#i love how expressive he is with his look

[iroh-for-president]

SO PVIXISJSB *Iswallows it down my throat like a cobra*

I love his "I'm crazy" facial expressions

a really quick redraws of my babygirl

[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.

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men If You Turn Evil

AN: istg I keep getting all these ideas while working out 💗

Pairing: Lads boys x gn reader

Genre: DRAMA

Summary: after eons of nurturing the world with fragments of your heart, you learn the truth. Every death, every rebirth, burns in your heart. And now you want to burn the world.

(I do not own these characters)

Rafayel:

He looks at the destruction around him, the fragments of a broken city, the wrath in your eyes.

You pace the room, your steps unyielding to the passage of time.

He has been awake with you for countless nights, his ears filled with the cries of his kin, burning, drowning in the boiling seas.

He tugs at your arm, pulling you into his embrace, his fingers threading through your hair.

"Why can I not be at peace?" you whisper, cupping his cheek. "All our enemies have fallen, but why is there no relief? Who else must I seek to bring us justice?"

"It is my fault... I should have prevented this," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I should have never allowed it to come to be."

To watch you fall was his fall. To witness beauty drain from you was his failure. He has you back, but at what cost?

"But I will make things right," he whispers, pulling you closer.

"No more pain."

A gasp tears from your lips as his dagger pierces your back.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt, your blood soaking into his hand. "How dare you…" you seethe, your rage flickering even as your strength wanes. "I should have—"

Blood gurgles in your throat as he pulls your head against his chest, his shoulders trembling.

He would rather bear your hatred than lose your soul.

The cries of the world fade as a new one begins to take shape.

But all he can hear now are his own ragged sobs as he holds your cooling body.

Xavier:

"You have lost your mind!" Xavier’s voice is sharp, his fury barely masking the horror in his eyes.

He looks down from the castle walls, your castle now. Below, corpses rot on pikes, writhing with maggots.

Philos will never come to be. The world has already shifted on its axis.

You pin him to the wall, leaning him over the edge. "You will not talk to me like that, Xavier." Your voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is absolute. "This is my world. I may do as I please. It would do you good to listen, to stay as my consort, not the crown prince of Philos."

His breath hitches as he stares at you, searching for something, hesitation, remorse, restraint.

But you are resolute.

Your eyes soften at his distraught expression. Gently, you pull him back from the edge and release your grip. "Do not let this drive a wedge between us. I do not wish to lose you...I’ve only just remembered you." You press a kiss to his lips, warm, fleeting, achingly tender.

"This is merely a necessary cleansing," you murmur, as if explaining the weather. "A precaution, so the world understands the new order. So all who bled me for ages finally know what it means to bleed."

And so, bound by love, Xavier became a puppet to your wishes.

He waited for the new world you promised, sought desperately for the salve to soothe the wounds your changing forms left in him.

With time, he learned to ignore the mangled bodies outside the capital. The sunken faces beyond the castle walls.

He learned to be happy.

Zayne:

He never stands idle.

Not even at the first signs of your fall. Not even when the shadows lengthen, and the world begins to crumble at your feet.

He does everything he can to undo the damage.

He is a doctor, ridding people of pain is his purpose.

He funds revolutions, smuggles food and medicine, seeks to turn your heart away from vengeance.

But he does not leave you.

Not when you’re hurting. Not when the weight of the world fractures your soul. He stays, doing all he can to hold the world together before it collapses entirely.

For the first time in years, he prays to Astra.

He begs his god to aid the world.

Until you find his secrets. Until you strip him of the power you once gave him.

You lock him away in a tower, bound to you. And then...then, true helplessness sets in.

He watches his betrayal fuel your madness. Watches as your fury, once directed at tyrants, turns upon the innocent.

In the frozen chamber, you loom over him, his knees pinned to the ground by the weight of your power.

"Do you wish to leave me, Zayne?" Your fingers tilt his chin upward, forcing him to meet your crazed gaze. "Tell me, do you wish to escape?"

He does not flinch. His neck is littered with the climbing scars of his evol, of his futile resistance. It is all a proof of the turmoil within you, that settles upon his skin. He knows it better than any.

"No." His voice is steady. Resolute. "I wish to stay next to you."

He means it. Earnestly.

Even if your presence comes at this cost, he is willing to pay.

He has never wished to abandon you.

Not even at the cost of himself.

Sylus:

You are his moral compass.

So when you fall, he falls with you.

There is nothing to stop you both.

His days are spent treasuring the reality of having you back, of having your love.

And if the cost is the world, then let it burn.

The core in his eye revels in the doom. It rejoices in the love that blooms within you, in the hunger that consumes you both.

It is fulfilled.

He is fulfilled.

He does not make you ruler of just the Earth, he crowns you sovereign of the universe.

After all, he has always been willing to kill and die for you.

Devoured by your bloodlust, he kneels.

Your consort. Your ruin.

He is content in this fall.

Caleb:

He is your sword.

The day you pledge destruction, he is the hand that pulls the trigger. No questions asked.

He is content, more than content, being the only one to receive your love.

The world had it coming. To condemn you to such pain was their undoing.

He bleeds millions to warm the world that once sought to devour you. He has no mercy for those who cower beneath your gaze.

He has your love.

But why, then, does his heart fall at the sound of your hollow laughter?

Why can he not bring himself to burn the memories of the past?

Why has he kept your hunter’s gear, carefully stored away in his rooms?

He so dearly wishes to keep you pleased. But he knows, this destruction is not born of greed. It is the consequence of centuries of pain.

And no matter how much blood he spills, it will never ease that pain.

No matter how many bodies pile beneath your feet, he cannot bring back your joy.

That was stolen, broken, snatched by those who now rot in unmarked graves.

[crispywizardtale]

[hungharrington]

show-time

request: i cannot stop thinking about asking steve if he ever got himself off to you before you got together. he’d be so blushy and sheepish about it but man it’d be fun to watch him squirm 🤤

2.1k words, established relationship, masturbation (steve), gn!reader, MDNI this entire blog is 18+

It’s a universally awkward experience to have a sex-scene come on in a movie. Unless one’s watching it alone, of course.

You are not. Cuddled in behind you, cushioning you against his chest, Steve lounges, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Sure, in terms of awkwardness-rankings, watching this with your boyfriend who you also have sex with isn’t as bad as, like, watching with parents.

But still. You kinda can’t tell if you should be watching or averting your eyes — and you don’t want to peek over your shoulder to figure out what Steve’s doing.

The man in the film grunts, his hand in his pants jerking furiously, his eyes fixed on a polaroid of the film’s love interest.

You squint—surely this is stretching the truth a bit?

Yeah, yeah, guys jerk off, you know that - this isn’t your first day on earth.

You just didn’t think it would be like, romantic style. People in movies kiss in the rain and run through airports, so they’re hardly known for being grounded in reality.

The man in the film groans lewdly and you feel Steve shift slightly behind you, his fingers looped around your middle twitching.

Did he-? When you-? You suppose you’ve never really thought about it.

You’re asking before you can second guess yourself.

“Did you do this?”

Steve’s attention switches idly from the screen to you as you crane your neck to look back at him. His brows pinch together.

“Did I do what?” He asks, doting brown eyes searching your face.

You fluster a bit. This is certainly moving you up through the awkwardness rankings. But now it’s in your head —now you’ve said it — you can’t turn back.

The thought of it blazes hotly through your mind.

Steve, all those months ago, still just crushing on you, but never quite making a move. He’d told you, whispered his secret, when you’d finally gotten the nerve to ask him to be your boyfriend officially, that he’d been sweet on you far longer than you knew.

But the image of it is what has you interested. You imagine Steve, his fist stuffed into his tight jeans, working himself over and biting his fist to hide his moans, at the mere thought of you.

You’d had plenty of long, late night conversations on the phone before officially getting together.

The thought of if he’d ever touched himself while you talked, none the wiser on the other end, wanders into your mind — and your stomach clenches hotly at the thought.

Clearing your throat, you tip your head towards the screen.

“Like, before we got together?”

It takes Steve another glance at the screen to realise what you’re asking. A simmering, pink colour crawls up his neck and in a moment, you go from feeling awkward to feeling downright devious.

Steve clears his throat, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth from the screen to your face. “Uh, I- I mean, why do you ask?”

A coy smile curls at your mouth. “I wanna know how accurate it is.”

Steve stares down at you, the pink now creeping up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. God, he looks delectable like this.

Is this how he looked when he did it too? Blushy and embarrassed to commit such a filthy act thinking of someone that wasn’t his? A hot buzz drizzles through your core, fringed with endearment.

Steve licks his lips nervously. His hands on your stomach stiffen and then relax. The film plays on in the background. His expression shifts towards something sheepish.

“It’s — I, uh, well, yes.” He stammers. “It’s accurate, yes.”

“How many times?”

Steve’s eyes narrow, but his face gets redder. “What is this, an interrogation now?”

You giggle, drinking in his evidently embarrassed state. The confirmation of him doing it solidifies the perfect image of him in your mind, your own film-scene imagining Steve in the same position as the character on screen. In real life, Steve moves his hand to tug at the collar of his shirt.

“I’m just… enjoying the idea of it.” You muse.

“Uh huh,” Steve says, tongue jammed into the side of his cheek. “Not just—” He fumbles for his words. “Just enjoying seeing me, I don’t know, like—”

His words trail off and his head tips back with a groan, exposing the delicious expanse of his throat. It begs you for kisses and love bites. He moves both hands up to cover his face.

You wait til he pulls them away to nod. “Absolutely, baby. Watching you squirm is far more interesting than this film.”

In the background, the man on screen gives a pornographic shout as he finishes in his pants. Steve manages to turn redder, even if he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

“But I’m just,” You huff and pout. “Put out, I guess. You did all that for me and I didn’t even get to see it.”

At the exact same time, you watch as Steve’s pupils dilate, blowing out in obvious lust, and something pressed against your back thickens up.

Steve, to his credit, only makes one strained noise which he immediately smothers with a cough. You feel his hips twitch beneath you and make a quick decision, confidence built on the sweltering heat of Steve’s face.

You push forward and up, then quickly turn, slotting your knees across either side of Steve’s thighs, perching atop them nicely.

You’re not outright in his lap—there’s room between the two of you for what you hope will happen.

It takes Steve another long moment to catch your drift.

“Wait, you want-?” He inhales sharply. You can see the twitch of his cock through his loose sweatpants. “To see?”

“To watch,” You clarify, smiling almost mischievously. “Yeah.”

Then just to check, “Is that okay?”

Steve’s breath shudders out of him but he’s nodding before the question is completely out of your mouth.

“H-Here?” He checks. You nod, resting your hands atop your thighs to show you don’t plan on using them. Steve’s hungry eyes scan you up and down, the tent in his pants pitching up in arousal.

“Just show me how you did it,” You murmur, words on the side of sultry. Your own excitement, that faint thrum of pleasure, has already started to pool low in your gut.

“Yeah, but I normally don’t have an audience for it,” Steve mumbles, his left-hand reaching for the drawstrings of his sweats.

They come undone with a simple tug. Steve stretches the elastic out a bit and then slips his hand in.

You know the moment his large hand settles around his cock from the flutter of his lashes, the soft groan that curls out his throat, rough and sweet all at once.

This… This is new. You usually don’t get such a focused look at Steve’s pleasure, at the little shifts in his expression, too wrapped up in your own pleasure to pay proper attention. Getting this much detail sends a delicious throb between your thighs. You hardly want to blink.

Steve’s hand moves slow to begin with, slow, gentle strokes to get himself properly warmed up.

After a moment, he draws his hand back and some part of you worries he’s too weirded out now. But he only brings it up, to his mouth, and you realise what he’s doing.

Quickly stealing his hand, Steve’s eyes widen as you let spit drop from your lips and pool in his palm. Another soft, jagged noise drags from his throat.

“Jesus Christ,” He murmurs, more to himself. “This is not what it’s like when it’s just me, this is, like, ten fucking times hotter.”

His hand sneaks back into his sweatpants but this time when he grips his cock, the reaction this time is immediate.

Steve moans, louder this time, his eyes crushing closed and his hand starts moving faster. With the help of your spit, it doesn’t take long before you can hear it, the slick sounds of him fucking his cock desperately.

His head tips back against the couch and a piece of hair flops over, into his eyes.

You reach out and brush it to the side and Steve’s eyes crease open at the same time a whine threads through his moans.

“Fuck,” He grunts. He sinks in teeth into his bottom lip, his eyes desperately roaming your face. “Fuck, baby, you’re so pretty.”

“That what you thought bout?”

You’re impressed with yourself for the cool, calm demeanour you’re portraying. Steve nods, the motion a little wild, his hand still making those lewd, wet noises.

“Uh huh,” His voice shakes a little. “Just, fuck, dunno, like, your face and-uh-what y-you’d sound like.”

Your eyes glitter with interest, ego raring at the devotion your boyfriend is spilling out.

“What I’d sound like?”

“Y-Yeah,” Steve stammers, his breathing heavy. “Like, doing this.”

Now that’s a picture; Steve jerking off to the thought of you, hot and bothered with your hand between your thighs. You give a breathy gasp without meaning to.

Steve hears it, groaning louder as he quickens his pace. You sort of want to reach forward and ruck up his shirt, so you can see the glorious clench of his stomach as he rolls his hips up into his warm hand.

“Can I see more?” You ask tentatively. “Please?”

This time, it’s more like a whimper that creeps out of Steve’s throat.

“Oh my god,” Steve mumbles through a stilted moan. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, yeah, of course.”

He swallows heavily, his free hand reaching down to push at his waistband. You help, lifting up to help tug the fabric out of the way.

Obstructions removed, your mouth salivates. Steve’s cock is pretty — and it looks that much more enticing when it’s worked up, pink and the tip of it leaking all over his hand.

Steve’s a fucking vision. His head still lolled back, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His throat, dotted with moles, crawling with pinkness. His big, veiny hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it steadily.

You think about how much you’d like the lick the trail of hair on his tummy, down, down, down.

“You seem close,” You say and it earns you a reedy whimper in response. “Is it- does it normally happen this fast?”

“Are you kidding me?” Steve whispers back. His eyes are closed and after a moment, you realise he’s trying to keep himself from cumming too quickly, even as his hand doesn’t slow. “I—ngh— n-normally don’t have such good, ah, material. My imagination is— is not this good.”

You’re equal parts flattered and flustered, heat twinging in your gut.

“Can— can I?” Steve whimpers out suddenly.

The question nearly throws you. You almost say Can you what? when the meaning of it douses you in fire.

He’s asking permission.

Oh, that does something to you.

“Yeah, Stevie,” You say, voice lilting closer to a coo. “I wanna see it, please.”

Something shifts in his motions, changing gear as Steve’s hand suddenly starts moving in smaller, tighter strokes, just over the head of his cock. His head tucks forward, his eyes scrunched closed, and he’s whimpers out, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

It only takes a few seconds, the whine in Steve’s voice pitching higher and higher, until something gives.

His hips take over, something desperate and primal shoving them up, his thrusts rapid and frantic. His hand doesn’t stop moving, not even as his cock starts to leak out ropes of cum, shooting out enough to cover the back of his knuckles. It joins your spit to rub slick against his cock.

He keens pitifully. For one long minute, you listen to Steve’s breathy whines get softer and softer, watch his desperate thrusts abate til an overstimulated shiver wracks through his body. Then, and only then, does he collapse back, sinking into the couch.

He’s a bit ruined, truthfully.

And you’ve soaked through your panties.

“You’re welcome,” You croak, throat dry. His hair is back in his eyes and lean forward, tenderly brushing it out of the way. You leave your hand there, cupping the side of his face, and Steve leans into it, still panting.

“What?” He asks.

“You were thanking me,” You point out cheekily.

Steve’s face plunges back to that scarlet colour you’re beginning to adore most ardently. He turns his face further to hide away in the palm of your hands.

“Shut up,” He mumbles.

“So you don’t wanna do that again?” You tease.

Steve pulls back and eyes you. “Now, hang on, I didn’t say that…”

[my-castles-crumbling]

freshman - march 1 - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - NSFW (implied sex but not detailed) - word count: 523

“....so fucking perfect, guys,” James said reverently, laying on his dorm bed and grinning, knowing he had been rambling for too long, and yet completely unable to stop. He’d been talking about this all day, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about him. “He had…God, the most perfect eyes, and this little smirk that just…fuck. And his body. Fuck, I would’ve been happy just staring, but then he just dragged me into that room, and pushed me on the bed-”

“We’re happy for you, mate,” Sirius interrupted, grinning, even though all of them had heard the story of James’s mystery man at least ten times. “Glad you had fun at the party.”

“Oh, the party was awful. Right, Pete?” James asked Peter, who still looked a bit pale from the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. 

“I think so,” Peter mumbled, head in his hands.

“But fuck, it didn’t even matter. That guy was….” James grinned and launched into the more specific details again.

Remus and Peter seemed to zone out, but Sirius, the amazing friend he was, smiled and nodded along as James went on and on, giving a play-by-play, asking the appropriate questions and giving the appropriate reactions.

“...and I think I’m in love,” James finished, after giving the details about how he and the other man finished. “But I’m kicking myself because I didn’t get his number! Didn’t even get his name!”

“M’sure you’ll see him soon,” Sirius said bracingly, clapping him on the shoulder. “The school’s small. Which reminds me– Reg’s starting as a freshman here this year! I told him to stop by to visit soon, so he can meet all of you.”

The others made noises of excitement. Ever since they’d started rooming together at University last year, they’d heard a lot about Regulus, and everyone was eager to meet him. Before any more could be said, there was a knock on the door of their room.

“Reg!” Sirius yelled, ignoring Peter’s moan of complaint at his loudness. He bounded off of his bed and wrenched open the door. “Mates, this is-”

James stared into the gray-blue eyes he’d been thinking about for the past twelve hours and gasped out loud. “Fuck,” he mumbled, his shock mirrored in Regulus’s own expression.

It was Remus who realized first, and Peter shortly after. They broke into fits of giggles as Sirius still looked between James and Regulus confusedly, obviously missing something. But after twenty blissful seconds, he gasped a truly horrified gasp. 

“Oh no,” he cried, turning a deep shade of maroon. “Oh my God. James!” He pointed a shaking finger at James, who had a hand over his mouth. “You-you told me all about how much you love shagging my brother!? You gave me details! Oh fuck, I asked questions!”

James glanced at Regulus, who seemed to be struggling not to join in on Remus and Peter’s laughter. He sent James a smirk and said. “That good, eh?”

And James couldn’t help but nod. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough.

“Someone kill me,” Sirius wailed in the background.

But James was too busy staring at Regulus again.

[beloveds-embrace]

(Feral!reader x poly 141 omegaverse: in which reader is craving. Omegaverse Masterlist)

You were being stupid, but you truthfully couldn’t stop it.

Your attention would stray toward the small, sugary treats that some soldiers kept hidden in their pockets, the faint, sweet scent clinging to their uniforms. You tried not to, but sometimes, the craving was overwhelming. The ache in your stomach wasn’t the kind that just begged to be fed. It was different- something deeper, more primal.

It was sweetness you craved.

You’d forgotten the taste of it. The sensation of sugar melting on your tongue, the softness of a cake or the crisp bite of chocolate. It felt like a distant memory now, one you couldn’t touch. The sweetness had been denied to you for so long that the hunger for it felt like a longing in your chest, hollow and painful.

You caught sight of Kyle rummaging through a drawer in the kitchen, and for a moment, you let your attention wander, desperate for any small comfort. He came back to the table, pulling a small bag of candy from his pocket, the crinkling of the wrapper clear even from where you sat.

You felt your throat tighten.

It wasn’t that you were envious of him or the others (even if you were)- it was the sweets. You could almost taste them in the air, a fantasy of sugar and rich flavors. It was stupid. Ridiculous. You shouldn’t be thinking about something so trivial when you had bigger problems. But still, the craving gnawed at you, relentless and insistent.

From across the room, John noticed you, his gaze softening. It wasn’t hard for him to see the way you were staring longingly at the candy in Kyle’s hand, the faint hunger in your expression.

“Can’t have any sweets, love?” His voice was low, but his words were clear. He knew exactly what was going through your mind, and he still asked the question even if he had memorized your file and already knew the answer.

You shook your head slowly, your eyes flickering away from the small bundle of sweets in Kyle’z hand. You couldn’t even ask for it. Not when you had the muzzle on; you didn’t want to speak when it made words difficult. There was a heavy pressure behind your jaw, the way it pushed against your skin whenever you tried to talk or move your mouth, and it wasn’t just uncomfortable- it was suffocating, but not enough to quell any hunger or cravings like these.

“I know you can’t say it, love,” Kyle muttered softly, watching the way you flinched as you tried to shift the muzzle just to lessen its pressure. “But I know. We see it. We know how much you want it.”

There was a moment of quiet as Kyle looked at you with something akin to sorrow in his eyes, before the tension broke.

“Maybe next time, yeah?” His voice softened, his tone almost apologetic as he slowly put the candy back into his pocket. “I’ll make sure we get somethin’ good for you when we can, I swear.”

But you couldn’t help the way your chest ached at the thought. Next time.

Next time never came soon enough.

Tonight, however, Simon would.

You had finished your mission debriefing and were sent to eat, as always, after everyone had already eaten. Not in the company of the mess hall, of course, where the sight of you could ruin the appetite of normal humans. Just your plate of food and your restraints in a room, a sliver of quiet, and the occasional sound of the pack’s voices in the distance.

Kyle still remembered the longing in your eyes that day- couldn’t stop thinking about it, truthfully- and so he’d specifically gave some to Simon, the one who was going to be your watcher today.

Simon didn’t mind. He always kept his distance, but there was something in the way you kept looking at the sweets that tugged at him and every instinct that bit and nagged at him to provide for pack you. The way you were so quiet, so still in the room, your mouth closed tightly behind the muzzle, your eyes scanning everything but what was in front of you.

When you entered the small room, Simon followed behind, silently closing the door. It wasn’t much- this small, private space. Just a few moments where the muzzle could be taken off, where you could eat in peace, and he would ensure you stayed safe, even if it meant watching you in silence.

Simon didn’t make you speak. He never pushed. You were allowed to eat. He respected that silence you needed, the space you had to claim just for yourself. He undid the locks carefully, fingers deft, touch unhurried as he released the straps of the muzzle. It wasn’t the first time you’d been unrestrained for your meal, but the weight of the muzzle lifted from your jaw was always a small relief.

“… Take your time.” Ghost said as he stepped back, watching you with the same distant calm he always wore.

You settled into your seat, eyes shifting to the plate in front of you. The food wasn’t anything special- not like the sweetness you yearned for. Nonetheless you ate it, lost in thought. But your gaze kept flickering, just slightly, to the corner where candy wrappers and treats had been left behind by someone too careless- someone who might’ve been too lazy to find a trashcan and just threw it here. Disgusting pig.

Simon noticed. Of course, he did. He’d seen how your posture had changed. The way your fingers trembled just a bit when you looked at the sweets. The way your lips parted slightly, like you were aching for something. He saw the longing, the hunger for something that wasn’t allowed.

But he couldn’t give you everything. Not yet.

Not without consequences.

Still, he wasn’t blind to the need in your eyes. When you finished, with him ignoring the other tug at the fact you drank the water bottle greedily and made sure not to waste a single drop, you came to stand in front of him patiently so he could lock the muzzle back on.

When you weren’t paying attention, he slipped a small piece of candy between his fingers. It was smooth, sweet, the kind of candy that melted slowly on your tongue, leaving a trail of sugary comfort. He did it so quickly, so carefully, that for a moment you didn’t realize what had happened.

You took it without thinking, the candy dissolving in your mouth as your eyes widened. It was like a flood of sweetness hit you all at once- a brief, soft relief that washed away the constant ache of hunger.

It was heaven.

Your body went still as the candy melted, and for the briefest moment, you closed your eyes, savoring the sweetness. There was none of that constant chaos that haunted you, no pains, no fears. You didn’t have to say anything. You didn’t have to ask for it. He had seen you, had noticed, and he had done it anyway.

“Better, yeah?” Ghost’s voice was a low grumble now as he studied you, the faintest glint of something satisfied in his eyes. He saw the small, contented sigh that left you, the way your shoulders relaxed, and for the first time in days, maybe even weeks, you felt a small sense of peace.

You nodded, unable to express your gratitude, but Simon understood. He knew what that look in your eyes meant. He didn’t have to ask.

The moment was fleeting, though. It had to be. All too quickly, Simon secured the muzzle back in place, tightening the straps and ensuring it was locked properly once again. The small, sweet relief was gone as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by the pressure and discomfort of the muzzle.

But you still remembered the taste, the sweetness that lingered on your tongue. The small, quiet mercy he had given you in the form of something you couldn’t have.

Simon stepped back, watching you with a mixture of understanding and silent regret. He couldn’t give you more- not now, at least. But the pack saw you, saw the small moments like this. And while they couldn’t offer much, they would find ways to make you feel cared for in the smallest of ways.

But for now, it was enough. It had to be.

[inseobts]

Omg I absolutely adore your Law fics!! I’d love to read about a fake dating scenario between a Strawhat reader and Law in Wano like you did with Zoro. He’d be such a cutie 🥰

Thank you 🙏

Undercover Affection

law x strawhat!reader

a/n: omg I was so excited to write this aknakjd it doesn't really follow the canon events tho

words count: 5.1k

tags: fake dating, fake marriage, teasing, wano arc

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You and Trafalgar D. Water Law, notorious pirate and doctor, stand side by side in the bustling marketplace, trying to blend in as a newlywed couple. Law, wearing his usual stoic expression, is clearly out of his element, while you can’t help but smile at how ridiculous the whole situation is.

"Stop grinning like that" he mutters, adjusting the fake wedding ring you insisted on putting on his finger. He glares at you, but you only giggle louder.

"Oh, come on, it’s not so bad. We’ve got to make it convincing" you tease, leaning closer to him with exaggerated affection. His irritation is almost palpable.

"I don't need you hanging off me like that. We're here for a mission, not for you to play around." His voice is calm, but the faint redness creeping up his neck betrays him.

You smirk, knowing exactly how much it bothers him "But I love how grumpy you get when I do this. It’s like a whole new side of you."

You look at him with playful eyes, wrapping your arm around his, deliberately snuggling closer, and watching the slight twitch in his jaw.

"You're insufferable" he grumbles, but you can tell from the way his eyes flicker to yours that he's secretly enjoying it. Even if he won't admit it, you know this act is something he didn’t expect and now he can’t stop thinking about it.

You wink at him “You know, you’re really cute when you’re angry.”

Law scoffs but the tips of his ears go red, which only makes you smirk wider.

The two of you continue to walk through the crowded streets of Wano, and the people around you don't seem to pay much attention, at least not to Law. But you, on the other hand, draw plenty of stares. It's almost laughable how you're both playing the part of a loving couple so well. You’re sure the act would’ve made some people second-guess themselves, if not for your obvious affection for Law.

“Do you really have to hold my hand like this?” Law mutters, trying to keep his face neutral. His tone is deadpan, but his hand doesn't pull away, even though he clearly wants to.

“Yes, I do. It’s important for the cover, we're married, remember?” You tighten your grip slightly, watching him try his hardest to stay composed, and you can’t help but relish in how embarrassed he looks.

“...I’m going to regret this” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible.

“No, you won’t,” you say sweetly, squeezing his hand with a grin “You like it.”

Law doesn’t say anything for a moment. His face remains impassive, but you can see the little vein in his forehead twitching. It’s clear that he’s not nearly as indifferent as he’s trying to make himself seem.

Before he can retort, you pull his arm, dragging him towards a stand with fresh produce "Look! They have strawberries!!"

You start picking up the plump, red fruit, inspecting it with exaggerated curiosity. Law watches you, his arms crossed, a frown on his face.

"You’re acting like a child," he observes dryly, clearly disinterested. But you know he’s watching, and deep down, you know that he’s silently amused.

“You’re just mad because I’m having fun. Don’t worry, I'll buy you some too” you say, but the moment you say it, you know he’ll probably refuse it.

Law doesn't respond, but you catch the tiniest glimmer of amusement in his eyes, just for a moment. His mouth tightens, but it’s not out of frustration anymore. It’s something else, something softer, though he’d never admit it.

You turn to him and offer one of the strawberries "Want one? You might smile for once."

He takes the strawberry reluctantly, muttering under his breath, "You're impossible" but you can see the corners of his mouth twitch, as if the smallest hint of a smile might want to escape.

The night comes, and you’re both sitting around a small campfire outside of town, eating a simple meal. Law’s still in his pirate garb, but you’ve managed to dress him up in something a little more traditional, at least in a way that blends with the locals. He looks even more irritated now that he’s out of his comfort zone, but you can’t help but stare at him.

"You know, you really should smile more," you say casually, picking at the food in front of you "You’d be less grumpy."

Law shoots you a glare, his gaze cold but somehow fond "I don’t need to smile."

“You say that, but you do smile sometimes, even when you don’t mean to,” you tease, leaning your head on your hand "Like when you're all annoyed. It’s cute."

His eyebrow twitches, and you immediately know you’ve hit a nerve.

"I do not get 'annoyed'," he hisses "I’m just... trying to survive being stuck here."

“Oh sure, but I’ve noticed something,” you say, leaning in with a smirk “Every time I annoy you, you get this cute little angry face. It’s the best part of the day.”

Law scowls harder, trying to maintain his composure, but you can see the way his face softens ever so slightly, as if he’s secretly enjoying your teasing.

“I’m not cute” he mutters, but his voice lacks its usual edge.

“Oh, trust me, you’re definitely cute. Especially when you try to hide it” you say, reaching over to poke his cheek, making him flinch.

“Don’t touch me” he warns, his patience thinning, but there's no real heat behind it.

You pull your hand back with a grin, trying to hide your glee “I bet I can get you to smile before this mission is over.”

“You won’t" he says, though there's a hint of challenge in his voice.

You wink at him “Wanna bet?”

Law looks at you for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. But you both know it’s a challenge he’s already lost.

The next morning, the Heart Pirates gather. You and Law make your way back after a quick stop in the town. You’re both still playing the role of a happily married couple, though your grin and the slight blush on Law’s face tell a different story.

"Morning, you two" Bepo greets with a wave as you approach the group. He gives you both a curious glance but doesn’t comment right away. You notice his ears twitch slightly, as if he’s trying to figure something out.

"Morning" you reply sweetly, wrapping your arm around Law's waist. You can’t resist leaning into him just a little, making sure everyone notices.

Shachi and Penguin, standing nearby, exchange a quick look.

Law doesn't want to draw attention to it, but he's well aware of the curious stares from his crew.

"What's going on between you two?" Penguin asks, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow "I thought we were supposed to be working undercover, not pretending to be... a couple." He says "couple" with exaggerated air quotes, making sure the whole group hears it.

You giggle, looking up at Law "Oh, we are, don't worry. Usopp said we should go undercover as a freshly married couple, right, honey?" you say, dragging out the last word with far too much affection, but you actually did it to tease him. In facts, Law’s face tenses, and you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears.

Bepo looks between the two of you, his expression softer than the others "You’re really convincing" he says, a faint blush creeping up on his cheeks. He clearly doesn’t quite understand the situation but seems to be happy for you, or at least trying to be supportive.

“You’re making him uncomfortable, y/n” Shachi teases, nudging you playfully.

“Well, it's a fake marriage after all” you reply with a grin “If he likes it or not we have to make it seem real, especially because we almost got caught”

Law huffs, crossing his arms tightly “We’re not really married. It’s a cover for the mission. And you...” He points at Shachi, who seems way too entertained by the situation “...don’t have to comment on it.”

"Sure, sure, but tell me this," Shachi continues, leaning in as though he's unraveling a great mystery "How come every time I look over, you're so close? So touchy-feely for just a mission. There’s gotta be something going on.”

Penguin snickers in the background, enjoying the show “Shachi might be onto something, Law. You sure you’re not falling for y/n?”

You wink at Law, watching his patience fray a little more “Oh, I think he’s already there” you say, making sure to be extra teasing.

Law narrows his eyes, clearly not thrilled at the idea of his crew picking up on this “I am not! Stop messing around, all of you. We have more important things to focus on.”

But you can tell that beneath the irritation, there’s a hint of something else, embarrassment? Maybe even… a little fondness?

“I’m just saying,” Bepo starts, his voice soft but sincere “you two look so natural together. It’s kind of adorable.”

Your eyes soften, and you offer Bepo a warm smile "I’m glad someone sees it that way," you reply, winking at Law again. He’s practically fuming now, but there's a twinkle in his eyes that he’s not quite able to hide.

“Adorable?” Law scoffs, his face now an unmistakable shade of red “I swear, you’re all insane.” He glares at his crew, but even the glare doesn't hide how his heart's racing just a little.

Later that evening, as you and Law sit around the campfire again, this time with the rest of the Heart Pirates on watch duty, the teasing continues, though now it’s less playful and more knowing. Everyone’s fully aware that something’s up between you two, and it’s clear that you’ve been having a lot of fun with the idea.

“Alright, alright, let’s just get this out of the way," Shachi starts, taking a seat beside you and leaning in conspiratorially "Who fell first?”

Law doesn’t even look at you, but you can feel his discomfort radiating “We’re not doing this” he mutters with an exasperated sigh.

But the teasing continues, the Heart Pirates are all looking at you two with amusement in their eyes. Bepo and Penguin are now watching you closely, seemingly trying to pick up on every little interaction, while Shachi just can’t stop himself from pressing the issue.

“You two are definitely more than just a cover story,” Shachi says, grinning from ear to ear “You’re always so close, so... affectionate.”

“Yeah!” Penguin chimes in, clearly enjoying the drama “It’s like you guys are really a thing.”

Law remains silent for a few beats, his jaw clenched, clearly holding his frustration in check. But you notice the tightening of his fists and the way his eyes flicker with irritation.

You glance over at him, but before you can even tease him again, you notice his patience clearly running out “That’s enough” he snaps, voice low but sharp.

The whole group falls quiet, the sudden intensity of his voice making them look at him with wide eyes.

“I don’t like this attention, alright?” Law’s voice is colder now, his usual calm demeanor replaced by something harder, something… serious. His gaze shifts to you, and you’re caught off guard by how harsh his words are “I don’t like you hanging off me all the time, I don’t like being treated like your husband, and I don’t like you constantly teasing me. We’re not a couple, y/n. We’re not even close enough for you to call me your friend, let alone you husband...”

The words hit like a slap, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him in disbelief. His face is set in a frown, his usual stoic expression replaced by something colder, more distant. You feel a pang in your chest, your heart sinking at how genuine he seems.

The rest of the crew falls silent, unsure of what to say.

You take a step back, your arm slipping as you pull away. Your eyes flicker down to the ground, trying to hide the hurt that's suddenly swelling inside you.

You’re not sure why, but the way he said it, so blunt, so final, makes you believe him. Maybe you had been too forward. Maybe you pushed him too far, even if you were just jocking around.

You try to force a smile, but it feels weak, forced "Right," you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel this uncomfortable."

Law doesn’t respond, too focused on his crew and the way they’re looking at him. The awkward silence stretches, and you find yourself drifting further away. You can’t bring yourself to joke anymore, to tease him as you had before. The sting of his words cuts deeper than you want to admit.

The rest of the evening goes by in an uncomfortable silence. You eat your meal, your eyes occasionally flicking toward Law, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him for long. Every time you do, you feel the weight of his words echoing in your mind.

The next few days feel... different. You’ve stopped teasing him, stopped getting close like you used to. Whenever you have to interact, you’re careful to keep your distance, avoiding any unnecessary physical contact. You act as professional as possible, keeping the focus entirely on the mission.

It doesn’t escape the Heart Pirates’ notice, though. They watch as the dynamics between you and Law change. You’re not the playful couple anymore. Instead, you seem more distant, more reserved—especially around Law.

Shachi notices first "Hey, y/n, everything okay?" he asks one morning as you sit near the ship’s edge, watching the horizon. He knows something’s off, and though he doesn’t want to pry, he can’t help but ask.

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes “Yeah. Just tired, that’s all.”

Bepo, who’s been quietly observing, speaks up hesitantly “You haven’t been... teasing him anymore. Are you two—”

“We’re fine,” you interrupt quickly, too quickly. You don’t want to explain. You don’t even know what to say "Just focusing on the mission, as it should have been from the very start"

The conversation ends there, but you can feel the weight of their concern. They’re noticing the shift, the sudden distance between you and Law. But none of them, especially not Law, know how to fix it.

Days pass in Wano, and you continue to keep your distance from Law, though the tension between the two of you feels thicker than ever. Every time you’re near him, the awkwardness is palpable. But something else is happening in the background.

The Strawhats are back in Wano. After all the time you’ve spent apart.

It’s in the middle of a bustling market square, where you and Law are walking around trying to gather some supplies for the mission, when you spot them. You freeze, your heart racing. Your breath catches in your throat when your eyes land on Sanji.

Without thinking, you let everything fall from your hands and sprint toward him. Sanji’s back is turned, so he doesn’t see you coming until it’s too late. You throw yourself into his arms with tears in your eyes, overwhelmed with relief.

“Sanji!” you exclaim, your voice muffled against his chest as you cling to him.

Sanji’s eyes widen in surprise, but then he smiles softly, his arms wrapping around you “Hey there, y/n” he says, his tone warm “It’s been a while, huh?”

You pull back slightly, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand “I’ve missed you so much” you admit softly.

Sanji raises an eyebrow, but his smile softens “It’s good to see you too. Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind, though. You okay?”

You hesitate for a moment, then give a small nod “Yeah... I’m fine now. I just... I’ve been through some stuff. But I’m glad you’re here.”

Law watched everything, staying back. As soon as he saw you hugging the cook, he took everything you dropped and left you alone with them, even because it looks like you forgot about him.

The next day, you find yourself meeting up with Sanji at his little noodle shop. You’ve told him everything, how you and Law have been pretending to be a married couple, how your feelings have gotten tangled up, and how, after Law’s harsh words, you’ve pulled away to keep things professional. You tell him about the emotional distance between you and Law, and the complicated feelings you’re dealing with.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” you admit, your hands twisting nervously in your lap “I feel like I’m losing him. He doesn’t want me around, and it’s driving me crazy. But I don’t know how to fix it.”

Sanji’s expression softens as he listens to you, his gaze gentle

“I thought it was just supposed to be a cover” you murmur, “but somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like one. And now... now it feels like everything’s falling apart.” You pause, looking down “I think I care about him more than I thought I did.”

Sanji reaches out, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze “You’ve got a good heart, y/n. And I know Law is a complicated guy. But if you care about him, you need to figure out what you want. You’re not just a cover story, okay?”

You meet his gaze, feeling a sense of clarity you hadn’t realized you were missing “You’re right. I just wish I knew how to fix it.”

Sanji leans in, his voice dropping lower “It’s okay to take things slow. And if you want to... maybe you could start by not hiding from him anymore.”

Before you can respond, you both hear some footsteps approaching. You quickly stand up and walk away from the alley, but you notice people beginning to gossip behind you.

“You heard about y/n and her husband, right?” one woman whispers to her friend.

“Yeah, I heard she’s been cheating on him with that blonde guy. Can you believe that? I mean, the nerve!” another woman replies, her voice dripping with gossip.

The words hit you like a punch in the gut. You feel your face flush with embarrassment and frustration. Cheating? How did they come up with that?

You try to ignore it, but it’s hard. The whispers follow you as you walk back to the group, and you can feel the sting of their words deep in your chest.

Later that evening, as you rejoin Law and the rest of the crew, you notice his usual cold demeanor has shifted. He’s standing by the fire, his back to you, as if he’s been waiting for you. When you approach, he doesn’t immediately acknowledge you.

"Are you... okay?" you ask softly, but you can see the frustration in his posture. He doesn’t respond immediately, but his jaw tightens.

“I don’t appreciate people talking about my personal life like that, true or not...” Law says, his voice low and clipped “You’ve been avoiding me for days, and now I hear rumors? What’s going on?”

Your stomach twists in knots “Law...”

“I don't care about you and the blondie but...” he cuts you off, his gaze icy “I can’t focus when people are talking about me like that, especially if we're supposed to be undercover here.”

You feel your throat tighten, the weight of his words sinking in. He’s frustrated, and his anger makes your heart ache “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, you know Sanji is my friend, people just don't know the truth and make things up” you admit, your voice shaky.

Law sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking as if he’s about to snap “Then stop avoiding me. We’re in this together, but if you keep pushing me away, I’m not sure what we’re doing anymore... we can't bring so much attention on us.”

The atmosphere between you and Law is still tense. You don’t want things to spiral even further, so you suggest an idea, something that might distract from the tension and let everyone cool off for a while.

"Why don’t we go grab some food?" you suggest, your voice a little hesitant but hopeful.

Law turns to you, his expression neutral “You think food is going to help?”

You shrug, trying to lighten the mood "Maybe. Besides, I’ve been hearing about this noodle shop... the chef is called Sanji, I think?... I’ve heard it’s good..."

Law’s brows furrow, but his interest is piqued "Sanji? You think going right to him won't worsen things?"

You nod "Maybe if people see us all together, as three good friends, they're going to stop talk about me cheating..."

He looks at you for a moment, then sighs, clearly not wanting to be left alone with his thoughts any longer "Fine. Let’s go."

The small noodle spot is tucked away in a corner of Wano, busy and filled with the warmth of the cooking. When you and Law arrive, you’re greeted immediately by Sanji’s bright smile, but there’s something in his eyes that softens when he sees you. He’s not as flirtatious as usual, and there’s a sharpness in his gaze as he sees the tension between you and Law.

"Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous 'married couple'" Sanji says, his voice light, though there’s an edge to it now.

You try to smooth things over, grinning at him “Yeah, we’re here to eat...”

It’s time to kill the rumors.

“We’ll sit over here,” you say quickly, guiding Law to a seat “Make it clear to everyone that we’re... still a team.”

Law sits down stiffly, clearly not thrilled, but it’s obvious he’s playing along. He keeps his eyes ahead, refusing to acknowledge Sanji’s deliberate coldness toward him.

Sanji brings over bowls of noodles with flair, but his attitude towards Law remains distant, even a little antagonistic. He makes sure to place the food right in front of you, offering a special smile "Just for you, y/n. A little something extra special, like always."

He looks at you, and his smile softens just a bit. But when his eyes flick to Law, the warmth vanishes, and the tension in the room grows thicker.

Law doesn’t react right away, but you can feel the change in him. His jaw tightens, his body language growing even more tense than it was before. He clenches his fist under the table, clearly irritated.

"Stop playing games," Law mutters, his voice low and tight with barely contained frustration "Just serve the food and stop making this weird."

Sanji, clearly not intimidated, shrugs "If you don’t like how things are going, maybe you should take a look at how you’re treating her. It’s obvious you’ve got no control over the situation"

You flinch at the words, but Sanji’s eyes flicker to you in a way that makes you feel a bit guilty. You didn’t want this to turn into some kind of game, but now, it’s getting harder to keep things under wraps.

You look at Law, hoping to redirect the conversation "Let’s just eat," you say, trying to keep things casual "We need to look like a normal couple to the town. We don’t want any more rumors."

Law gives you a long, searching look before nodding "Fine. But we’re done with the theatrics, understood?"

As the meal progresses, the silence between you, Sanji, and Law grows thicker. The tension is almost unbearable, but it’s working, people around are starting to get the message. Law and you are a team, no matter the rumors, and the gossip about you "cheating" slowly starts to fade as the focus shifts to you two sitting together.

Sanji seems to settle into his role. He occasionally glances at you, making sure you’re taken care of, but the icy distance he’s putting between himself and Law is unmistakable. Law notices it too, and while he’s trying to keep his cool, it’s clear it’s starting to get under his skin.

Finally, Sanji returns to the counter, his back turned, leaving you and Law in silence. It’s the perfect opportunity to clear the air, but neither of you speaks.

You glance at Law, noticing the frustration in his eyes. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like the way Sanji is treating you, doesn’t like the way he’s feeling about the whole situation.

You try to lighten the mood, but it’s hard to ignore the tightness in his shoulders "You know, we’re supposed to be a married couple, not a couple of kids at a playground."

Law narrows his eyes at you "I didn’t sign up for this. The mission’s getting complicated."

You try to ignore the tug in your chest, a bit of confusion creeping in "It’s just a cover, Law. Nothing’s changed. We’re just doing what we need to do."

But the words hang there, and even though you say them, you know that things aren’t so simple anymore. You feel it, and you know Law does too.

As you leave the shop together, the streets of Wano no longer seem as welcoming as before. The weight of the situation presses down on you, and Law’s behavior is starting to affect you in ways you didn’t expect. You can’t figure out if it’s the mission weighing on him, or if it’s something more.

After the meal at Sanji’s, the rumors finally start dying down, but the damage between you and Law lingers. The tension is unbearable, Law barely looks at you, and you, still hurt from his earlier words, keep your distance.

Sanji notices. The crew notices. Even the damn town notices.

One evening, as you sit outside the inn you and Law have been staying at for your undercover mission, you overhear some locals whispering.

“They say that woman is still in love with her husband, but he doesn’t care for her.” “Shame. She looks miserable.” “She was always all so cute and clingy to him but she stopped entirely, he must’ve pushed her away.”

You clench your fists. It’s one thing to suffer in silence, but another to hear strangers pitying you.

Law suddenly walks past you, pausing for a second before speaking, “Go inside.” His voice is firm but quiet.

You don’t move “Why do you care?” you murmur, not looking at him “You made it clear I was just a nuisance to you and it's just a mission, which is almost over anyway given Zoro and Luffy are making trubles after trubles...”

Law exhales sharply “I never—” He stops, frustrated, before running a hand down his face “Listen, I was trying to stop myself from—” He cuts himself off again, jaw clenched.

You finally turn to him “From what?”

His silence is enough of an answer.

Your heart clenches, but you shake your head “You don’t have to force yourself to tolerate me anymore, Law. We’ll finish the mission, and after that—”

“Enough,” he snaps, suddenly grabbing your wrist. His grip is firm but not painful, just desperate “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your eyes widen as he pulls you toward him, his voice low but intense “I was a damn coward,” he mutters “You—you were always in my space, always teasing me, and I—” He exhales sharply “I pushed you away because I—”

You hold your breath.

“I fell for you” Law finally admits, looking at you with something raw and vulnerable in his gaze “I fell so hard, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Your heart nearly stops.

“You what?”

He groans, looking away “I can’t stand you ignoring me. I can’t stand watching you with Sanji, even though I know it’s nothing. And I hate that I made you think I didn’t care.”

The words hit you like a storm, leaving you speechless. He looks genuinely frustrated, at himself.

You swallow hard before whispering, “So what do we do now?”

Law looks at you, his grip tightening slightly “You tell me,” he murmurs, voice quieter now “Because if you still want me, then I—” He hesitates, then sighs “I don’t want this to be fake anymore.”

Your breath hitches.

For the first time in weeks, you grin “I mean... I think it's too soon to talk about marriage, isn't it?”

Law groans, rolling his eyes “Unbelievable.”

You laugh, and before you can stop yourself, you tug him down into a kiss.

And just like that, the mission doesn’t feel so complicated anymore.

Back on the Polar Tang, the Heart Pirates immediately notice the change.

Law still wears his usual scowl, still grumbles under his breath whenever you tease him, but there’s no real bite behind his words anymore. The biggest difference? He lets you get away with it.

You lean against his side as he studies a map, chin resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t shove you off like he used to, he just sighs heavily, pretending to ignore you.

“Oi, captain,” Shachi calls out, smirking “Didn’t you say you hated being touched?”

Penguin snickers “Yeah, man, what happened to all that complaining? Because right now, it looks like you like it.”

Law doesn’t even look up, but you can see the way his jaw tightens, the tips of his ears turning pink “Shut up” he mutters, flipping a page of the map aggressively.

“Oh, come on, it’s adorable,” Bepo chimes in, tail wagging “You used to be all grumpy whenever she clung to you, and now you just accept it?”

You grin, tilting your head up to look at him “Aww, so you do like my attention.”

His eye twitches “I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t deny it.”

Shachi and Penguin lose it, laughing while Bepo beams like a proud parent.

Law exhales through his nose, rubbing his temples. But despite the grumbling, he doesn’t move you away. And that’s when it clicks.

Shachi leans back, crossing his arms “Y’know, I think we all got it wrong before.”

Penguin nods, smirking “Yeah. We thought y/n was the lost cause, but—”

They both turn to Law, who immediately tenses, as if he knows what’s coming.

“You actually fell harder.”

The room falls silent.

You blink up at him, waiting for his reaction.

Law glares at his crew, looking about two seconds away from using Room just to teleport them out of his sight. But instead, he lets out a sharp exhale, shutting his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he just mutters “Unbelievable.”

You beam and press a quick kiss to his cheek, watching as his face turns bright red.

Yeah. Maybe being undercover in Wano wasn’t such a disaster after all.

[shujichii]

your husband who loved calling you his wife— even outside of moments of necessity.

and the most fascinating part? he wasn't even aware of the fact how often he did it. he knew he did say it, but he wasn't aware of the fact how often he did. those two words, simple yet undeniably laced together with love and reverence, often tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could catch up.

"my wife would like these flowers," he had said to the wholesome elderly florist when he was about to buy a bouquet of your favorite flowers before returning home to you, his wallet— which had a small polaroid of you in it, by the way— already in hand.

"my wife did mention this the other day, now that i think about it." he had said to his friend who was rambling about the latest trending internet gossip.

"for my wife. i trust there isn't an issue?" he had simply said to the cashier upon noticing the way they lifted an eyebrow at the grocery basket filled to the brim with your favorite snacks, to which they gave a solemn, approving nod at his answer. good husband.

"my wife went out to run an errand, but she'll be back soon." he had even said to your best friend when they came to visit you, to which they replied with a very teasing smirk; "you could just say her name, y'know."

"a reservation for my wife and i, please."

"sorry, my wife is waiting for me. i must take my leave now."

"yes, that's my wife— i'm quite proud of her."

"I can take it from here, sweetheart. can't have my beautiful wife overworking herself now, can i?"

and the list went on.

and yet, you didn't mind it. not at all— you had no reason to. your heart always did that funny little flip whenever he'd call you his wife the way he did, the corner of your lips never failing to curl into a smile. he would always say it so naturally— so genuinely, like those words were etched onto his soul for your very existence alone. and you certainly didn't miss the way his tone would sound a touch softer everytime he referred to you, like you needed to be spoken of with the utmost care and gentleness.

so, one day, you decided it was about time you struck.

"you call me that a lot."

his hands— which were reaching for the kitchen towel to dry his hands with after washing the dishes, yes, the dishes because chores are shared in this household— paused midway. he turned his head to look at you, where you had been perched on the counter, your legs swaying ever so slightly.

"call you what?" he inquired with a small tilt of his head, reaching for the towel at last and patting his hands dry.

"you know, your wife."

he immediately caught onto the teasing glint in your eyes, yet; it was unmistakably edged with a hint of affection.

for a moment, he just stood there wordlessly, blinking once, then twice, his brain taking its sweet, sweet time to allow your words to sink in. you, on the other hand, were practically straining your eyes to catch on any shifts in his expression or posture.

and then, you caught it; the faint reddening of the tips of his ears. he subtly cleared his throat, and your smile stretched into a grin.

alas, that dazzling curve of your lips disappeared as soon as it appeared when the man suddenly approached you in a swift few strides, standing between your legs and pressing his palms on either side of the counter which you sat on to cage you in.

you blinked.

"i do, yes."

he didn't even try to deny it. well, he didn't have a reason to. you were his wife, after all. where was the lie in that? and of course, he was absolutely proud of it.

then, he leaned in slightly, his tone lowering. "unless you prefer i stop calling you that?"

oh, now he was the one with that mischievous little twinkle in his eyes. inwardly, you faltered at the sudden boldness of his actions, your fingertips twitching against the surface of the counter. but outwardly? two can play the game.

then, with a deceptively sweet smile, you tilted your head, shot your hand forward and yanked on the collar of his shirt with force— his body jerking towards you.

"not at all," you smirked, inching closer. "i can't say i mind when my sweet husband calls me that."

his confidence faltered for a moment. you were about to internally celebrate your small victory until one of his hands slid up from the counter, now resting on your hips, his fingertips lightly pressing into your skin.

".. let's hear that again."

let's just say, ever since that faithful encounter, "my husband" had also started slipping out.

and every time? it got to him. oh, it definitely did.

(not my second fluff also taking place in the kitchen lol. i promise it's gonna be different next time.)

♡ nanami kento, geto suguru, fushiguro megumi (jjk), zayne, sylus (lads), wriothesley, neuvillette, alhaitham, diluc, ayato (genshin), jiyan, xiangli yao (wuwa), jugram haschwalth (self indulgence because i love him.), kuchiki byakuya, ishida uryuu, ishida ryuken (bleach), anyone else you'd like.

[ofbatsandballads]

have a little Jason drabble inspired by me going to my work bestie’s bachelorette party tonight. yes, yes I did imagine all this while getting ready and what about it? also consider this a part of my jason gets the girl series.

Jason Todd is a worrier. You knew that the very first night you met him when he automatically assumed that you, a woman living alone and wearing fuzzy pajamas, would be a danger to him. You know that now by his incessant questions that he’s been pelting at you for the past hour.

“You’ll keep in contact with me, right?” he asks from the other side of the shower curtain.

“Of course, Jay,” you reply as you twist like a contortionist while shaving your legs.

“I know it’s a bachelorette party, but please don’t drink so much that you don’t know what’s goin’ on around you, baby,” he says, voice raised so you can hear him over your hair dryer.

“I know, Jay. I’ve not forgotten where we live!” you shout back as reassuringly as you can.

“You sure I can’t convince ya to stay here with me?” he asks, only half joking, as you flip through the hangers in your shared closet looking for what to wear.

“You’re making a very convincing argument,” you concede as he kisses down your neck. “But no. Alas, I cannot be a shitty friend.”

“Fine. But at least wear somethin’ that goes with the jacket I got you,” he grumbles.

You laugh under your breath. This man. He’s such a worry wart. But you get it. Jason goes out every night into the belly of the beast, sees the worst of the worst. He knows what happens to vulnerable young women in this city, and you can’t blame him for his overprotective nature. So if wearing the tan leather jacket, a smaller replica of the one he wears as Red Hood, that has a tracker sewn into the interior is what he needs to ease his anxious mind, you’ll do it without complaint.

“It’s a gorgeous jacket, Jaybear. It goes with everything,” you say as you scratch soothingly at his scalp.

“You know where you’ll be tonight?” he asks from the foot of your bed, watching you as you put on your makeup.

“Uh huh. We’re not going to any bars or clubs or anything like that. Maid of honor just rented a penthouse in the Diamond District. We’ll probably spend the night eating pizza and drinking cocktails,” you answer as you try not to stab yourself in the eye with your mascara wand.

Jason makes a little grunt of agreement. You idly think that he sounds just like his dad, but you also don’t say that because you’re not a complete idiot. Also because you once told Jason he looked like Bruce and how miraculous that was since he was adopted, and he spent the next three days mumbling 'don't look anythin’ like the old man’ every time he glanced in a mirror.

You glance behind you in the vanity mirror to see the love of your life. His expression tugs your heartstrings. He looks so…melancholy. Emotions are storming in his sea green eyes and all you want is to ease his worries. You lay down your makeup brush and pad over to him, settling down in his lap. His hands come up automatically to rest on your hips, thumbs stroking over the softness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” you whisper, smoothing out the creases between his furrowed eyebrows with the tips of your fingers.

“I don’t—” he stops abruptly, tries to find the words he needs. “I’m not tryin’ to be overbearing. Don’t wanna be one of those guys that tells their girl what to do.”

He takes a breath and you stay silent. He has to get this out and you’ll wait as long as it takes.

“I just…worry. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I can’t lose you. I can’t,” and his voice breaks like stained glass. “I wouldn’t survive it. I know this is fuckin’ stupid. Me actin’ like this over a bachelorette party but I just…I can’t stop thinkin’ about all the things that could happen.”

Oh. Oh, your sweet, loving, heaven sent boyfriend. You know his past haunts him, that this city haunts him. You wish you could take all his worries away and wrap him in a nice warm blanket. You’d tuck him away from the world, keep him safe and happy and cared for all his days if you could.

“Jason, look at me,” you tilt his head up with your fingers under his jaw. “I promise you I will do everything in my power to be as safe as possible. I won’t drink irresponsibly. I’ll make sure to text you if anything, and I mean anything, starts to get weird. It won’t, but if it did you would be on speed dial. And trust me, angel, I have no intentions of staying the night.”

You don’t. Good friend or not, you can’t sleep well if you’re not wrapped in the strong arms of the man beneath you.

“So I expect you to be waiting on that tricked out bike of yours to pick me up,” you beam at him, run your hand through his hair because you know it makes him melt into your touch.

“I’ll be waitin’ for you,” he says, a solemn promise that extends far beyond tonight.

“Good. Now that being said, I will be bringing home all the dick decorations because I wanna plant them in your brother’s apartment. Just to fuck with him,” you giggle.

Jason lights up for the first time tonight. His green eyes gleam with mischief and adoration.

“Oh, you are my fuckin’ soulmate, baby. I’ll help you break in.”

[cvt2dvm]

There are very very few instances where the sex of an animal matters and in cats it doesn't matter unless you're breeding and occasionally if you're managing samesex or intersex aggression between cats, and if you invest in the relationship with your pets you're going to find that they're going to express affection and love in fairly obvious ways. Too many people aren't approaching their pets as individuals and don't pay attention to the cues of their animals. The breeding/temperament genetics and the individual relationship work you've done with an animal are what determine how, how much, and how often they're affectionate.

My adolescent male cat is very clingy but playful. He prefers offering and asking for play, sucking on fingers while not being pet, and following you around and playing hide and seek over settling in for a cuddle. My older adult female used to be the same way, now she prefers lounging on the porch bird watching while I read or a dry groom or curling up under the covers on cold nights. My male prefers to be at the other end of the bed on one of my sheepskins or his shark plushie. My male is a nibbler and barber my female gives kisses.

The reason I went for a male malinois as a working dog was because of him and his 2 sisters, he was the most handler sensitive and he was the best fit personality wise. His one sister was too laid back for what I wanted, shes thriving now as a diabetic alert dog, his other sister had more aggression than he did, and if I had been looking for a straight PPD or bite Sports dog, I honestly would have chosen her, but since I was looking for a dual purpose dog, I took him, and the more aggressive sister is now a suspect apprehension K9 in florida because of the 3 in his litter that just weren't quite right for bomb work (2 of the 5 that they imported were) one was better suited for strict service work with her soft mouth, one could have gone either way and been okay, or both and be truly fulfilled as long as he had his person, and the other was destined to either be destroyed or have a job where her desire to sink her teeth into something was an asset rather than a liability. His 2 sisters were also significantly more dominant with other dogs than he was, and since I was living with my ex at the time, I needed to think about how he would integrate into our existing 1 cat, 2 dog household.

This recent obsession with boys vs girls in dogs is such fucking BS, like... the only things that determine sex choice for me is how my current pet pack exists.

My female cat doesn't tolerate other female cats in her space, my male mal likes male dogs that are 10-15 lbs but feels pressured by males that are his size or larger, and gets along with females all around. So, realistically, I'll probably be adding a female dog next to the pack since, again, realistically, my older terrier male is in the worst health of my pets. I also may not be adding another dog to my pack for a while too, so that I have more travel flexibility.

The whole "boy cat" thing is so annoyingggggg your cats gender has nothing to do with how they feel about you i literally cannot imagine being so brain rotted by patriarchy that you somehow think your neutered male cat has special male love for you that female cats don't have the capacity for. Is there something wrong with you

[muqingslover]

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

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

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

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

Sylus

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

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

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

He feels almost sorry for you, who had to make do with such men, but, not to worry, he's here now and he's not going anywhere.

Xavier

Taunting his jealous side is the same as playing with fire while knowing you're going to get burn.

"Is that the type of guy you prefer?" He'd ask the second the two of you are alone again. His hands pin you to the closest surface so you're unable to run from the conversation and he keeps his face very close to yours to watch for even the smallest reactions "Do you like him more than me?"

My advice? Say no as quickly as possible and give him a kiss to shush him otherwise you're in for the long, loooooong haul. Xavier is not easily soothed once he's worked up and he WILL hold grudges.

The next time your ex shows up he is quick to cut the conversation before they can even get a good morning in and makes it clear you belong to him now.

Rafayel

"What did you just say?" His head never whipped back faster mans almost twisted his own neck.

Arguably the most aggressive per se because he's SO obvious. To him it's just staggering you ever went out with anyone else, especially a thing like that, and that it's here, again, approaching you. Does it not see him? He's right there for god's sake!

"She's on duty so she can't talk to you right now. Or ever." He'd grab you by the shoulder as he sized the guy up and down with the most condescending and judgmental look on his face before scoffing. what a diva

He'll nag at you later for being "distracted while on the job" and say you're supposed to pay attention to him at all times otherwise how will his dear bodyguard protect him? Please be more mindful!

Caleb

It was a school reunion party when your old high school sweetheart came up to the both of you.

"Oh hey, I remember you! Weren't you the guy who got kicked out for cheating on his graduation exam?" He says with an innocent grin on his face knowing full well the guy is a deadbeat and making sure others heard it too.

It's canon he kept track of all crushes MC had while growing up and I'm sure he goes out of his way to show you their bad points so you won't even consider looking their way.

In some cases, Caleb had to get rid of them by manipulating things behind the scenes if they didn't take the hint and this one was one of those cases.

The guy was struggling with his grades and who is he to deny a helping hand? All he did was slip the sheet of answers to the test without anyone knowing, it's not his fault if the idiot accepted it knowing it was against the rules. Such an angel, isn't he.

This interaction will lead to him being even more territorial around you and he wants you to just stay home with him where it's safe. Pretty please?

Zayne

He will step in if they are bothering you by pretending he needs your immediate help in the office but otherwise Zayne merely listening in the background.

Once they're gone the silence is so loud.

You can basically feel that he's bothered by something, but he won't open his mouth even if you ask him about it because it's 'petty and childish'.

"Are you happy with me?" He'd eventually ask you after stewing in his own thoughts for the day. What if your tastes hadn't changed and you were just too nice to tell him he's not doing enough? That he is not enough.

Please reassure this sweet man that you're happy in the relationship. Especially so if your ex is the type that is super extroverted and easy to get along with since that's one of the points he struggles with the most.

The problem goes away on its own after some good quality time together and affectionate words.

[gf2bellamy]

Hi i was wondering if you could write a fic where bau!reader is cheering spencer on at his baseball game?

softball — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of a guy throwing sort of rude remarks at spence ( just like in the scene ) a/n: i rewatched the scene to write this and omg i forgot how silly it is i love them all so bad theyre literally family ( also i miss blake ) i had so much fun writing this i hope you like it !! <3 ( also i literally know nothing about softball so if anything is wrong i'm vv sorry </3 )

The warm afternoon sun bathed the softball field in golden light. You walked beside the bleachers, your sneakers crunching against the gravel path, with JJ at your side. Her son Henry skipped ahead, his tiny hand clutching hers, his excitement obvious as he pointed at the players warming up on the field.

Ahead, Spencer stood by the chain- link fence, deep in conversation with Derek, who was already dressed in his baseball uniform, adjusting his grip on his glove.

Spencer, in contrast, looked hesitant and nervous.

His eyes darted toward the field, where players were tossing balls and stretching, and you could see the uncertainty written all over his face.

“Hey!” JJ called, drawing their attention. 

Spencer turned, his brows furrowing slightly before his expression shifted into surprise. Practically the entire BAU team was gathered behind you—Hotch, Rossi, Garcia, Alex and even little Jack standing beside Henry. 

“What are you all doing here?” Spencer asked, his voice laced with disbelief. His eyes flickered over each of you.

You stepped forward, grinning up at him as you held out a black cap. “Came to support you, of course.” 

He turned it over in his hands, examining it, before slowly placing it on his head. The cap sat awkwardly over his curls at first, but he adjusted it carefully, pulling it down until it fit snugly.

“There,” you said, tilting your head as you studied him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Now you look the part.”

Spencer huffed out a small, amused breath but didn’t argue. 

Ten minutes later, the game was in full swing. Derek was already at bat, sending the ball flying across the field with a powerful hit. The crowd erupted in cheers as he sprinted toward first base.

You clapped from your seat on the bleachers, sharing an excited glance with JJ. 

You watched as he stepped up to the plate, his movements hesitant as he selected a bat from the rack. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitening as he took his position. His stance was awkward, his feet too close together, and he shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

Just before the pitcher threw the ball, Spencer turned his head, searching for something—someone. 

His eyes found you. 

You gave him an encouraging look, your lips curving into a soft, reassuring smile as you nodded.

Spencer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tightened his grip on the bat. He squared his shoulders as he turned back toward the pitcher.

The opposing player wound up and threw the ball.

Spencer swung—and missed. 

You bit your lip, fingers curling around the edge of the bleacher.

It was okay. He just needed to get a feel for it. 

The second pitch came. Spencer adjusted his grip, focused his gaze, and swung. 

Missed again. 

The sound of the bat slicing through empty air was met with a few sympathetic murmurs from the crowd.

You exhaled softly through your nose, feeling a twinge of nervousness for him. You could see the frustration creeping into his posture, the way his shoulders tensed and his jaw tightened.

Rossi, stood up from the bleachers as he clapped his hands together. “It’s all right, kid. You got this. Just keep your eye on the ball.” 

Spencer rolled his shoulders before repositioning himself. The third pitch came. He swung—and missed once more. 

A sharp whistle blew, signaling the end of his turn. Spencer sighed, pushing his hair back under the cap as he stepped away from the plate. 

Time passed, and the game continued. The team erupted in cheers when Derek hit a line drive into the outfield, sprinting around the bases with that signature confidence of his.

You clapped along with everyone else, letting out a light laugh when he slid into home base, grinning like he owned the field. 

Your attention drifted back to Spencer. He stood off to the side, a bat in his hand, tossing it lightly into the air as if trying to distract himself.

Except, instead of landing smoothly in his grip, it fumbled and hit the dirt with a dull thud.

You had to bite your cheek to suppress a laugh, not wanting to embarrass him further. He bent down quickly, picking it up like nothing had happened, his cheeks tinged with pink as he went back into position.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. There was something so endearing about Spencer Reid—genius, FBI profiler, and yet utterly out of his element on a softball field.

You stood up from the bleachers, brushing off your jeans as you made your way over to the chain-link fence that separated the stands from the field. Leaning against it, you called out to him, your voice light and teasing.

“Need a hand with that bat, or are you just practicing your juggling skills?”

Spencer’s head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly as he realized you were watching him. He straightened, brushing a stray curl out of his face as he walked closer to the fence, the bat dangling loosely in his hand.

“I, uh, didn’t realize anyone was paying attention,” he admitted, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” you said with a grin, resting your arms on the top of the fence. “And I have to say, your juggling could use a little work. Maybe stick to profiling for now.”

He let out a small, self-conscious laugh, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I’m not exactly cut out for this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the field. “I mean, I can calculate the trajectory of a ball in my head, but actually hitting it? That’s a whole different story.”

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Hey, you’re doing better than you think. It’s just a game, Spencer.”

He glanced over at Derek, who was currently showing off with a series of exaggerated practice swings, much to the amusement of the rest of the team. “Yeah, well, Morgan makes it look easy,” Spencer muttered.

“Derek’s had years of practice,” you pointed out. “You’re just starting. Cut yourself some slack.”

Spencer sighed, leaning against the fence on his side so that you were face to face, only the metal links separating you.

Your heart softened. “You don’t have to be good at everything, Spencer. It'’s okay to just have fun.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his brown eyes searching yours as if trying to find some kind of reassurance. Finally, he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Fun, huh? I guess I can try that.”

“That’s the spirit,” you said, reaching through the fence to give his arm a playful nudge. “And hey, if nothing else, you’ve got the best cheering section here. We’re all rooting for you.”

Spencer’s smile widened, and for the first time since the game started, he looked genuinely relaxed. “Thanks,” he said, his voice warm. “That… means a lot.”

Just then, Derek’s voice boomed across the field. “Reid! You’re up again! Stop flirting and get over here!”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and he quickly straightened, adjusting his cap. “I, uh, should probably go,” he said, glancing back at you.

You laughed, waving him off. “Go on. Show them what you’ve got.”

Smiling you went back to your seat. When he stepped up to bat, he glanced over at you one more time, and you gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up, earning a small chuckle from him.

JJ, Penelope, and Alex all exchanged knowing glances. 

When Spencer turned his back to get into position, you caught them looking and furrowed your brows. “What?” 

JJ smirked, leaning in slightly. “Oh, nothing.” 

“Absolutely nothing at all,” Penelope added, eyes twinkling. 

Alex just shook her head, biting back a small, amused smile. 

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest was undeniable. 

And when Spencer stepped up to bat once more, he stole one last glance at you before squaring his stance. His eyes lingered for just a moment, and you could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

But then, from the opposing team’s dugout, someone called out, “This guy can’t hit.”

You frowned, your expression twisting in annoyance.

That was unnecessary.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who noticed. 

Derek, standing near home plate, lifted a hand and called for a time-out. He turned on his heel and strode toward Spencer, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he leaned in to say something. 

You let out a small breath of relief. 

Rossi, seated just below you on the bleachers, leaned back slightly and smirked. “Shoot him another one of your good luck smiles. Maybe he won’t miss this time.” 

Your eyes narrowed, heat creeping up your neck. “Funny,” you muttered, crossing your arms in an attempt to keep yourself composed. 

Rossi chuckled, clearly enjoying himself, and the rest of the team exchanged knowing glances. 

Derek finally walked back to his position, and Spencer turned around once more—his eyes searching for you almost instinctively. You met his gaze, and despite the slight nervousness still lingering in his stance, you smiled at him, giving him an encouraging nod. 

“There you go,” Rossi muttered under his breath, and you shot him a glare, though it held no real heat. 

You ignored him, keeping your eyes on Spencer as he adjusted his grip on the bat, exhaled, and squared his stance once more. 

The pitcher wound up. 

The ball came flying toward him. 

Spencer swung. 

And missed. 

You bit your lip, fingers curling slightly as you watched him adjust.

The second pitch came. 

Another miss. 

You swallowed hard. You could tell he was getting in his own head. 

And then, just as the pitcher lined up for the third throw, that same player from earlier muttered loud enough for everyone to hear, “This guy’s got nothing.” 

Your head snapped toward him, irritation bubbling up in your chest. Oh, shut up, you thought, resisting the urge to march over there yourself. You shot the player a glare, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care.

Then, the third pitch came. 

For a split second, time seemed to slow. 

Spencer swung— 

Crack! 

The unmistakable sound of the bat making solid contact echoed across the field. 

The ball shot into the air, soaring far past the infield. 

For a second, Spencer just stood there, wide-eyed, almost as if he couldn’t believe it himself. He blinked at the bat in his hands, then at the ball still sailing through the air, as if trying to process what had just happened.

He didn’t move an inch. 

“Spencer, run!” 

Everyone was shouting now—Derek, Rossi, JJ, Penelope,Alex even Hotch. But it was your voice that seemed to snap him out of it. His head jerked in your direction, and when he saw you standing, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheered, something seemed to click. 

He ran. 

Derek was smacking his hands against his knees. “C’mon, kid, move it!” 

Spencer rounded first, then second. The outfielders were still scrambling to recover, and the team’s cheers only grew louder. 

By the time he made it to third, you could see the determination set on his face. His cap had slipped slightly, his curls bouncing with every stride, and his cheeks were flushed from the effort.

“Go, Spencer!” you yelled, clapping wildly. 

The second the opposing team threw the ball toward home plate, Spencer took one final, desperate sprint— 

And then slid. 

It wasn’t the smoothest slide, and judging by the way he grimaced as he skidded across the dirt, it definitely wasn’t something he had ever practiced before. But when the referee threw his arms out and called, “Safe!” the entire BAU team erupted. 

Derek was the first to reach him, pulling Spencer to his feet and clapping him on the back so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what I’m talking about, kid!” he shouted, his grin wide and proud.

JJ and Penelope were cheering loudly, their voices carrying across the field, while Rossi let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. Even Hotch, who was usually so stoic, was cheering.

But your eyes were on Spencer. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath, but there was a look of pure triumph on his face.

His cap was crooked, his shirt was covered in dirt, and his hair was a complete mess, but he looked happier than you’d seen him in a long time.

When his eyes found yours, he smiled—a real, genuine smile that lit up his entire face. You grinned back at him, giving him a thumbs-up, and he shook his head, laughing softly as he adjusted his cap.

After a few moments, as the team’s cheers began to subside, Spencer finally managed to wiggle free from Derek’s grip, stepping away from the celebratory pit.

His teammates continued to pat him on the back, offering congratulations and words of encouragement, but Spencer’s attention was already drifting.

His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for you.

When he finally spotted you, his expression softened, and a small, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

You walked up to him, your smile growing wider with every step.

Spencer was still slightly breathless, his chest rising and falling with adrenaline , but all he could focus on was you.

The noise of the cheering team, the occasional slap on his back from his teammates—it all faded into the background the moment your arms wrapped around his neck. 

His fingers instinctively tightened around your waist, his grip warm.

“You did great,” you said, your voice full of excitement, as you pulled back slightly, your smile so wide it felt like it could light up the entire field. 

Spencer’s lips parted slightly, his mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. You were so close.

He could see the way your cheeks were slightly flushed—whether from the excitement of the game or something else, he wasn’t sure. 

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You nodded, smiling brightly. “Yeah.” 

His heart stuttered at the confirmation, at the way you were looking at him like he had genuinely impressed you.

It wasn’t often that Spencer Reid felt cool, but right now, standing here with you, he kind of did. 

The way you were looking at him, your arms still loosely draped around his neck, made him feel like he’d just accomplished something extraordinary—even if it was just a lucky hit in a casual softball game.

“See, pretty boy? Told you you had it in you,” Derek called, clapping him on the shoulder as he walked past, effectively snapping Spencer out of his daze. 

You giggled, finally stepping back, though Spencer hesitated before letting you go.

Garcia practically skipped over, phone in hand. “Oh, don’t mind me, just capturing all these adorable moments,” she teased, wiggling her fingers at her screen. 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth creeping up your neck. “Garcia…” 

“What? This is gold,” she argued, waving her phone. “The genius hits a home run, and his biggest fan is the first one to congratulate him? I live for this.” 

Spencer, still trying to recover from all of this, rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning.

You reached up, gently adjusting his cap.

Your fingers brushed against his forehead, and for a moment, Spencer froze, his breath catching as he looked down at you.

“There,” you said softly, smoothing the brim of the cap. “Now you look like a proper MVP.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but no words came out. He just stared at you, his mind racing as he tried to process the way your touch made him feel.

Rossi, who had been watching from the bleachers with an amused smirk, leaned toward Hotch and muttered, “I give it two months.”

Hotch merely sighed, shaking his head. “They’ll be the last to realize it.”

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 22 - every word

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language, angst, sorry this is more fic i had to get it out

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you had just settled down for the evening, having spent the day with kie you were feeling happy and ready to unwind for bed, until you heard a knock on your door.

a wave of panic rushed over you, as the knocking only increased in desperation.

you got up and looked out the window, just to see:

rafe.

what the fuck was he doing here.

you stood there, frozen in your position with your heart hammering in your chest.

another knock. louder this time.

“y/n, please open the door.”

your fingers twitched at your sides, reaching for the door knob.

how fucking dare he show up here after everything?

you yanked the door open so fast he took a step back, eyes widening slightly at your appearance.

you looked good, and from the way his gaze flickered over you, you knew he saw it too.

“what the fuck do you want, rafe?”

his jaw tensed, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “y/n." he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. “can we just—can we talk? please?”

“talk?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. "now you want to talk? after you've seen me doing good?"

rafe’s eyes darkened, his whole body tensing. “y/n, it’s not what you think.”

you shook your head, letting out a laugh. “it never is, is it?”

his jaw twitched, struggling to keep his composure. he wasn't expecting you to be angry. “that picture—”

“don’t.” you held up a hand. “i don’t want to hear it.”

he stepped closer, his voice dropping. “it’s not what it looked like.”

you let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to meet his sad gaze. “you think that changes anything?” your voice wavered, but you steadied it. “you didn’t call, rafe. you didn’t text. not once.”

his lips parted like he wanted to argue, "you broke up with me. what was i supposed to do?"

“you let me sit in that heartbreak alone,” you whispered, voice laced with so much anger it nearly scared you. “you didn't even try. and then i wake up to you kissing another girl?"

rafe shook his head quickly. “i was drunk, y/n-"

“no.” you clenched your jaw, gripping the door like it was the only thing keeping you steady. “let me finish. you don’t get to show up here and act like you give a shit. you don't get to release this fucking song like it'll win me back."

his eyes searched yours, something breaking in his expression. “i do give a shit,” he said, voice softer now, almost desperate. “i still- that song, i meant every word.”

“no.” you stepped back, “i don’t want to hear it.” tears threatening to spill. "you didn't even fight for me." you whispered.

rafe's heart dropped at that, he took another step forward, his voice, desperate. “y/n, please. i messed up. i know i did. but you have to believe me, that song, that was real. we were real. everything you think happened, didn't happen. i only ever wanted you, only ever loved you. fuck, still love you.”

your chest ached, like he was physically pulling at the wound he left in you. part of you wanted to believe it. but another part, the part that still felt the sting of betrayal, the part that had spent weeks crying over him, knew better.

“i don’t care.” the lie tasted bitter on your tongue.

his face fell those words punching him in the stomach. “yes, you do.”

you swallowed, you couldn't look at him. “you let me go.”

his lips parted, but no words came out. he tried to step closer, take your hand in his. you almost let him.

tears started to well up in rafe's eyes, and the sight made you want to break.

"why did you kiss her rafe? did i mean that little?" you questioned, voice shaking.

"no y/n, that isn't it." he started.

"then what is it?"

"i was so drunk."

"i know you were, i've already told you that isn't an excuse." anger burning inside you again.

"no y/n, i kissed her because-" his breath catching in his throat.

"spit it out rafe." your frustration rising.

"i thought it was you."

and just like that, the anger disappeared.

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a/n: i'm not done breaking your hearts just yet

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry  @yesterdaysproblemm @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes@judesgfirl@4urvalidation@chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover@yesshewrites1@amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld@blushmimi  @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account@vcnillafairy@bambii1i @sammyrenae68 @kittenjujusblog @bambii1i @thesunflowersociety @wtfdudesblog @voidangxls @jjmaybankmylovee @munsoncultedits @emmiesummers @darlingstarkey @sassyvillaintrophy  @pogueprincesa @stylestarkey @sodapopwaldor @hannaa20002000 @stelleduarte @davinashifts333

[pronouncingitwang]

[ID: 10 gifs of Irving and Helly in different episodes of Severance. They go

2.04: Irving says to Helena, "What you said to me last night. It was cruel. Helly was never cruel."

1.01: Helly looks warily at Irving through the desk barriers. Irving says, "Hello."

1.02: MDR is playing the ball game. Irving, smiling, tilts his head at Helly and rolls the ball towards her even as she shakes her head. She watches it come towards her with a disgruntled expression

1.02: Helly asks Irving, "How was wellness?" He replies, "Great! Very restorative."

1.02: Irving crouches behind Helly as she refines her first numbers. She looks at turns scared, excited, and proud. Grinning, he says, "All right, Helly. Hip hip!"

1.03: Helly looks up at Myrtle Eagan in the Perpetuity Wing. Irving asks, smiling, "Isn't that lovely?" She says sarcastically, "It's beautiful."

1.04: Irving tells Mark, "It’s past 1100, and Helly’s been in the break room since yesterday." Mark replies, "Okay?" Irving says, "I wonder if as Department Chief you feel you should check on her progress?"

1.06: MDR are meeting around a table. Helly says, "I agree with Irving. O&D is the next piece of this. Now once we’ve mapped the whole floor-" Irving says, "To be clear, I do not approve of mapping." Helly points at him and says, "Right."

1.08: Irving, standing in the elevator before the OTC, says, "Let's find out what's for dinner." The two give each other small, hopeful smiles as the door closes.

2.04: Irving cradles Helly post-drowning and says, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Helly."

/end ID]

"I think there’s something about Irving and Helly R. They formed an alliance in Season 1, really, at the Perpetuity Wing ... There’s a real familial bond that they have ... For Helena, her relationship with her father is so challenging that the kind of dynamic she has with Irving, I think, is triggering for her because it kind of rhymes a little bit with a father figure, but it’s a way more nurturing one than she’s ever experienced." (x)

[hoe4hotchner]

Retirement | [A.H]

Pairing: Retired!Aaron Hotchner x Fem!reader | WC: 1.1k | CW: Nothing but cuteness

A/N: Don't worry, Hotch is not an old man he's like late 50's early 60's in this based on Jack being in college ;)

The porch was bathed in the golden light from the afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the wooden planks. The gentle creak of the rocking chair kept rhythm with the distant hum of cicadas, a sound that had become so familiar it felt like part of the air itself.

A soft breeze carried the scent of summer—freshly cut grass, the lingering sweetness of honeysuckle climbing the trellis, and the faint, smoky remnants of the firewood stacked near the house.

You leaned against Hotch’s chest, his arms loosely draped around your waist, fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare legs. The warmth of him seeped into you. You let out a content sigh, snuggling further into his chest.

It had been six months since he left the BAU. Six months of long walks through the countryside, of mornings spent in bed with no reason to rush, of rediscovering a man who had spent years sacrificing himself for the safety of others.

At first, the transition had been difficult. Aaron had been hesitant, unsure of who he was outside of the job, as though his identity had been stitched together by the cases, the late nights, the endless chase of justice.

He had been restless, waking up at odd hours as though his body still expected the call of duty. Some nights, you had found him on the porch, staring into the darkness, lost in thought. And other's you had found him sitting in the kitchen, his phone open on either JJ or Emily's contact in his phone, debating whether he should check in and see how everything was going without him.

But in this almost sanctuary you had built together, he had begun to unravel—layer by layer, breath by breath. The sharp edges of stress had softened, the lines around his mouth no longer weighed down by exhaustion. He still carried the past with him, no doubt he'd always have it with him, but it no longer defined him.

Your legs stretched over his lap, the warmth of his hands resting against your skin. His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your knee, and you smiled, closing your eyes as the wind tousled your hair.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, edged with that lingering gravel that had always made your stomach flip.

You hummed in response. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You tilted your head back, meeting his eyes. The sunlight hit them just right, turning the brown into something lighter, warmer. “How much I love you.”

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile appearing as he squeezed your thigh. “You always get sentimental when we sit out here.”

“Can you blame me?” you teased, running your fingers through the graying strands at his temple. “Look at this. It’s peaceful. I never thought we’d have something like this.”

He exhaled, long and slow. “Neither did I.”

There was something about the way he said it, the weight behind the words, that made your chest tighten. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Are you happy, Aaron?”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, his gaze soft but intent. “More than I ever thought possible.”

You kissed his shoulder, letting the moment stretch, settling into the quiet contentment that came so easily now.

You tilted your head slightly against him, voice soft as you asked, "How's Jack?"

Aaron exhaled, a small, fond smile pulling at his lips as he continued tracing patterns against your skin. "I talked to him yesterday," he said, his voice warm with pride. "He sounds happy. Settling into college well, making friends. He even mentioned joining an intramural soccer team."

Your smile widened at that. "That’s wonderful. He always did love playing." You recalled the games Aaron had invited you to when Jack was only a young boy

Hotch nodded, the tension he once carried about Jack leaving for college no longer evident in his expression. "He said his classes are challenging but interesting. And he likes his professors."

You ran your fingers gently along his arm, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek. "He’s thriving, then. Just like you wanted."

Aaron let out a quiet chuckle. "Just like we wanted. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. I think Haley would be proud."

You squeezed his hand, understanding the weight of his words. "She would be. You’ve raised a good man, Aaron."

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, silent gratitude passing between you. You let the moment settle between you, filled with warmth and love.

A rustling sound caught your attention, and when you glanced to the side, a small smile pulled at your lips. “Aaron,” you whispered, nudging him lightly. “Look.”

He followed your gaze, and there, across the wooden railing of the porch, a handful of ladybugs had gathered, their tiny, spotted bodies crawling along the grain of the wood. One took flight, landing on your outstretched hand.

Hotch chuckled. “Looks like you’re a favorite today.”

You watched the little insect as it wandered across your palm. “You know, my grandmother used to say ladybugs were good luck.”

“Did she?” He tilted his head, watching as another landed near his wrist. “Mmhm.” You met his eyes, a teasing glint in yours. “I think it’s a sign.” He arched a brow. “Of what?”

“That this—” you gestured around you, at the house, the land, the life you had built together— “was always meant to be.”

His expression softened. He brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your fingers. “I don’t need a sign to know that.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the only sounds the distant chirping of birds, the whisper of leaves rustling in the breeze, and the steady rise and fall of Aaron’s breath. He had a way of making the world feel smaller, simpler—of making you feel like the only thing that mattered.

“Jack texted earlier by the way,” he murmured after a moment, remembering something he had forgotten to tell you when you asked about him. “Said he wants to come up next weekend.”

Your heart warmed at the mention of a visit. “That sounds perfect. Maybe we can take him fishing.”

Hotch’s lips quirked. “You still think you can out-fish me?”

You grinned. “Oh, I don’t think—I know.”

He chuckled, the deep sound reverberating through his chest. “We’ll see about that.”

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of orange and pink, you leaned back against him, letting the moment settle deep into your bones.

The world felt softer here, free of the chaos and darkness that had once consumed so much of your lives.