobara. “How’d your date go the other night?”

She immediately rolls her eyes, reaching into her bag of chips and pulling out a handful. “Ugh, don’t even get me started,” she shoves the chips into her mouth, crunching loudly. “First, he didn’t open the door for me. Then, he tried to, like, order my own food for me? And to top it all off, he didn’t even compliment my outfit!” she crushes her bag of chips in her fist in anger.

“So, naturally, I ghosted his ass. I don’t have time for that kind of disrespect.”

“Naturally,” you snort, as Megumi coughs loudly, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke as he takes a rip of the bong. He reaches out, offering it to you.

“Want some?”

You turn to him, shaking your head.

“Nah, I’m good.” you decline, watching him pass the bong to Yuji. As you do, you notice something out of the corner of your eye. It’s Sukuna, and you watch as he rounds the corner, walking out of sight. Probably off to go pout somewhere by himself like a sullen child, you think as you inwardly roll your eyes. You have no intention of dealing with that for the remainder of the night. You quickly turn your head back to the group as Megumi speaks.

“Guys, can we put a different show on?” he asks, his voice strained, almost pleading. He swallows thickly, his gaze locked onto the screen like it’s about to crawl out and grab him. “This one’s freaking me out.”

Yuji squints at the screen, then back at Megumi.

“What? It’s just Pokémon, dude,” he says before he leans forward, studying Megumi like he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. “Are you good?”

Megumi stands shakily, his face pale, quickly making his way down the hall. “I’ll be back,” he weakly mutters over his shoulder.

Nobara and Yuji watch him for a moment, bursting out in simultaneous laughter after the bathroom door slams shut.

“He must’ve smoked too much. He’s probably in there freaking out,” Nobara manages to get out through her wheezes.

“It’s not his fault,” you defend, “Yuji’s weed is way too strong. Last time I smoked with you guys, I convinced myself I was in a simulation.���

You shudder as you recall the memory, but it only encourages another round of cackles from the two.

You watch them for a moment, trying to contain your own laughter. But after what feels like way too long for a regular trip to the bathroom, Megumi still hasn’t returned.

You glance over at Yuji and Nobara, but they’re engrossed in their own conversation. They’ve either forgotten about the situation entirely or are too high to care. Or both. You realize that you’re going to have to be the one to go check on the poor guy.

You stand up with a sigh, preemptively pouring a glass of water in the kitchen before heading down the hall.

As you pass by Yuji’s bedroom, the open door offers a glimpse inside. You glance in casually, only to stop dead in your tracks at what you see.

Sukuna is there.

Flat on his back, sprawled across Yuji’s bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. But something’s off.

His upper set of hands are thrown over his face, fingers digging into his forehead, covering his eyes like he’s trying to block out the world. The lower set of hands are clenched into fists, the muscles in his forearms tight, twitching with some kind of barely restrained force. You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s seething. Pure, unadulterated anguish radiates off of him, thick enough to suffocate the air in your lungs.

You watch him for a second, concern twisting deep in your gut. You’ve never seen him like this. Ever. Sukuna does not unravel. But here he is, unraveling right in front of you, completely unaware that he now has an audience.

Your lips part, the start of his name forming on your tongue, but before you can speak, his hands slide up, gripping into his hair with so much force it looks like he might tear it straight from his skull.

You stand in the doorway, mouth open, quickly snapping it closed when you notice the look on his face.

His eyes are squeezed shut, brows furrowed so tight it looks like it hurts. His lips part slightly as he exhales a slow, trembling breath, one that sounds like it’s been forced from the depths of his chest. His jaw clenches, the muscles flexing repeatedly, and his fingers tighten their grip on his hair almost desperately, as if he’s trying to anchor himself, to keep from coming apart entirely.

Your own breath stills in your throat. Every muscle in your body goes rigid, your mind struggling to catch up with what you’re seeing.

What the hell is going on?

A lump forms in your throat as you try to make sense of it. He’s been avoiding you all day, shutting you out since last night, and now… this? The distance, the cold silence, was all a cover, that much is clear now. But for what?

A part of you wants to go to him. To reach out, to touch him, to offer anything that might ease whatever war is raging inside of him. The urge claws at you, visceral and insistent, your arms aching to wrap around him in comfort.

But another part of you hesitates.

I shouldn’t be here.

You’re witnessing something raw, something unguarded and deeply, painfully human. A moment he never meant for anyone to see—least of all you. You’ve been toeing a dangerous line with Sukuna for a while now, but this… this feels like stepping over it. Stumbling over it, straight into a place you don’t belong.

You should leave.

The need to understand him, to help him, gnaws at you like a hunger, but he isn’t someone who needs things like that. Sukuna doesn’t want help. He is power. He is control.

But right now…

He looks like he has neither.

You catch yourself before you do something you’ll regret, clenching your hands around the glass of water you’d forgotten you were holding. Slowly, as to not make a sound, you creep past the doorway, heading over to the bathroom.

You press your ear against the door, listening for any sign of life from inside. Nothing. No movement, no shuffling. Only silence.

After a brief hesitation, you turn the knob and push the door open, peeking your head inside.

Megumi is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his elbows braced against his knees, his head cradled in his hands. His shoulders rise and fall with slow, deliberate breaths, the kind you take when you’re trying to will your heartbeat to steady.

“Megumi?”

He lifts his head at the sound of your voice, blinking sluggishly. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, his pupils blown wide. It takes him a second to register you standing there, and when he does, his posture stiffens just a little. A ghost of a smile flickers across his lips—weak, sheepish—before he clears his throat.

“I’m alright, I just needed to chill in here for a second.”

You step into the bathroom, closing the door gently behind you before lowering yourself onto the floor beside him. The cool tiles press against your legs as you settle in close to his feet, holding out the glass.

“Here, drink this. I got you some water.”

Megumi takes it, fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment. He doesn’t look at you right away, instead staring down at the rim of the glass like it suddenly holds the secrets of the universe.

“Thanks,” he mutters, finally lifting it to his lips. He swallows a few careful sips before adding, “Sorry for ruining the vibe.”

You shake your head, lips twitching into a small smile as you reach out, rubbing his arm in comfort.

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure him, your voice soft, “you didn’t ruin anything.”

That gets him to look at you, but only briefly, his eyes flickering to yours before darting away. He shifts slightly on the edge of the tub.

You grin, deciding to tease him just a little. “Come back out whenever you’re ready. Oh, and I’ll make sure that show isn’t on when you do.”

His lips part slightly before pressing into a flat line. A weak chuckle escapes him, half amusement, half mortification. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

You squeeze his arm lightly before rising to your feet. As you do, you glance down at him one last time, watching as he rubs the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. Stifling a giggle, you reach for the doorknob.

“See you out there,” you say, stepping through the doorway.

As you make your way back to the living room, you pass by Yuji’s room once again. This time, you keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, resisting the urge to steal another glance inside. If Sukuna were to catch you looking, even for a second, he’d know you saw him earlier. He always knows. And you’re not sure you’d be able to school your expression fast enough to keep the truth from spilling across your face.

Right now isn’t the time to deal with whatever it is Sukuna’s got going on. Right now, you just want to have fun with your friends. You can deal with anything else once you get home.

That’s what you keep telling yourself.

Upon re-entering the living room, you notice the show from earlier has already been turned off, the soft hum of music filling the space instead—low, rhythmic beats that sink into the atmosphere like a gentle pulse. Yuji is sprawled across the couch on his back with a half-eaten chip bag laying forgotten on his lap, one arm tucked behind his head, the other drumming lazy fingers against his stomach in time with the music. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, his expression distant, no doubt lost somewhere in the hazy lull of his high.

Nobara mirrors his sprawl on the floor, phone in hand, absentmindedly scrolling as she occasionally pops a chip into her mouth. You retake your spot beside her, snatching one from the bag without a word.

“Do you think that grass is, like, the earth’s pubic hair?”

“Yuji. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Nobara responds immediately. Based on her reply, you can only assume this has been going on for a while.

“I’m just saying! It makes sense if you think about it.”

“He’s kinda got a point,” you add with an amused tilt of your lips.

“Please, don’t encourage him.”

“You guys just need to get on my level. Nobody’s on my level,” Yuji pouts.

Before anyone can respond, Megumi reappears, looking far better than he did before. His complexion is no longer pale, his movements steadier, the color returned to his cheeks. He runs a hand through his hair as he steps into the room, shaking off the last remnants of his ordeal.

“Welcome back, buddy!” Yuji exclaims, immediately sitting up to make room for him on the couch. “We were worried about you! Were you fighting demons in there or what?”

Megumi levels a deadpan look at him before scanning the room, his gaze settling on you and Nobara before he sinks back into his previous spot. In one swift motion, he reaches over and swipes the bag of chips right off Yuji’s lap with a little more force than necessary.

“Nobody speaks of this outside of this room,” he says, voice flat as he pops a chip into his mouth. “Or you’re all dead.”

“Alright, jeez. Relax. Not like we’ve never greened out before,” Nobara mutters without looking up from her phone.

As the night winds down, conversations fade into a comfortable lull, and Nobara suggests putting on a movie. You settle in as it plays, watching it unfold on screen, but your mind is elsewhere now.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t stop thinking about what you saw in Yuji’s room—Sukuna lying there, his hands fisted in his hair like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will, seemingly teetering on the edge of some sort of breakdown.

You’ve never seen him like that, so unguarded, so vulnerable. You’ve seen him express emotion, sure. Anger, usually. Or quieter flickers hidden beneath sharp words and sharper smiles. But you’ve never seen something like that, not from him. It was unsettling, to say the least.

Is it because of me?

The question nags at you, digging into your ribs like a phantom dagger, whispering doubts into the corners of your mind.

Would he be angry if he knew you saw him like that? Or would he shut you out even more?

The idea sends a wave of sadness through you. Your heart aches for him. Whatever it is he’s going through, you have a sinking feeling that he’ll never open up, no matter how much you pry.

You shift in your spot, eyes flitting toward Yuji’s bedroom before quickly turning away.

Don’t.

The urge to check on him gnaws at you, but after the cold shoulder he’s been giving you all day, you doubt he’d give you the answers you’re looking for.

So instead, you decide it’s time to head home for the night. Yujis passed out anyway, having fallen asleep almost as soon as the movie started, and Megumi looks like he’s close behind him. You stand, gathering your things as you whisper your goodbyes, heading to the door.

Just as your fingers curl around the doorknob and open it to step outside, Sukuna appears, rounding the corner with his usual quiet grace. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t look anywhere but forward. He just slips past you and steps out the door ahead of you, carefully maneuvering his body so that his arm doesn’t so much as slightly brush your own.

You exhale slowly, watching his back as he strides ahead, his steps long and deliberate. You’re not surprised to see him keeping up his silent act. He doesn’t know that you saw him in Yuji’s room, after all. He doesn’t know you stood there, rooted in place, witnessing him beginning to unravel at the seams.

You step outside after him, the cold air a sharp contrast to the cozy warmth of Yuji’s apartment, slapping you like an icy wake-up call. Sukuna is already way ahead of you. The wind tugs at the strands of his hair, but he doesn’t react—just keeps walking, his movements purposeful, controlled.

By the time you reach the car, he’s already inside, the door shutting with a firm click. You sigh, tightening the grip on your keys.

You settle into the driver's seat, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot. The hum of the car feels louder than usual in the empty space between you. Neither of you says a word.

You want to say something, anything, to break this awkward tension. But… what can you say? You glance over in his direction briefly, but Sukuna is turned away, the side of his face barely visible in the dim light coming off the dashboard. You can’t tell if he’s avoiding you, or just lost in his own thoughts. Probably both. Either way, you can feel the distance continuing to grow between you with every minute that ticks by.

You clench your jaw, fighting the urge to demand an explanation for his behavior today.

Just drive.

When you finally pull into the parking lot to your apartment, Sukuna doesn’t wait. As soon as the car comes to a stop and you shut the engine off, he’s already out, his door slamming shut before you can un-click your seatbelt.

You watch his back as he walks ahead, his long strides forcing you to pick up your pace just to keep up. With every step, frustration burns hotter inside of you, winding itself around the ache that’s been sitting there since you saw him in Yuji’s room.

Why won’t he let you in? He’s hurting, you saw it with your own eyes. So why is he still keeping you at arm’s length? Why does he insist on suffering in silence when you’re right here?

By the time you reach the door to your apartment, your chest feels tight with your unspoken thoughts, the urge to voice them aloud becoming harder and harder to resist. You step inside right behind him, closing the door softly despite your inner turmoil threatening to spill over. And once again, Sukuna moves past you without a word, already striding down the hall, probably planning to disappear to wherever the hell he goes when he doesn’t want to be seen.

You make a quick decision. You’ve had enough of being ignored. You can’t just keep pretending everything is fine, like you’re sure he intends to. You have to say something.

“Sukuna.”

He stops, turning halfway around to face you. You study him carefully, searching for even the faintest trace of what you witnessed earlier—the tension in his jaw, the desolation in his face, the silent war he was waging within himself.

But there’s nothing.

Where there should be emotion—something raw and real—there is only an empty stare, a hollow reflection of the man you know lurks beneath his mask.

Cold. Dark. Void.

It’s a door slammed shut, an unspoken message that whatever moment of weakness you glimpsed was never meant for you.

The air between you grows infinitely heavier, colder. You can almost physically feel it, the absence of him, like something vital has been drained from the space he occupies. It prickles at your skin, wrapping itself around you, a quiet, almost suffocating numbness that mirrors the emptiness in his gaze.

He raises his brows at you, waiting for you to continue.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“Have I?” his voice is steady, indifferent.

You fold your arms across your chest, feeling your irritation finally rising to the surface. “Yes. You haven’t said a word to me all day. You haven’t even looked at me, not since—“ you cut yourself off, afraid to bring up the almost-kiss directly, “not since last night.”

Sukuna turns away, dismissing you with the shift of his shoulders, as if the conversation itself is beneath him. “There’s nothing to say,” he replies flatly, his tone impersonal, like he’s already decided this discussion isn’t worth his time.

But you refuse to allow him to slip through your fingers so easily. “Come on, don’t do that,” you step closer to him, determined to not let him brush it off, “don’t just… shut me out. Haven’t we moved past this?” your voice softens, the concern evident in your words.

Sukuna remains still, his shoulders drawn tight, his entire body wound like a thread stretched too thin. He doesn’t turn to respond, but his silence speaks louder than any answer he could give. And still, you push, even knowing it might only drive him further away.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” you continue, your frustration giving way to something dangerously close to pleading. “I’ve opened up to you about everything—about my past, my ex, my life. You’ve basically seen it all. But you? You’ve given me nothing. You hide behind this wall like you’re… some… untouchable thing.”

At that, Sukuna finally turns his head, just slightly, his narrowed eyes settling on you over his shoulder. There’s a shift in the way his eyes almost darken, like a tide pulling back before the wave crashes. His voice is low, almost a growl.

“What exactly do you want from me?”

His question stings, cutting deep. Your throat constricts, like his own words have wrapped themselves tight around your airway, but you swallow hard, willing yourself to push through it.

“I want you to stop pretending that this means nothing to you,” you say, gesturing between the two of you, between the space that feels impossibly vast despite how close you stand, “that I mean nothing to you.”

For a moment, he just stares blankly at you in response. Then, without warning, a low, humorless laugh escapes him, dry and sharp, like the crack of a splintering bone. “You think this… whatever this is, means something to me?”

You take a breath, the words that have been stuck inside you for days, weeks, finally crashing to the surface.

“I know it does,” you say, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts, “and I know you feel it too, Sukuna. You’re not as detached as you think you are.”

He whips around at that, his face twisting, a sharp flash of anger breaking through his emotionless exterior. His brows pull together in disbelief, a deep furrow forming between them.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he snaps, his voice sharp. “Let me guess, you think just because we’re stuck in this bond, you can ‘fix’ me, is that it? You think I can feel anything? Love? Don’t be foolish.”

You’re taken aback by his words, his sudden anger. This is not how you wanted this conversation to go at all. But it’s happening now, spiraling out of control right in front of you, and there’s no turning back.

“I’m not trying to fix you. I’m just asking you to let me in.” You step closer, desperate to break through the icy wall he continues to throw up, to finally see the real him that he’s been hiding behind it. You’re tired of him pretending there’s nothing left of the man he once was.

Fuck it. You might as well let it all out.

“I’m not like her, Sukuna.”

His reaction is immediate. Sukuna’s body stiffens, his shoulders locking into place as if he’s just been struck. His eyes widen dangerously as his stare burns straight through you, unsettling you to your core.

“What?” His voice is low, quiet, but full of warning, like a blade pressed to your throat.

Your pulse pounds rapidly in your ears, your instincts screaming at you to stop and retreat, but you can’t stop yourself. The words continue to spill out.

“Look, I know about Uraume. I know what she did to you. I—“

“If I were you, I’d choose my next words very carefully,” he interrupts, his tone razor-sharp and dripping with venom.

You really should stop talking. Any rational person would. But the next words are already on your tongue, your desperation outweighing your better judgment. If you just keep pushing, if you can just make him see—he’ll believe you. He has to.

“I’m not her, Sukuna. You can trust me. I would never do that to you.”

His eyes flash, cold rage igniting in them like a distant storm, dark and inevitable. He takes a slow step toward you, his presence suddenly overwhelming, and you have to lock your legs in place to fight the urge to step back in response.

“Since you think you know so much,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt, “then surely you know what happened to her, don’t you?”

Your eyes widen and you shake your head in response, your voice sounding much smaller and less confident than before. “No, I don’t.”

His expression changes, the sharp edges of his fury settling into something eerily calm. Too calm. His lips curl, not into a smirk, but something that resembles more of a grimace, though his eyes remain wide, uncanny and hollow.

“I killed her.”

He takes another step closer, and a sudden, primal fear rises inside you, sharp and instinctual. Your body tenses as you cower back.

His jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, a shadow of something—pain, maybe rage—contorts his features. But it’s gone in an instant, swallowed expertly by that cold, unrelenting mask.

“She screamed,” he continues, his voice dipping lower, “begged for mercy, for forgiveness.” A slow, humorless chuckle escapes him, causing a chill to run along your flesh. “As if it meant anything. As if I would ever grant her either.”

He takes a final step forward, and you don’t move, don’t breathe.

“I tore her apart, piece by piece for what she did to me. Watched her blood stain the ground like spilled ink. And when she finally stopped screaming, when she gasped that last, pitiful breath—“ he leans in, just slightly, “it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.”

Your stomach plummets, a sickening drop that leaves you dizzy. His words coil around your throat like a noose, tightening, choking. You had considered the possibility—of course you had. Sukuna had killed before. You had seen it yourself in the visions of his past. But those had been in battle, acts of war and conquest.

This… this was something else entirely.

A slow, merciless dismantling. A deliberate, calculated destruction of someone he once loved. Nausea rises in the pit of your stomach, threatening to bubble up into your throat. You stare at him, at the thing standing in front of you, and for the first time, you feel like you’re truly seeing him. The demon. The unrepentant, merciless king who had bathed in the blood of those who wronged him.

The Sukuna you’ve come to know—the one who met your wit with dry amusement, the one whose touch had once felt gentle against your skin, who had almost kissed you just yesterday—is gone.

“I…”

You take another step back, the words struggling to form on your trembling lips.

“You’re nothing like her,” he sneers, his voice laced with disdain, “and you never will be. You think just because you have some sort of odd little obsession with me, that makes you special? That I could ever feel for you what I once felt for her?” His lips curl into something akin to a snarl, “I am a monster. I kill, I destroy, I devour.”

His words strike like a blade, each syllable leaving his lips like tiny knives carving into your heart, stripping it away piece by piece, leaving you hollow. You can do nothing but watch, wide-eyed, empty, nothing left but the overwhelming ache where hope used to be.

“You’re nothing to me,” he continues, cruel and cutting. “Your pathetic little life is a mere speck in the grand scheme of things. I have been here for centuries. And I will continue to be here long after you’ve rotted, buried deep and forgotten underground.”

The room feels like it’s closing in on you, your vision blurring around the edges as your eyes begin to fill with unshed tears. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You have no words. The air is heavy, thick with the weight of his cold dismissal of you.

“I’m not capable of love, girl, and you’d do well to remember that.” He says, his voice quieter now, but no less harsh.

“I’m not some human you can change and mold into a version that you prefer. I’m a demon. That’s all I’ll ever be.” He takes a step back, his face hard and unrelenting. “And if you think for even a second that I could ever care about you, then you’re even more fucking pathetic than I thought.”

The tears come fast, scorching trails down your flushed cheeks as your breath turns ragged. Your vision blurs, the room shrinking in around you, and all you can think is that you need to get away. Away from him, from his words still ringing in your skull, splintering through your chest like jagged glass.

You don’t look at him. You don’t even think. You just run.

You barely make it to your bedroom before the first sob rips free, raw and uncontrollable. The door slams behind you, but it does nothing to stop the pain from clawing its way up your throat, your shoulders heaving with the force of it. You stumble forward, collapsing onto your bed, curling in on yourself like a wounded animal.

Your hands tangle in your hair, gripping tightly, desperately, as if you could anchor yourself, as if you could stop the ache spreading through your chest, sinking deep into your bones. But it’s useless. The sobs wrack through you, shaking you to your very core, your breaths coming sharp and fast, too fast, until you’re gasping, until it feels like you’re drowning in it, in him, in everything you thought you had and everything he just tore apart in an instant.

And still, his voice lingers. Still, it hurts.

How could you be so stupid?

Of course he doesn’t care. Of course he doesn’t feel. He’s a demon—a creature of pure, unrelenting cruelty. You knew that. You’ve always known that. And still, somehow, you let yourself believe. You let yourself hope that there was something more beneath all that rage and ruin, something real. Something for you.

But there isn’t.

There never was.

You’re just a pathetic, lovesick fool, chasing a dream that was never yours to begin with. He’s not a man. He’s not someone to be understood or saved, not someone who could ever love you back. He is darkness, destruction, a force of nature that does not bend, does not break, does not care.

Your stomach twists with the sheer humiliation of it, shame seeping into your skin like poison. How could you let yourself fall? How could you have been so blind?

Your body trembles as you curl in tighter, rocking slightly, trying to push it away, to find some shred of comfort in the wreckage. But the thoughts won’t stop. The hurt won’t stop. It digs into your ribs, carves itself into your heart, reminding you over and over and over—

“You’re nothing to me.”

A strangled sob tears from your throat, raw and broken, as you bury your face into the pillow, desperate to muffle the sound. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The ache in your chest is too big, too unbearable, clawing at your ribs, crushing the air from your lungs.

For a fleeting moment, you think about leaving. Just getting up and walking out the door, disappearing into the night, never looking back. Maybe if you run fast enough, far enough, you can outrun this pain, escape the weight of what you’ve done, what you let yourself believe.

But where would you go?

There is nowhere he wouldn’t follow. No distance you could put between you that the bond wouldn’t snap back into place, dragging you right back to him. He is inescapable.

And you are trapped.

Your chest tightens violently, a crushing, suffocating weight settling onto it, making it impossible to breathe. The walls feel smaller, the air thinner, the room closing in like a prison. You squeeze your eyes shut, fists clenching in the sheets, trying to steady yourself, to think, to breathe.

Breathe.

Eventually, the sobs fade, not because the pain lessens, but because your body simply can’t keep up with it anymore. You lie still, curled in on yourself, drained beyond measure. The tears don’t stop, though—they slip silently down your face, soaking into the pillow, leaving behind the sticky remnants of grief. The hurt remains, dull now, a hollow, throbbing thing inside your chest, like an open wound that refuses to close.

You take a trembling breath, staring blankly at the wall as the crushing silence of the room presses in around you, thick and suffocating.

“You’re nothing to me.”

The words replay in your head, slow and deliberate, sinking deeper with every repetition. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you were foolish, delusional to think you could ever be anything more than a passing amusement to him. To believe you could reach something inside him that simply doesn’t exist.

And yet.

Even as you think it, even as you try to carve the truth into your own heart, a part of you refuses to believe it. Because you know better.

You’ve seen it. Felt it.

Despite his cruelty, despite the ice in his voice, despite the way he shut you out like you were nothing—you know there’s something beneath it all, something he won’t let himself admit.

But if he refuses to acknowledge it… does it even matter?

The thought lingers, heavy and unresolved, sinking deep into the marrow of your bones.

It shouldn’t matter. It can’t matter.

As you lie there, hollowed out and aching, the weight of his words pressing into your ribs like iron, you know this wound won’t fade so easily. It’s carved too deep, settled too far inside you.

So you let the tears fall, silent and endless, tracing paths down your skin like a grief that refuses to be swallowed. You close your eyes against the darkness, but there is no escape—not from this, not from him.

All you can do now is endure.

☰ Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

☰ Taglist: @nerdybouquetofkittens-blog @after-laughter-come-tears @rizzyjuney609 @prezzleyy

[inkphoria21]

Midnight Whispers – JK oneshot

ᯓ★ Pairing: Jungkook x f. reader

ᯓ★ Genre: boyfriend!Jungkook / girlfriend!reader / lovers / fluff/ little smut / romantic / making out / smoking

ᯓ★ Summary:Y/n has a nightmare and steps on the balcony to smoke when jungkook joins her

ᯓ★ Words count: 2011

ᯓ★ Masterlist

English is not my first language

I wake up with a start, my chest rising and falling in rapid succession, heart hammering against my ribs as if it’s trying to break free. The remnants of the nightmare still cling to my skin like a second layer, sweat beading on my forehead. My fingers clutch the sheets, knuckles turning white, and for a few seconds, I have to remind myself that I’m here. I’m safe. The darkness surrounding me isn’t the kind that swallows you whole—it’s just the night, wrapping itself around the room in soft shadows. Beside me, Jungkook stirs, his

breathing steady, unaffected by my sudden jolt into consciousness. His bare arm is draped lazily across his side, his face buried in the pillow. I exhale, pressing a hand to my forehead, trying to steady myself. But the images—faceless figures, a suffocating void, the weight of something unseen—linger, refusing to be shaken off so easily. I need air. Carefully, I slip out of bed, making sure not to disturb Jungkook as I move. My feet are light against the wooden floor as I make my way toward the balcony. The night air hits me as soon as I slide the glass door open, its crispness biting at my overheated skin. The city sprawls beneath me, its lights flickering like distant stars, indifferent to my restless mind. Leaning against the railing, I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head. But the unease still lingers, crawling under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. I reach for the pack of cigarettes we keep outside, hands slightly trembling as I retrieve one and place it between my lips. The lighter clicks, the flame catching, and soon the familiar burn of nicotine fills my lungs. The sound of sheets rustling from inside makes me glance over my shoulder just as Jungkook steps onto the balcony. He squints at me, rubbing his eyes before letting out a small yawn. “You okay?” His voice is thick with sleep, and something about it makes my chest tighten. I hesitate for a moment before nodding. “Yeah… just needed some air.” He studies me, eyes flickering down to the cigarette between my fingers. Then, without another word, he steps forward and plucks it from my hand, taking a slow drag before exhaling the smoke into the cold air. His free hand finds my waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of my shirt to rest against my skin, grounding „Nightmare?” he asks, his voice quieter this time. I nod again, not trusting myself to speak. He doesn’t push for details—he never does. Instead, he stands beside me, offering me silent comfort, his warmth bleeding into me despite the chill of the night. After a moment, he passes the cigarette back, and I take another drag, the tension in my muscles slowly unwinding. The city hums below us, cars moving like tiny ants in the distance. It’s strangely peaceful up here, away from the noise of reality, just the two of us caught in this quiet moment. Jungkook turns to look at me, his dark eyes holding something unreadable. The glow of the city reflects in them, making them seem endless. His fingers move absentmindedly against my waist, sending little sparks of warmth up my spine. I don’t know if it’s the lingering adrenaline from my nightmare, the nicotine buzzing in my veins, or just the way he’s looking at me—but suddenly, the space between us feels too much. Before I can think twice, I lean in, closing the distance, and our lips meet. It starts slow, hesitant, like the first drag of a cigarette—tentative but intoxicating. His lips are warm against mine, tasting of sleep and smoke, and when I feel his fingers tighten on my waist, a quiet sigh escapes me.

Then something shifts. The hesitation melts away, replaced by something deeper, something raw. Jungkook presses into me, his free hand moving to cup my jaw, tilting my face to deepen the kiss. His lips part slightly, and when his tongue brushes against mine, I feel the last bit of tension unravel inside me. The cigarette between my fingers is forgotten, discarded onto the ashtray nearby as my hands find his shoulders, then his neck, pulling him closer. His body presses against mine, and I can feel the heat radiating from him even through the thin fabric of our clothes. I don’t know how long we stay like this—wrapped up in each other, tasting, breathing, feeling—but when we finally pull away, my lungs are heaving for a different kind of air. Jungkook rests his forehead against mine, his breaths warm against my lips. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a soft chuckle. “Well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing against my cheek. “That’s one way to get your mind off a nightmare.” I huff out a quiet laugh, my fingers still tangled in his hair. “It worked.” His smile lingers as he presses another kiss to my lips—this one softer, slower, like the last drag of a cigarette before it burns out.

And in that moment, with the city lights flickering below us and Jungkook’s warmth wrapped around me, the nightmare feels like nothing more than a distant memory.

[sibsteria]

pls for the love of god write more spencer. ur writing is everything

The difference between love and pretending…

Spencer Agnew x fem!Reader

a/n ask and ye shall receive

Masterlist

Warnings/Content: This be a short one, little bit of angst, pining, kissing, cheating, alcohol

Summary: He dated your friend, granted she treated him like dirt and you, doesn’t that break some kind of girl code? But he stood there, oh so beautiful and you just…

New! Spencer Agnew Prompt Series!

Prompt: “I can’t stop thinking about the last time we kissed.” “You say you don’t love me but you kissed me back like you did.”

Flashback

The living room was heavy with the heartbreak of your best friend and colleague, for that matter. A stupid romcom blaring colour from the tv that he swore he didn’t like in the dim light room, wine drunk to high heaven, scattered takeaway containers around the table and a big big box of chocolate.

Having just broken up with your friend, catching her kissing one of her guy friends when she thought she was alone, you were here to help him feel better. You didn’t know if it was working, but you hope it was, you hated seeing him like this- not because you had a crush or anything. You set them up together so really it’s your own fault, your own fault that you had to watch the two people you love in this world kiss over and over, your own fault he sat here upset.

The tension grew awkward after he spoke, “I should have dated you instead.” He laughed, but in a sort of self deprecation way. And the alcohol that cling to your brain made the case even worse as you blurted out- “Maybe…” Your eyes met his, you know it was wrong- he was going through heartbreak and he had belonged to your friend not six hours ago and…

He leaned down, unsure of what he was actually doing right now, and sure enough your lips met. It turned sloppy and messy, your lipstick smearing over his face as you gripped each others clothing.

What were you doing?

You felt embarrassed at yourself, he was hurting and you just let him kiss you like that, how selfish can you be?

Soon after you had pulled away, you made an excuse and left, you can’t do this to him or to yourself. You didn’t want to stay and become a rebound girl for the man you were pretty sure you loved.

You didn’t talk about it after that night, the rooms went silent and stuffy when it was just the two of you, neither of you knowing what to say.

Both of you tried to build your friendship back up, eventually getting to a point where you could exchange niceties when working, but in the back of your head you were sort of regretting what happened.

Until….

“Can I talk to you for a second…alone?” You paused as you packed up to leave, it was getting late and you didn’t want to bother the clean up crew.

“Um, yeah, sure- is everything okay?” You ask, your eyes darted anywhere but his face.

“No.” He put it plain and simple, it had been at least four months since that night, was he still angry at you?

“Oh…” Was all you could say, waving goodbye to your desk buddies before it left just the two of you.

“I can’t stop thinking about the last time we kissed.” He huffed out, swiping some hair out of his eyes.

“Ah…what do you mean?” You knew this was coming eventually, it was stupid to think it wouldn’t.

“I can’t stop thinking about it, about you…” You blink at his words, about you?

“About me?” Your breathing became a little heavier as the office was silent and still.

“About how much I want to kiss you again…” You gasped quietly, was he on drugs?

“Spencer…”

“I get it, if you don’t feel the same way but…I kind of know you do…” He trails off, looking a little awkward.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” You panicked a little, how did he know about your feelings? Was this a trick? You betted on Ian spilling the beans, of course he did!

“I feel like I used you that night, the night we kissed because…I knew you had feelings for me and I just…wanted to feel like someone loved me.” He’s upset at his own words, at himself for taking advantage of you and your feelings for him. You had gotten it all wrong, he wasn’t angry at you. You stayed calm even thought you felt utterly embarrassed that he had known about your feelings for so long.

“I…thought I was using you…because of how I felt and I thought I was being selfish letting you kiss me when I knew you loved her.” Her being your friend, of course.

“Let me kiss you again…” He stepped towards you, a fire in his eyes.

“What? Why?” You don’t want your feelings played around like that.

“Because…I, I like you back.” He softens at you, “Since that night, since the kiss, it’s like you messed with me…and I can’t stop thinking about you.” This can’t be true, it was just convenience.

“Spencer, no, you don’t. It’s just-“

“Yes…I do, I know the difference between love and pretending.” He was a smart man, of course he knew, not that you fully believed it.

“Okay, well…” You couldn’t do this to your friend, could you? You had only just patched things up after being angry at her for so long for breaking his heart, how would it look now if you just swooped him up? “I can’t…because she-“

“Forget about her, I stopped thinking about her the moment our lips touched and it’s not like she doesn’t deserve this…you shouldn’t care about her feelings more than your own.” Why was he so right?

“How are you so sure I love you, still? I don’t.” You had it coming as soon as you said that, your voice wavering because of the dishonesty in it. You couldn’t do this to her-

He scoffed, putting his hands up and cupping your jaw before pulling you into the most phenomenal kiss of your life, it happened quickly and you followed suit- kissing him back with the same passion.

His hands tangled in your hair as you came up to steady yourself on his chest, it went on for a while before he pulled away- a sick grin on his features.

“You say you don’t love me but you kissed me back like you did.” His eyes are shining as you can’t find anything to deny.

“I…” You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, you didn’t know what to say.

“One date? If we aren’t a match then that’s the end…but I don’t see that happening, I really, really want this to work with you. Don’t think about what she might think or say. We were friends for much longer and…you don’t need someone like her in your life” She did treat you terribly, you were always so kind to people and they took it for granted more often than not.

“You know, you are really stubborn.” You suppressed a smile, looking at him with a glint of joy in your eyes.

“Tomorrow? I’ll pick you up at 6? They do discounts on the bowling place down the street after 8, we could get some dinner…or something like that?” That sounded amazing, a chill first date.

“Perfect.” You bite your bottom lip, smiling.

“You won’t regret it.” He leans in to kiss your cheek.

What have you gotten yourself into?

[rafes-slut]

Could you do a smut/angst with Reader/Rafe. They're about to get it on in bed. She's been trying to keep it emotionless (even though they are dating) because she's been hurt in the past, so while they are dating and she's kind etc, she still keeps an emotional distance somewhat. Rafe tells her that he loves her but she ignores it, trying to just keep going and tries to make it less intimate, like avoiding eye contact and not kissing, but he keeps trying (in a green flag healthy way, not like forcing her or anything obviously) but he wants to be intimate fully if that makes sense

Hope you will like it x

Break Down These Walls

Warnings: angst, emotional vulnerability, trauma mention (past relationship wounds), soft/green flag Rafe, slow and intimate moments, praise, lots of kissing, implied aftercare.

The room is dimly lit, shadows flickering against the walls as the scent of Rafe’s cologne fills the air. The bed beneath you dips as he hovers over you, lips brushing against yours in a slow, teasing way that would normally make you melt. His fingers trail along your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, but you don’t react—not fully.

You’ve been here before. Not just with him, but in general. And every time, it’s the same. You keep it surface-level, physical, something that doesn’t require you to feel too much. Because feeling means vulnerability, and you don’t do that. Not anymore.

But Rafe? He makes it hard.

His mouth moves down your jaw, pressing kisses to your neck, his hands skimming your sides. His body is warm against yours, but you keep yourself rigid, eyes locked on the ceiling instead of on him.

“Look at me,” Rafe murmurs, voice rough but gentle.

You don’t. Instead, you shift beneath him, fingers curling into his shirt as you pull it over his head, keeping your movements calculated—detached. His eyes search yours, and you feel it, the way he’s waiting for something you can’t bring yourself to give.

So you push forward, tilting your chin up so that your lips meet his again, except this time, you don’t really kiss him. It’s a press, a means to an end, not something intimate. You don’t let it be.

Rafe pulls back slightly, brows furrowing. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, feigning innocence as you move your hands to his belt, trying to keep things moving. If you don’t stop, if you don’t give him a chance to say something, maybe he’ll let it go.

But Rafe doesn’t just let things go.

He catches your wrists, halting your movements. “You’re doing it again.”

Your stomach twists. “Doing what?”

“Shutting me out.” His voice is softer now, careful. “I told you I love you, and you didn’t even blink.”

You swallow hard, avoiding his gaze. “I just—I don’t—”

“You don’t what?” He leans closer, his nose nearly brushing yours, trying to get you to meet his eyes. When you don’t, his hands move, cupping your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. “Baby, it’s me. You don’t have to do this with me.”

Your chest tightens. You want to pull away, to shake your head and keep going, pretend like you didn’t hear him. But he’s right there, warm and real, looking at you like he actually cares.

Like he actually means it.

“I just don’t want to get hurt,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. It’s the first time you’ve said anything like it out loud. “I can’t—”

“You won’t.” He says it so easily, like it’s a fact. “I don’t want just this. I want you—all of you. And I know you want that too, even if you’re scared.”

His lips graze your forehead, slow and lingering. When you don’t flinch, he presses another to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then, finally, he brings his mouth back to yours, not forcefully, not rushed. He just waits.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. You could keep ignoring it, keep pretending like this is just another night, another moment that doesn’t mean anything.

Or you could try.

So you kiss him back. Properly, this time.

His lips mold against yours in a way that’s unfamiliar—not because you’ve never kissed him before, but because you’ve never actually let yourself feel it. His hands stay cradling your face, keeping you there, but not trapping you. He’s letting you set the pace, and for the first time, you don’t try to rush through it.

Rafe sighs into your mouth, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—to just let him in. His thumbs stroke slow, reassuring patterns against your skin, grounding you in a way that makes your head spin.

You don’t know how long you kiss him for. Time feels different when you’re not actively trying to block everything out.

Then he shifts, pressing you further into the mattress, his body flush against yours. His mouth parts from yours only to drag along your jaw, down the side of your throat, lingering in places he knows make you shiver. This time, you do shiver, and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, your fingers gripping his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin just to anchor yourself. You feel too much, and it’s overwhelming—but not in a bad way. You’ve just never let yourself have this.

His hands roam down, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning every inch of you for the first time. Even though he isn’t. You’ve been with him before, plenty of times. But this feels different. Because it is different.

His lips trail lower, ghosting over your collarbone as his fingers slip under your shirt. You let him pull it off, and this time, when he looks at you, you don’t turn away.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, almost in awe, like he’s seeing you for the first time, too.

Your stomach tightens. You want to deflect, make a joke, brush it off—but you don’t. Instead, you reach for him, guiding him back to you, letting his mouth meet yours again.

It’s slower now. Intimate. Real.

His hands explore, mapping every dip and curve of your body, but it’s not just about the physical touch—it’s about the way he makes you feel safe. The way he makes you feel like you don’t have to keep running from this, from him.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

Blurb Countdown To Daredevil: Born Again

3 Days: Safe & Sound - Taylor Swift (Feat. The Civil Wars) "just close your eyes/the sun is going down/you'll be alright/no one can hurt you now." SFW Matt patches you up after you get hurt. note: happy three days!!! to celebrate yesterday I got a daredevil tattoo yes im super normal-- this one isnt super long but i hope you enjoy anyways :)) countdown masterlist

Matt’s angry. Not with you, but with himself. He let you get hurt. He was the one who couldn’t protect you.

But of course, you’re not angry. You just feel bad that he’s so upset, because, well, he’s your Matthew, you want to comfort him.

“Baby, it’s okay, I’m fine—”

“You’re the one who’s hurt but you’re comforting me?” His voice is bitter, and he immediately regrets it when he realizes how off guard it takes you. He exhales, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snap at you.”

“It’s okay..” You repeat, quieter now.

He resists the urge to tell you to stop, that it’s not okay, that he’s the one that should’ve protected you! But instead, he finds bandages in the first aid kit you keep. His head is tilted up towards you as he pushes your sleeve up, beginning to clean up the blood that has soaked your arm.

Really, you’re not injured to an absurd degree—You have a couple of cuts, some deeper than others, on your arms, a few bruises, and a busted lip. It could’ve been worse. It would’ve been worse if Matt hadn’t shown up.

Matt’s movements are intent but gentle, and it makes you wonder—you know he has all this anger bubbling in him right now. Where is he redirecting it to so that his hands move so methodically? So sweetly?

So you ask him the question he asks you nearly everyday,

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” You wonder softly. Matt stills. His eyes flutter shut as he inhales. You’re confused, but you let him have a second.

Then, he leans in, and leans his forehead against yours, and with his eyes still closed, he confesses,

“I can’t believe I almost lost you.” His voice is quiet, but you hear his voice break, and a frown tugs at your lips. Your heart aches for him, all you can think about is that your beautiful Matthew has suffered so much.

“Hey, It’s okay,” You promise, and for some reason you’re crying too. You don’t know why, it could be the deep affection you’ve grown for him, or it could be those pretty brown eyes. You’re not sure.

Surely it’s not the fact that you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with him, or anything, right?

“It’s not okay,” His voice comes out in a whimper, “I can’t go through that, I can’t lose you,” He says.

“You’re not going to lose me,” You promise, as Matt’s hand moves up to wipe the blood off your lip, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but you’re stuck with me.”

You take his hand in yours and press a kiss to the back of it. He just nods, trying to stop himself from crying. He feels pathetic in this moment, weak for showing such emotional. But you see it as a sign of intimacy, a sign that he trusts you.

You lean in and kiss him softly, your hands coming up to wipe his tears with your thumbs. After a moment, he pulls away and leans his forehead against yours again.

“I love you.” He says softly, “More than I have ever loved anyone.” He confesses.

“I love you.” You promise, kissing the tip of his perfect nose, “I’ll never stop.” He doesn’t need to hear your heartbeat to know you’re telling the truth.