#i want to know what happens if you press it

[mariasont]

HI i have an idea and its making me really giddy

ok so reader is a translator for the bau and they’re always reading and translating texts or calls or anything like that. and the reader to spencer is basically like penelope to derek. they flirt all the time and all of those lovely things.. and it’s kinda just where they’re flirting on the phone and morgan teases reid about it and reid gets all flustered

IDK IF IT CAN WORK I JUST LOVE FLUSTERED SPENCER :(

anyway i’ll probably be in your inbox a bunch uhhh so call me h or something

-h

Warm Under the Collar - S.R

summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying. pairings: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: heavy flirting, pre-relationship mutual pining, verbal sparring as foreplay, workplace hr violations, use of angel wc: 0.6k

“Are you thinking about me, Dr. Reid? Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Spencer exhales, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as if loosening it might alleviate the sudden stranglehold of your words. He wasn’t sure if it was always this constricting or if it was conspiring against him at the mere sound of your voice.

He rolls his eyes, performative, really, because you can’t see him, and it’s easier to feign exasperation than admit the effect you have on him. His mouth, however, twitches in betrayal, flirting with a smile before he crushes it. 

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas. 

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly. 

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature. 

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.” 

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[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.

[peter-pumpkin-eater]

Bite

Caleb x gn!reader

summary: Sitting on Caleb's lap while sleepy might be a bad idea (you'll do it again)

warnings: slightly suggestive (nothing mentioned but hinted at), yearning, one (1) gendered pet name (pretty girl), biting

word count: 607

You were curled up in Caleb’s lap. Something was playing on the tv but you weren’t paying attention. Your half lidded eyes weighed heavy with exhaustion. It also didn’t help that Caleb’s fingers were running absentmindedly on the outside of your thigh that was tucked against him. Caleb dropped his head in the crook of your neck and stifled a yawn against your skin - the puff of hot air making the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You melted further into him, his warmth seeping into your bones. He dragged his lips up your neck before resting behind your ear and taking a deep breath. Your scent flooded his senses and he wasn’t thinking, he was too tired and the feeling of you pressed against him was overwhelming. His lips ghosted back down your neck and the sleepy tilt of your head giving him a little more access was his breaking point.

He opened his mouth slowly and the feel of his teeth grazing across your skin set you on fire. You were suddenly wide awake. Before you could fully process what was happening you felt his teeth sink into your neck. It wasn't a hard bite, but you know that it’ll probably leave a mark.

“Ah~” You gasped before throwing a hand over your mouth. The sound you made not only startled you but also Caleb. He froze against you before you could feel the curl of his lips against your skin.. 

“You like that?” Caleb’s gravely voice chuckled against the shell of your ear. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly, still having a hand over your mouth. Caleb wrapped his arms tighter around your torso, the hand that was on your thigh snaking under it pulling you closer against him. 

Your heart was beating so fast you were sure Caleb could feel it through your back. His lips moved to your shoulder and you shivered. 

“Talk to me, baby.” He purred against your skin before sinking his teeth in again, gentler this time. You think you could feel his tongue run over the bite mark.

“Mm!” you moaned against your hand before dropping them to claw at Caleb's arm around you. You needed to get off his lap before you embarrassed yourself further. Another chuckle puffed against your ear. 

“Does my pretty girl like being bitten? Naughty.” He teased. 

“Caleb. Need t-” you gasped using both hands to try and peel his arm from you.

“Need to, what?” He spoke as he ran his nose against your pulse point. He was taking this too far. He should stop. He doesn't want to scare you away, but the way you're shaking on top of him and those oh so pretty sounds falling past your lips were a drug he will never stop trying to get now that he’s had a taste. 

You wiggle against him trying to break free. “I- I need to get up” You stuttered out.

Caleb had to let you go now. It was getting harder for him to control himself and if anything, this was a perfect test to see how far he could push you. He loosens his arms around you and you bolt from his lap and up the stairs. He sighs heavily with a smile on his lips and leans into the couch. He adjusted his sweats and was sure you had felt his own reaction to this against you. 

Upstairs you had locked yourself in the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. You looked up at yourself in the mirror and groaned at the very obvious bite mark on your neck. You were fucked.

[harrysfolklore]

So since the Oscars are happening next week I wanted to ask if you could please write something about charles leclerc and actress!reader where she's been nominated many many times before but never won (kind of like saoirse ronan) but this time she finally breaks the curse and win her first Oscar and Charles being just proud husband

u know you can always count on me for a charles x famous!reader fic and honestly i loved this one 🥺 i hope you like ittt

The Dolby Theatre buzzes with anticipation as you sit between Charles and your co-star. This scene is familiar - the sixth time you've been nominated, the same butterfly-inducing wait during the Best Actress category. Your first nomination came when you were just twenty-three, and now at thirty, you've earned the title of 'most nominated actress without a win.'

Charles has been there for four of those nominations, watching you smile gracefully through each loss. You remember how devastated he was last year - more than you, even - when you lost for what critics had called 'the performance of the decade.' He'd held you all night, whispering about how the Academy didn't deserve you anyway.

Tonight, though, feels different. Maybe it's the way Charles keeps pressing soft kisses to your temple, or how he hasn't stopped playing with your wedding ring - a nervous habit he picked up during particularly tense races.

"Mon coeur," he whispers as the Best Actor category wraps up, "no matter what happens, you're already the winner in my eyes. But tonight... tonight feels like magic, no?"

You're gripping Charles's hand so tightly you might be cutting off his circulation, but he doesn't seem to mind. Your heart is pounding as Emma Stone opens the envelope on stage, the same way it has during the previous ceremonies where you'd left empty-handed despite the nominations.

Charles leans closer, his lips brushing your ear. "I'm proud of you, no matter what happens," he whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your hand.

"And the Academy Award for Best Actress in a Leading Role goes to..."

Charles's grip tightens imperceptibly. You feel him holding his breath alongside you.

"YN!"

For a moment, you're frozen. The applause sounds distant, like you're underwater. Then you feel Charles's hands on your face, see his beaming smile through your blur of tears.

"You did it, mon coeur!" he exclaims, his own eyes glistening as he pulls you into a kiss. "You finally did it!"

You're trembling as you stand, Charles helping you up. He's looking at you the way he does after winning a race - no, even more intensely than that. Like you've just won every championship in existence.

The walk to the stage feels surreal. You can hear the announcement echoing: "This is YN's sixth nomination and first win..." Through your tears, you see the standing ovation, catch glimpses of familiar faces who've been on this journey with you.

Your hands shake as you accept the Oscar, its weight both foreign and familiar after years of dreaming about this moment. You take a deep breath, looking out at the sea of faces until you find those green eyes that have been your anchor through every high and low.

"Wow," you begin, your voice trembling. "They say sixth time's the charm, right?" The audience laughs warmly. "I've had this speech written in my head since I was a little girl playing pretend with my mom's hairbrush, but now that I'm here, those words don't seem enough."

You pause, gathering yourself. "To the Academy - thank you for not giving up on me. To my incredible director who trusted me with this role that scared me as much as it thrilled me. To my amazing co-stars who pushed me to dig deeper, be braver."

Your eyes find Charles again, who's watching you with such pure adoration it makes your heart swell. "To my husband, who has sat through more award shows than F1 races this year so far, who runs lines with me even though he says my accent is better than his, who believes in me more than I believe in myself - ti amu. You've watched me practice acceptance speeches in our kitchen, held me through the disappointments, and somehow made me feel like a winner every single time. You told me once that in racing, it's not about how many times you don't make the podium, it's about never stopping until you do. Well, my love, we finally made it to the top step."

You can see Charles openly crying now, nodding proudly through his tears. "To my parents who let their little girl dream big, to my team who've been with me through every 'maybe next year,' to every young actor who's been told 'not yet' - keep going. Your time will come."

Looking down at the golden statue in your hands, you smile through your tears. "And finally, to every person who's ever felt like they're always the runner-up, who's heard 'better luck next time' so many times they've lost count - this is for you. Because sometimes the longest waitings lead to the sweetest victories. Thank you, thank you so much."

Later, at the Vanity Fair after-party, Charles hasn't let go of your Oscar once. He's been carrying it around, showing it off more proudly than any of his race trophies.

"My wife," he keeps saying to everyone who'll listen, his accent thick with emotion, "she's brilliant, no? I told everyone she would win. I knew it."

"Charles," you laugh, watching him polish the statue with his pocket square for the third time. "You're going to wear it out."

"Non, I'm protecting it. It's very precious." He looks at you with those soft green eyes. "Like you."

You lean into his side, feeling the familiar warmth of his arm around your waist. "You know what this means, right? Now we both have something gold to polish obsessively."

He chuckles, finally setting the Oscar down to pull you closer. "Oui, but unlike my trophies, this one was a long time coming." His expression softens. "You deserved this years ago, mon coeur."

"Well," you say, straightening his bowtie, "someone once told me that the sweetest victories are the ones you have to fight for."

"Sounds like a wise man," he grins.

"He's alright," you tease. "Bit of a show-off though. Keeps trying to steal my Oscar's spotlight."

Charles laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Never. Tonight is all yours, my love. Though..." he adds with a mischievous glint in his eye, "I might need to win another race soon. Can't have you being the only champion in the household."

You reach up to wipe a smudge of your lipstick from his cheek. "Race you to the next gold trophy?"

"Deal," he says softly, pulling you into a proper kiss. "But you've already won the most important race."

"Oh? Which one is that?"

His smile is tender as he touches his forehead to yours. "The race to my heart."

"That was terrible," you laugh, but you're already pulling him closer.

"Terrible but true," he murmurs against your lips. "Now, shall we go home? I need to practice my 'proud husband watching his wife's Oscar-winning performance' face for when we rewatch your movie for the hundredth time."

"You love that movie."

"I love you," he corrects.

And as you watch him carefully wrap your award in his suit jacket for the journey home, you think that maybe this victory is sweeter than you imagined - not because of the golden statue, but because of the golden heart beside you who never stopped believing it would happen.

[fairyhaos]

❖ kiss your heart // xu minghao

minghao x f!reader, 1.1k+ words

tags: established relationship, both xmh + yn are RICH rich, fluff, kissing, marriage/proposal talks, minghao is literally so in love omfg

warnings: pet names (angel, sweetheart)

notes: literally me rambling about rich + devoted minghao with absolutely no direction planned and i think it's super obvious HELPP but it does not matter !! ur honor i luv these 2 theyre so sassy smitten and it devastates me

“you’re actually the worst person i’ve ever met.”

you glare at your boyfriend as he gets out of the driver’s seat, walks around the front of the parked car and opens your door for you. he’s still smiling that faintly smug smile that’s been on his stupidly handsome face ever since you left the restaurant, and you hate it.

“sweetheart,” minghao says, taking hold of your hand and helping you out of the car, “it’s really no big deal.”

you scoff, rolling your eyes. releasing minghao’s hand, you deposit your purse into his waiting palm and flounce away, across the car park and to the apartment building doors.

minghao struggles to hold back a laugh as he trails after you. “y/n. you’re not truly mad, are you?”

“of course i’m truly mad,” you huff. “you said i could pay for our date this time.” 

during the five years you’ve been dating minghao, he’s taken you on a whole variety of incredible dates. from the impromptu long weekend to paris to the days where you just go to the restaurant down the block for dinner, minghao has never failed to take care of you and always pays for your meal.

any other person would be flattered to have such a rich and devoted boyfriend. and really, you adore that about him, too.

but, well. you’re rich also. and sometimes, you want to be the one to dote on your boyfriend.

you punch in the building code unnecessarily hard and stomp through the automatic doors before minghao can catch up with you. from behind, you can hear him laughing, and it makes you whirl back around to look at him, pouting extravagantly.

“i don’t see why that’s so funny. you promised, hao,” you whine, and minghao just laughs again.

that night had been just a normal date night, nothing more than the two of you dressing up to go to that one upscale chinese place that you both love. and so, it seemed like the best day to finally start paying for your dates—if it was any big occasion, minghao would’ve definitely protested against the idea, insistent that he wanted to treat you on such a special day.

and at the time, it seemed like it would work.

minghao had smiled at you, adjusting the pearls around your neck, and agreed.

you’d felt ridiculously satisfied, excited at the fact that finally, you’d have a chance to pay for your boyfriend. but oh, how wrong you were.

“i’m sorry, angel,” minghao says now, brushing a finger over your cheek fondly before pressing the ‘up’ button for the elevator. “it just so happened that i’d already paid for our meal before we’d even got there. i didn’t want to burst your bubble by telling you so, but i guess that made it even worse, hm?”

you whine again in frustration. “hao, that’s not even a thing! you can’t pay for a meal in advance!”

“i can when i know exactly what we’re going to order,” minghao grins.

“what?! i swear, that must go against restaurant etiquette! that's actually crazy behaviour. i can't believe you did that."

the elevator arrives then, and minghao gestures for you to get in first. you do, still arguing with him over restaurant rules and whatnot. even as you do so, supposedly very upset over his behaviour, you still hold onto his arm and lean against him to take off your heels, and then pass them over to him once they’re off your aching feet.

minghao smiles amusedly, terribly smitten. 

“—going to get you back for that stunt one day, xu minghao,” you say, stabbing an accusing finger into his shoulder. “gonna book out the entire restaurant. no, wait, the entire street! we’re going to venice one day, and i’m going to close down a whole road for us only. just you wait.”

the elevator doors open with a ding, and he trails behind as you continue talking, dreaming up big plans on how to treat your boyfriend sometime in the future.

it’s devastatingly endearing. he knows it was maybe a tiny, tiny bit mean to advance-pay the bill tonight, but in his defence, he does that most nights anyway. plus, he likes seeing how pouty you get over it, knowing you're not actually upset, but still insisting you are because you can pay for your own meals, without minghao's card, thank you very much.

and you very much can—he hasn’t run the numbers in a while, but he’s pretty sure you’re richer than him right now—but he likes paying for you. likes taking care of you like this.

he inputs the keycode to the apartment, chuckling as you continue to rant.

“okay, alright,” he finally concedes, opening the door and letting you enter first, taking off your wool coat for you and hanging it up by the door. “in which case, how about a compromise? i pay for our ordinary dates like these, and you can pay for special occasions.”

your eyes light up at his words. “wait, really?”

minghao laughs. “yes, really.” he puts your purse on the dresser by the door, your shoes in the shoe cupboard and then takes off his own. “except for valentine’s day, white day, our anniversary, and your birthday. i’ll be paying for those.”

“what?” you complain. “hao, you’re leaving me with nothing!”

“you can pay for my birthday.”

“come on, that’s a given. i would do that anyway.”

you’re giving him those big, sad eyes again, and minghao can’t help but smile even wider. lord, you’re just so pretty and you love him so much and he’s never been more grateful for that because he loves you so much too.

“well,” he says, pretending to think, “we don’t have an engagement or wedding anniversary yet. so if those things ever happen… then maybe…”

your eyes widen, little sparkles appearing in your irises even as your entire face softens, gentle and hopeful. “you’re… you want to marry me?”

minghao can’t take this anymore. he walks over, takes your face in his hands and kisses you, once. and then again, deeper, softer, for good measure. just to get his point across.

“of course,” he murmurs against your lips when he pulls away. “i love you.”

you lean in and peck him on the lips once more. “i love you too,” you say, and then pull away so he can see the mischievous glint in your eyes. “hey. if i propose to you, then i’ll definitely get to pay for every engagement anniversary we have, right?”

minghao laughs, pulling you back into his embrace. “sure, sweetheart. that’s only if you propose to me first, however.”

“are you trying to start a proposal race, minghao?”

“maybe. will you join in, y/n?”

you laugh, looping your arms behind his neck and bringing his face close to yours again. “oh, it’s on.”

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit @dokyeomkyeom @hopeless-foolery

[madthetruemad]

WHEN YOU REALIZE HOW STRONG HE IS, or when you're just playing around and you see that he can hold you down quite easily...

cw ; a dabble of angst (if you squint) w/ comfort, and maybe a tiny bit suggestive

mydei x reader (implied fem!reader)

MYDEI doesn't always indulge with roughhousing with you. However, today was just one of those days where your playful demeanor finally rubbed off on him.

You were laughing as you lightly pushed at him and tried to knock him down to the couch, but he had other plans when he pushed you down instead.

Your back was flush with the cushions of the couch before you could even blink, and his hands were holding your shoulders down easily. You struggled a bit, try to push up, or even wriggle your way out. But Mydei was strong.

The sudden realization of not being able to push him off of you hit you like a slap to the face.

And when you stopped laughing and giggling, that's when Mydei pulled back. A frown etched across his features as he looked down you... that expression... why were you making that face?

Trying to act like nothing happened, you smiled again, "you're," you laughed awkwardly, sheepishly as you sat up with him, "you're really strong!"

He frowned at you, he could already guess what made you react like that.

"Stop that."

"H- huh, stop what?"

"That fake expression, stop making it. I made you uncomfortable just now, it was obvious."

You dropped the smile as he had asked, "no... it's my fault for thinking of something stupid. I didn't mean to bring the whole mood down...," your voice trailed off and he decided to delve deeper. He didn't want this to happen again. Seeing you smile, a real smile, was far better.

"What was it that you were... thinking about?"

"I guess.. I just realized how strong you were. Like, I couldn't push you off or anything! And you weren't even being serious!"

He raised an eyebrow, "you are worried you won't be able to fight me off?"

You shook your head almost instantly, "no, no! I'm not- I'm not trying to say that at all! Ugh, it's so hard to explain-"

"I'm sorry."

His apology through you off guard sending you into a panic, "you- you don't need to apologize! My mind is just being stupid!"

"And yet when we were messing around, you still feel as if you need to be able to push me off at any given moment if things got bad."

You pressed your lips together and he continued.

"I want you to know that you are safe... with me. And that with even a single word said by you, you can get me to get off of you."

"Mydei..."

"So, until the day comes that you feel safe with me. I guess I'll just have to try harder to prove myself to you. Even with foolish acts like this."

"Like what?"

You tilted your head to the side but just as you asked that you let out a loud squeal as you grabbed onto his shoulders as he flipped you both over.

Now he was the one laying against the couch as you were above him straddling his waist.

"No matter the position we're in, you're always in control."

You felt your face grow hot at the implication, but you were happy nonetheless. You were safe. You are safe with Mydei.

[blackdykegirlblogger]

rambling about loser!puppyvi who adores eating pussy. what else is new?

a/n: just a lil something from my drafts to hold the masses over. i swear i'm not ignoring any requests, i see them all and plan on getting to them. but assuming we're all college-aged and older yall can probably understand that classes have been beating. my. ass. 😭 but i'm getting back on track so don't fret

could be seen as a part ll to this

if you were to look up the definition of "pussydrunk", chances are you'd find vi's face there. she's always been weak for some cunt, her self-control levels close to 0 and her appreciation for women always up to 100, but this was just....another level.

it's gotten to a point where her face felt foreign if it wasn't coated in copious amounts of your cum, to a point where she would find her middle and ring fingers curling unconsciously, imagining them snuggled deep inside of you. every waking thought was clouded by the prize between your legs.

with literally anything else, vi's usually quite the smart cookie. quick on her feet, adaptable, showing a level of emotional awareness and understanding that's very uncommon for a girl her age. but as soon as you enter the picture, she's morphing into your dumb little puppy, ready at your beck and call to make you leak in any every way possible.

this was a position she held with nothing but immense pride, truly.

whether she was on her neatly on her knees in front of you, your legs dangling over her shoulders, or hovering on top of her face before she slams you onto her mouth and forces you to break her neck, she's made it her mission to always be tongue-deep inside of you. she worshiped your pussy like it was her god (and the church has always scared her), and she was your most devoted priest. reverent, devoted, completely braindead.

and you just let her, hand gently curled around her leash as she feasts upon you. you're still in control, you always are, but it's easy to get swept up in her eagerness, easy to give in when she'll beg for a taste of you. there's a certain edge to her pleading, a method to her madness. she knows exactly what makes you tick, knows all the right buttons to press to get what she wants. so she'll ham it up as much as possible. she'll crawl, she'll cry, hell, she'll bark. and sooner or later, you'll cave. allll according to schedule.

and when she goes in, she goes in. sucks on your clit until it's stiff and raw, licks at you until you're dehydrated with the amount of slick that's pouring out of you. in these sweet, sweet moments, you're just as stupid as her. so out of it, so lost in that sweet little head of yours.

and vi will have.... thoughts. thoughts about subtly pulling away from your heat, creeping up your body to kiss gently on your neck. you wouldn't even be able to see it coming, her sliding into you. she would turn you out, balls deep, her thrusts so thorough and urgent that your knees would buckle for the next 2 weeks.

but if that were to happen, then she knows they'll be hell to pay. you would keep your legs glued shut for ages, depriving her of everything she's worked so hard to get. so for now, she'll keep her fantasies to herself, not wanting to possibly rock the boat.

besides, what's a puppy without her favorite toy?

[fangdokja]

🔞Every orgasm comes with a zero at the end of your bank account.

♡ Yandere! DILF's x Fem. Reader. Sugar Daddy, Old Money, Professor, Sponsor

♡ Headcanons. Midas Eyes - Part 3

♡ Word Count. 3,057

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy who should be repulsive. A man-child in his late thirties who spends obscene amounts of money on everything except dignity. A peacock draped in silk and cashmere, leather shoes that cost more than an entire human life, a watch that gleams like the price of someone's soul. Gaudy, loud, excessive. He reeks of expensive cologne and desperation, of old money envy and cocaine dreams. And yet, here you are, letting him fuck you raw in the penthouse suite of a hotel that costs a year's salary just to breathe in.

You're so fucking good at this.

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy groans, breath hot against your neck, hands bruising your hips as he fucks you into the mattress like he’s trying to hammer his name into your body. He has the stamina of a man who has nothing better to do than chase pleasure and the money to afford every enhancement available. You don’t know if it's the genetics, the hormone injections, or sheer willpower that makes him last so long, but it's obscene, and it works.

“Fuck, you’re—” he pants, a laugh caught between his teeth. “You’re just so good for me, princess.”

You moan because it gets you more things. Louder, a little breathy, making sure your body clenches just right around him. He groans like you’ve fed him a shot of pure heroin and throws another ten thousand into your mental bank account. You let yourself go slack, let him manhandle you however he wants, plaything that you are. He likes to think he’s in charge. He isn’t.

Not when he’s gripping your thighs so tight he might leave fingerprints on your bones. Not when his voice is breaking, so desperate, so fucking eager, like he’s about to worship at the altar of your cunt.

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters. “Gonna stuff you so full, baby, fuck, just take it, take it all, yeah?”

You bite your lip, nodding prettily, and he loses it. Thrusts go sloppy, frantic, all that practiced charm falling apart as he groans against your shoulder, spilling deep inside like he thinks he can buy you with his cum.

And maybe he can.

♡ Yandere! Sugar Daddy flops next to you, panting, still hard. Of course he is. He always is.

“Again?” He grins, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair.

You stretch, arching your back just enough to make his breath hitch. Then you turn, lazily trailing a finger down his stomach, watching his abs tense beneath your touch.

“A hundred grand,” you murmur.

He stares. Then he laughs. Loud, delighted, and just drunk enough to think this is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You’re a menace,” he says, grabbing your wrist and rolling you onto your back. His cock presses against your thigh, hard and needy. “Fine. But I get to make you cry for it this time.”

You smile, letting your eyes flash with that hypnotic galaxy hue. His pupils blow wide, breath hitching, completely enthralled. He’s already under your control, but you let him think he still has some.

“Go ahead, Daddy,” you purr. “Make me earn it.”

———

♡ Yandere! Old Money who was born into wealth so vast, it would take you several lifetimes to count the zeros in his family’s offshore accounts. Who never had to work a day in his life but did so anyway—because ruling over empires is simply what men like him do. Who was bred for supremacy, sculpted for dominance, and taught that anything can be bought.

♡ Yandere! Old Money who trained you, shaped you, and refined you like a diamond under pressure. Who took a filthy, starving guttersnipe and made her into a masterpiece. Who remembers the first time he saw you—some nameless thing, all hunger and teeth, tearing through a gilded party with the eyes of a wolf in a silk dress. Who saw potential in you, who sharpened your mind, your body, your soul. Who honed you into a weapon, only to find that the blade had a mind of its own.

♡ Yandere! Old Money who both despises and adores what you’ve become. A whore with no loyalty, a predator without a master. Who made you into something untouchable, yet still seethes with jealousy every time another man gets too close. Who is tormented by the fact that the very skills he bestowed upon you are now being used to elude him. Who doesn’t care how much you cost—because at the end of the day, you are his investment. His creation. His.

You never really understood love. Never cared to. Love was an abstract thing, messy and useless, the sentimental currency of the weak. Money, on the other hand—that, you understood. The raw power of it, the absolute control. You could make anyone do anything for enough money. But there was always one exception. Him.

It had started as a game. A little cat-and-mouse. A battle of wills between the old master and his disobedient little protégé. But now? Now it was something far worse.

Now you were in his bed.

Now his breath was against your ear, his hands moving over your body like they had every right to be there. As if they had never left.

“You come back to me like a bad habit,” he murmured, voice rich and deep, laced with amusement and something darker. His fingers traced down your spine, sending an involuntary shiver through you. “But I suppose I should be flattered. Even the most expensive sluts still come home to their first owner.”

You should have left. You should have fought. But you didn’t.

Because you knew, deep down, that this was always how it would end.

His grip was firm as he pulled you onto his lap, your silk robe slipping from your shoulders. The candlelight glowed against his sharp features, those cold, aristocratic eyes drinking you in like fine wine.

“How much?” he asked, deceptively soft. “How much do I have to pay to remind you of your place?”

You smirked, reaching up to run a finger down his cheek. “All of it.”

The answer made something wicked flash in his gaze.

“Greedy girl.” His hand closed around your throat, not enough to choke, just enough to remind you that you were nothing in his hands. “You think you can sell yourself to the highest bidder and I won’t notice? That I won’t hunt down every single man who has ever touched you and make them disappear?”

“You trained me for this,” you reminded him, tilting your head, eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Don’t act surprised when I outgrew you.”

♡ Yandere! Old Money chuckled, dark and amused. “Outgrew me?” His grip tightened, forcing your legs apart as he shifted, the silk sheets whispering beneath you. “Oh, darling.” His free hand slid up your thigh, tracing the inside like he was claiming territory. “You haven’t outgrown anything.”

His mouth found yours in a searing kiss, all dominance and possession, teeth and tongue warring for control. You gasped into it, back arching as his hand found its way between your legs, teasing, taunting. He was cruel, methodical, drawing out every sound he wanted from you with the skill of a man who had never been denied anything in his life.

“You act so untouchable,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers sinking into you with devastating precision. “So untouchable, yet look at you now.”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound. But he wasn’t done yet.

♡ Yandere! Old Money pulled back, surveying you like an artist admiring his own work, his own creation. Then, with an almost lazy arrogance, he unbuckled his belt.

You watched, entranced, as he freed himself—thick, hard, proud, the very embodiment of dominance. Your mouth went dry, your body betraying you as he pressed the tip against your entrance, teasing, just barely there.

“Say it,” he commanded.

You refused.

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back as he thrust in all at once, bottoming out so deep you nearly sobbed.

“Say it.” His voice was low, a whisper of silk and steel.

You gasped, trembling, but held his gaze, even as he started moving. Slow at first, deep, dragging, making you feel every inch of him. Then faster. Harder. Ruthless.

“You,” you finally choked out, your pride shattering like glass. “You own me.”

The words ignited something in him. His grip tightened, his pace brutal, pounding into you like he was branding himself into your very soul. You clawed at his back, nails digging into flesh, but he only laughed.

“That’s right,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “You can sell your body all you want, little girl. But your soul? Your soul belongs to me.”

And in that moment, as he drove you to the edge of oblivion, you knew he was right.

You could have all the money in the world.

But you would never escape him.

———

♡ Yandere! Professor who has the poise of a man carved out of marble—cool, composed, and entirely unreadable. A man with the patience of a saint and the mind of a devil. His words are scripture; his touch, a revelation. He speaks in measured tones, every syllable deliberate, as though calculating the exact reaction each word will elicit from you.

♡ Yandere! Professor who watches you over the rim of his glasses, calculating, assessing. He is not moved by beauty alone—intellect is what ensnares him, and you, for all your feigned simplicity, are a masterpiece of complexity. You lure men with your body, but he is the only one who sees the hunger beneath. The void you so desperately try to fill with money. He has no interest in your wealth, only in possessing you—mind, body, and soul.

♡ Yandere! Professor who has studied you longer than you've known. Who understands your patterns, your weaknesses, the exact inflection in your voice when you are lying. He does not need to tame you; he needs only to set the right trap and wait. You are a strategist, a predator, but so is he. And in this game of chess, you are already in checkmate.

♡ Yandere! Professor who fucks like a man unraveling scripture. Every touch is precise, every movement methodical, unraveling you in ways you did not think possible. He does not need to be cruel to dominate you. He simply dismantles you with patience, with precision. You, who have seduced kings and moguls, who have named your price and watched the world pay it—now trembling under a man who has not spent a single cent on you just yet.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not believe in rushing. Who makes you beg, not with words, but with silence. With the way he simply watches you, fingers tracing the outline of your ribs, the dip of your waist. Who keeps you spread open on his desk, untouched, until your body betrays you, slick and shivering, whispering pleas you swore you’d never give him.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not kiss you. Not at first. He will taste every inch of your skin, bite into your throat, your shoulder, but he will not give you the intimacy of lips pressed to yours. Not until you’ve earned it. And when he finally does, it is not tender. It is ownership. It is his teeth against your lower lip, his tongue carving his claim into your mouth, swallowing every noise, every breath, until you are left gasping, dizzy from the sheer control he exerts.

♡ Yandere! Professor who takes his time. Who makes you sit on his cock, unmoving, as he reads a book, as if your desperation is of no concern to him. As if your pleasure is simply a matter of patience. Who will stroke your thighs absentmindedly, turn a page, glance at you over his glasses with a look so calm it is maddening.

"You are always in such a hurry," he murmurs, fingers grazing over the sensitive flesh between your legs, deliberately avoiding where you need him most. "And yet, for all your intellect, you fail to grasp the simplest lesson: anticipation makes the reward sweeter."

♡ Yandere! Professor who teaches you the meaning of desperation. Who coaxes sounds from your throat you did not know you were capable of making. Who turns your arrogance into broken cries, into choked-out prayers, into the breathless realization that, for the first time, you are not the one in control.

♡ Yandere! Professor who marks you, but never where others can see. His teeth bruise the inside of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breasts. His fingers dig crescents into the softness of your waist, but when you stand before your admirers, you look as flawless as ever. No one will ever know the depth of your submission. No one will ever see how he reduces you to nothing but trembling need.

♡ Yandere! Professor who makes you say his name. Properly. Not in moans, not in screams, but in reverence. In acknowledgment of the fact that, despite everything, despite your hunger for wealth and power, despite the way you have played and conquered men like pawns—he is the only one who has ever truly had you.

♡ Yandere! Professor who does not allow you to leave his bed until you are completely ruined. Until your body is boneless, your mind too fogged with pleasure to form coherent thoughts. Who cradles your face after, thumb brushing over your swollen lips, watching you with quiet satisfaction.

"Money is not the only thing worth worshiping, my dear. But don’t worry—I have all the time in the world to teach you."

———

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who never had money, not really.

Not the kind that keeps your hands clean, anyway. It was all blood and sweat and torn muscle—fought for in the filth, carved out in the trenches, scraped together with broken fingers and clenched teeth. He’s the kind of rich that still walks like he’s got nothing, the kind of powerful that still looks at people like they might turn on him at any second. And you—

You, with your dead gaze and even deader heart, the whore with a price tag bigger than a small country’s GDP—you fascinate him. Not in some romantic, poetic way. No, he isn’t built for that kind of weakness. It’s visceral. It’s in the way his jaw tightens when you move, the way his hands twitch when you speak.

You’re money. You are the thing he’s fought for all his life. And now you want him to own you?

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who doesn't fall for your tricks.

Most men are easy. One look, one shift in tone, one tilt of your head and they crumble like the worthless sacks of flesh they are. But him? He watches you like a predator sizing up a rival. You’ve met a lot of men in your line of work. Soft ones, weak ones, strong ones who thought they were stronger than you. But he’s something else.

He doesn’t give a fuck about your Midas Eyes.

That first night, when you sat in his lap and whispered the price in his ear, he just laughed. Low and dark. A sound that sent something unpleasant slithering down your spine. And then he grabbed your jaw, rough, unforgiving.

“Try that shit on me, and I’ll break your legs.”

You believed him.

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who fucks like he fights—dirty, brutal, and without mercy.

The first time he takes you, it’s not in some luxury suite with satin sheets and a view of the city skyline. It’s in the grimy backseat of a blacked-out car, somewhere between a deal gone wrong and another fight that left someone (not him) bleeding out in an alley.

You’re bent over his lap, dress hiked up, face pressed against cracked leather while he yanks your panties down with zero patience. There’s no tenderness, no soft prelude—just the sound of his belt unbuckling, the sharp bite of cold metal against your thigh as he restrains you, the hard press of his cock against your slit as he forces you open.

“You want money, right?” His voice is a rasp against your ear, breath hot, words edged with amusement and something darker. His fingers dig into your hip, keeping you in place. “So work for it.”

And then he shoves inside.

The stretch burns, delicious and cruel. You gasp, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let you adjust. Just thrusts, hard and deep, filling you up until your body molds to him.

He doesn’t fuck like a man who cares. He fucks like a man who takes.

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who likes to see you break.

You thought you were good at playing the game, but he’s better. You moan for him, whimper his name, pretend to shudder when he hits the right spot—but he sees right through you. And it pisses him off.

So he makes it worse.

He angles his thrusts just right, buries himself so deep it feels like he’s rearranging your guts. His fingers slip between your legs, rubbing tight, ruthless circles around your clit. The belt around your wrists tightens. The car rocks with the force of it.

And when you finally, finally cum—when you arch and shudder and cry out like the perfect little whore he paid for—he doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you. Keeps using you. Keeps pounding into your oversensitive cunt until you’re sobbing from the overstimulation, until your thighs shake and your breath comes in ragged, broken little gasps.

“Thought you wanted money, baby,” he murmurs, voice dripping with mockery. His hand grips the back of your neck, forcing your head down. “Gotta earn it.”

♡ Yandere! Sponsor who pays you just to keep you.

He never tells you to stop seeing other men. He doesn’t have to.

Because when you wake up the next morning, sore and wrecked and aching in places you didn’t know could ache, there’s a suitcase on the nightstand.

It’s full of cash.

More money than you’ve ever seen in one place. More than you could make in months.

A message, loud and clear.

You’re his now.

And there’s no fucking way you’re leaving.

Yandere! DILFs

♡ Characters Included. Yandere! Sugar Daddy, Old Money, Professor, Sponsor

Headcanons 1 : Midas Eyes (General)

Some women play hard to get. You play impossible to afford.

You're not a gold digger. You're an entrepreneur. And business is booming.

🔞Every orgasm comes with a zero at the end of your bank account.

He’s not jealous. He just needs to remind you why no one else can fuck you like he does.

🔞"You wanna act like a whore? Then be one. On your knees. Now."

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @mocalocha , @astreaaaaaa6 , @poopooindamouf , @yandereaficionado , @esther-kpopstan , @iris-arcadia , @hopingtocleaemedschool , @doncellaescarlata , @futuristicxie

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

[delulustateofmind]

I fear I have gone soft, here is JJK husbands x Reader play fighting.

Satoru is, without a doubt, the most playful of husbands. Mischief practically sparkles in his bright blue eyes as he corners you, wiggling his fingers ominously before lunging. Whether you like it or not, you will be tickled. Just loves watching you scramble away, curling into a tiny, desperate ball, laughing breathlessly as you plead for mercy. But mercy isn’t in his vocabulary. Instead, he grins down at you, bright eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh? What’s this?” he coos, tilting his head dramatically. “A little snack-sized human? Guess I better show you what happens when a curse eats you.” Before you can protest, he’s on you - playfully nipping at your shoulders, your neck, even your cheeks. His teeth graze your skin between bouts of harsh tickling (he's not gentle with it, you will be bruised by morning), his warm hands squeezing your sides until you're a giggling, half-crying mess. He only stops when you're gasping for air, sprawled across the floor, cheeks flushed, and eyes watery. And even then, he kisses your forehead sweetly, whispering, “You’re too cute when you’re helpless.”

Suguru is different - rougher, slower, and far more smug. He doesn’t just play-fight with you; he toys with you. A playful smirk tugs at his lips as he effortlessly traps you, long fingers curling around your wrist as he twists your arm behind your back - gently, but with enough force to remind you that struggling is pointless. Leaning in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Shhh, baby. Just let it happen,” he whispers a slight chuckle leaving his lips. You wince as you try to pull away. “See? If you keep squirming, it’s only going to hurt more.” The way he restrains you feels almost too easy, and it doesn’t help that his chest is pressed flush against your back, his warmth seeping into you. Then you feel it - the unmistakable hardness against you. He knows you notice, and that only makes his smirk grow. “Aw, feeling shy now?” he taunts, pressing just a little closer. Play fighting with Suguru is always a dangerous game, because he knows exactly how to turn it into something else.

Nanami doesn’t engage in nonsense - at least, that’s what he wants you to believe. But if you’re feeling particularly brave and decide to poke the bear, he’ll indulge you. Just once. He lets out a deep, exasperated sigh, adjusting his tie as he watches you with mild amusement. And then, in a single swift motion, he grabs you, effortlessly tossing you onto the bed as if you weigh nothing. His large hands pin you down just long enough for you to realize - oh, he’s strong. There’s no smug teasing, no taunting - just the confidence of a man. He stares down at you with a small smirk, shaking his head. “Are you done?” he asks, voice calm, but there’s a hint at something playful in his tone. And when you huff in defiance, his lips twitch just slightly. “Good. Because I have work to do.” And yet, as he pulls away, there’s a fleeting touch - a warm palm grazing your hip, a small brush of his fingers along your cheek - that betrays just how much he enjoys indulging you.

Sukuna? Yeah, let’s not. The moment you so much as think about play fighting with him, he’s already watching you like a predator sizing up its prey. Lips curling into a sharp, nearly playful grin as he cracks his knuckles, tilting his head. “You sure about that, little one?” he muses, eyes gleaming at the challenge. If you try to land a playful shove, he’s immediately countering - grabbing your wrist so fast you barely register the movement before you’re flipped onto your back, pinned beneath his weight. His claws press lightly into your skin, enough to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with. “Tch. You’re too weak,” scoffing, though there’s something almost affectionate in the way he smirks down at you, another glint of amusement in his crimson gaze. He likes to watch you struggle, likes to see you realize there’s no winning against him. And if you pout? If you grumble that he’s being unfair? He only laughs - a deep, rich sound that vibrates through your chest as you squirm - before leaning down, lips ghosting over your ear. “Cry all you want, brat. You started this.”

[victhespookygoat]

Full Transcript Below bc Forbes' Website Sucks:

TRUMP (after a reporter asks if he’s too “aligned” with Putin): If I didn’t align myself with both of them, you’d never have a deal. You want me to say really terrible things about Putin, and then say, ‘Hi Vladimir, how are we doing on the deal?’ That doesn’t work that way. I’m not aligned with Putin, I’m not aligned with anybody, I’m aligned with the United States of America and for the good of the world. I’m aligned with the world and I wanna get this thing over with. You see the hatred he’s got for Putin, it’s very tough for me to make a deal with that kind of hate. He’s got tremendous hatred, and I understand that, but I can tell you the other side isn’t exactly in love with him either. So, it’s not a question of alignment, I have—I’m aligned with the world. I want to get the thing sett—I’m aligned with Europe, I want to see if we can get this thing done. You want me to be tough? I can be tougher than any human being you’ve ever seen, I’d be so tough, but you’re never going to get a deal that way, so that’s the way it goes. Alright, one more question…

PROMOTED

VANCE: Hey, I want to respond to this. So, look, for four years the United States of America, we had a president who stood up at press conferences and talked tough about Vladimir Putin, and then Putin invaded Ukraine and destroyed a significant chunk of the country. The path to peace and the path to prosperity is maybe engaging in diplomacy. We tried the pathway of Joe Biden, of thumping our chest and pretending that the President of the United States’ words mattered more than the President of the United States’ actions. What makes America a good country is America engaging in diplomacy. That’s what President Trump is doing.

ZELENSKYY: Can I ask you?

VANCE: Sure.

ZELENSKYY: Yeah?

VANCE: Yeah.

ZELENSKYY: Okay, he occupied our parts, big parts of Ukraine, part of East and Crimea, so he occupied it in 2014. So, during a lot of years, I’m not speaking about just Biden, but those time was … President Obama, then President Trump, then President Biden, now President Trump and, god bless, now President Trump will stop him. But during 2014, nobody stopped him. He just occupied and took. He killed people, you know? What the contact line—

TRUMP: 2015.

ZELENSKYY: 2014.

VANCE: 2014 to 2015.

TRUMP: Oh, 2014.

ZELENSKYY: Yeah, yeah, yeah, so.

TRUMP: I was not here.

ZELENSKYY: Yeah, but…

VANCE: That’s exactly right.

ZELENSKYY: Yes, but during 2014 til 2022, the situation the same that people have been dying on the contact line. Nobody stopped him. You know that we had conversations with him, a lot of conversations, multilateral conversations. And we signed with him, me, like a new president in 2019, I signed with him the deal. I signed with him, Macron and Merkel, we signed ceasefire. Ceasefire, all of them told me that he will never go, we signed with him a gas contract … Yes, but after that he broke the ceasefire, he killed our people and he didn’t exchange prisoners. We signed the exchange of prisoners, but he didn’t do it. What kind of diplomacy, JD, you are speaking about? What do you mean?

VANCE: I’m talking about the kind of diplomacy that’s going to end the destruction of your country.

ZELENSKYY: Yes, but if you—

VANCE: Mr. President, Mr. President, with respect I think it’s disrespectful for you to come into the Oval Office and try to litigate this in front of the American media. Right now, you guys are going around and forcing conscripts to the front lines because you have manpower problems. You should be thanking the president for trying to bring an end to this conflict.

ZELENSKYY: Have you ever been to Ukraine that you see what problems we have?

VANCE: I have been to—

ZELENSKYY: Come once.

VANCE: I have actually watched and seen the stories and I know what happens is you bring people, you bring them on a propaganda tour, Mr. President. Do you disagree that you’ve had problems bringing people into your military?

ZELENSKYY: We have problems—

VANCE: And do you think that it’s respectful to come to the Oval Office of the United States of America and attack the administration that is trying to prevent the destruction of your country?

ZELENSKYY: A lot of questions. Let’s start from the beginning.

VANCE: Sure.

ZELENSKYY: First of all, during the war, everybody has problems. Even you, but you have nice ocean and don’t feel now, but you’ll feel it in the future. God bless, god bless—

TRUMP: You don’t know that. You don’t know—don’t tell us what we’re gonna feel. We’re trying to solve a problem. Don’t tell us what we’re gonna feel.

ZELENSKYY: I’m not telling you, I’m answering on the question—

TRUMP: Because you’re in no position to dictate that.

VANCE: That’s exactly what you’re doing.

TRUMP: You’re in no position to dictate what we’re gonna feel, we’re going to feel very good. We’re going to feel very good and very strong—

ZELENSKYY: You will feel influence—

TRUMP: You’re right now not in a very good position. You’ve allowed yourself to be in a very bad position and he happens to be right about it.

ZELESKYY: From the very beginning of the war—

TRUMP: You’re not in a good position. You don’t have the cards right now. With us, you start having cards.

ZELENSKYY: I’m not playing cards. [INAUDIBLE] Mr. President, [INAUDIBLE].

[CROSSTALK]

TRUMP: Right now you’re—you’re playing cards, you’re playing cards—you’re gambling with the lives of millions of people. You’re gambling with World War III. You’re gambling with World War III. And what you’re doing is very disrespectful to the country, this country. It’s backed you far more than a lot of people said they should have.

VANCE: Have you said ‘thank you’ once this entire time?

ZELENSKYY: A lot of times.

VANCE: No, in this—

ZELENSKYY: Even today. Even today—

VANCE: No, in this entire meeting. You went to Pennsylvania and campaigned for the opposition in October. Offer some words of appreciation for the United States of America and the president who’s trying to save your country.

ZELENSKYY: Please, you think that if you will speak very loudly about the war—

TRUMP: He’s not speaking loudly. He’s not speaking loudly. Your country’s in big trouble.

ZELENSKYY: Can I? Can I answer?—

TRUMP: Wait a minute. No, no. You’ve done a lot of talking. Your country is in big trouble.

ZELENSKYY: I know. I know.

TRUMP: You’re not winning, you're not winning this. You have a damn good chance of coming out okay because of us.

ZELENSKYY: Mr. President, we are staying in our country, staying strong. From the very beginning of the war we have been alone and we are thankful. I said thanks in this cabinet, [INAUDIBLE], I said thanks—

TRUMP: You haven’t been alone. You haven’t been alone. We gave you—through this stupid president—$350 billion—

ZELENSKYY: You voted for your president.

TRUMP: We gave you military equipment and your men are brave but they had to use our military—if you didn’t have our military equipment, if you didn’t have our military equipment, this war would have been over in two weeks.

ZELENSKYY: In three days, I heard it from Putin, in three days—

TRUMP: Maybe less.

ZELENSKYY: In two weeks, of course—

TRUMP: It’s going to be a very hard thing to do business like this, I tell you.

VANCE: Just say thank you.

ZELENSKYY: I said a lot of times, thank you to American people—

VANCE: Accept that there are disagreements and let’s go litigate those disagreements rather than trying to fight it out in the American media when you’re wrong. We know that you’re wrong.

TRUMP: But you see, I think it’s good for the American people to see what’s going on. I think it’s very important, that’s why I kept this going so long. You have to be thankful—

ZELENSKYY: I’m thankful—

TRUMP: You don’t have the cards. You’re buried there, your people are dying, you’re running low on soldiers—listen. You’re running low on soldiers, it would be a damn good thing. Then you tell us: ‘I don’t want a ceasefire, I don’t want a ceasefire, I want to go, and I want this—.’ Look, if you could get a ceasefire right now, I tell you you’d take it so the bullets stop flying and your men stop getting killed.

ZELENSKYY: Of course, of course we want to stop the war.

TRUMP: But you’re saying you don’t want a ceasefire—

ZELENSKYY: What I said to you—

TRUMP: I want a ceasefire. Because you get a ceasefire faster than an agreement.

ZELENSKYY: With guarantees. Ask our people about ceasefire, what they think. It doesn’t matter for you what—

TRUMP: That wasn’t with me. That wasn’t with me.

[CROSSTALK]

TRUMP: That was with a guy named Biden who is not a smart person—That was with Obama.

ZELENSKYY: That was your president. It was your president—

TRUMP: Excuse me, that was with Obama who gave you sheets, and I gave you javelins.

ZELENSKYY: Yes.

TRUMP: I gave you the javelins to take out all those tanks. Obama gave you sheets. In fact, the statement is: Obama gave sheets and Trump gave javelins. You gotta be more thankful. Because let me tell you, you don’t have the cards. With us, you have the cards. But without us, you don’t have any cards.

REPORTER: One more question…

TRUMP: It's going to be a tough deal to make. Because attitudes have to change.

REPORTER: What if Russia breaks ceasefire? What if Russia breaks [INAUDIBLE]?

TRUMP: What are you saying?

VANCE: She’s asking, ‘what if Russia breaks the ceasefire?’

TRUMP: Well what if they—what if anything! What if a bomb drops on your head right now? Okay? What if they broke it? I don’t know. They broke it with Biden because Biden, they didn’t respect him, they didn’t respect Obama. They respect me. Let me tell you, Putin went through a hell of a lot with me. He went through a phony witch hunt where they used him and Russia—Russia, Russia, Russia, you ever hear of that deal? That was a phony—that was a phony Hunter Biden, Joe Biden scam. Hillary Clinton, shifty Adam Schiff, it was a Democrat scam. And he had to go through that. And he did go through it and we didn’t end up in a war. He went through it, he was accused of all that stuff—he had nothing to do with it. It came out of Hunter Biden’s bathroom. It came out of Hunter Biden’s bedroom. It was disgusting. And then they said, ‘Oh, oh, the laptop from hell was made by Russia.’ The 51 agents, the whole thing was a scam, and he had to put up with that. He was being accused of all that stuff. All I can say is this: He might’ve broken deals with Obama, and Bush, and he might’ve broken them with Biden. He did, maybe, maybe he didn’t—I don’t know what happened. But he didn’t break them with me. He wants to make a deal. I don’t know if he can make a deal.

TRUMP: The problem is I’ve empowered you [looks at Zelenskyy] to be a tough guy. And I don’t think you’d be a tough guy without the United States. And your people are very brave.

ZELENSKYY: Thank you.

TRUMP: But you’re either going to make a deal, or we’re out. And if we’re out, you’ll fight it out. I don’t think it’s going to be pretty, but you’ll fight it out. But you don’t have the cards. But once we sign that deal, you’re in a much better position. But you’re not acting at all thankful, and that’s not a nice thing. I’ll be honest, that’s not a nice thing.

TRUMP: Alright, I think we’ve seen enough, what do you think? This is going to be great television, I will say that.

the transcript btw. It was hard to make it out on the video because of the blowhards yelling and me feeling incandescently blind and deaf with rage

oh, to have a leader with the moral fiber and strong backbone that Zelenskyy has

[gpcwsl]

Alexia and r have a 10 year age gap and alexia’s always acting really sweet and boyfriend to r in private but refuses to acknowledge there’s something between them and being cold in public then being apologetic but happy ending please!

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Invisible in the light - adored in the dark

WC: 969

MasterList

Warnings: age gap, ignored? Kiss?

Song: you were good to me - Jeremy Zucker & Chelsea Cutler

The first time it happened, you brushed it off.

Maybe Alexia didn’t hear you when you called her name. Maybe the restaurant was too loud, or maybe she was too focused on whatever conversation she was having with her teammates.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

In private, Alexia was everything you could ever want in a girlfriend. She held you so close at night that it felt like she was afraid you would slip through her fingers.

She pressed lazy kisses to your forehead in the mornings, whispered sweet nothings in Spanish that you couldn’t yet understand but still loved the sound of.

She traced shapes onto your bare skin, her fingers moving over your back like an artist painting on a canvas.

But in public?

It was as if you didn’t exist.

Alexia wouldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t talk to you. Wouldn’t even acknowledge your presence. She was ice-cold, a stark contrast to the warmth she showed you behind closed doors.

You thought you could handle it. You thought it wouldn’t bother you.

You were wrong.

You’re at a team dinner when it happens again.

Alexia sits at the other end of the table, deep in conversation with Mapi and Patri, laughing at some inside joke you aren’t privy to. You, on the other hand, are stuck in an awkward silence between two of the younger players, stirring the ice in your drink with your straw, pretending that it doesn’t hurt.

But it does.

It’s not just that she’s ignoring you. It’s the way she goes out of her way to do it. The way her gaze dances around you, how she shifts her body away when you try to move closer, how she only speaks in clipped, professional tones if she absolutely has to respond.

Like you’re nothing more than a stranger.

Like you’re not the same person she held in her arms just last night, whispering soft te quieros into your hair.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

You try to hold it in, to swallow it down. But when the team finally gets up to leave, Alexia walking right past you like you’re invisible, something inside you snaps.

The apartment door barely clicks shut before you say it.

“Why do you do that?”

Alexia turns to you, mid-way through pulling off her jacket. “¿Qué?”

“You know what.” Your voice wavers, but you keep going. “Why do you act like I don’t exist in public?”

Alexia freezes. Her brows knit together, confusion flickering in her hazel eyes. “Y/n, I don’t—”

“You do,” you cut her off, stepping forward. “You do, Alexia. You ignore me. You won’t even look at me.” Your voice cracks on the last part, frustration mixing with something more vulnerable.

Alexia exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?”

There’s a long pause. She looks at you, really looks at you for the first time all night, and her expression softens.

“I—” She hesitates. “I’m scared.”

Your brows furrow. “Scared of what?”

She glances away, lips pressing together. “Scared of what people will think. Scared of how they’ll see me.”

It clicks then. The age gap. The inevitable judgment.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“So what?” Your voice is quieter now, but no less firm. “You’d rather pretend I don’t exist than risk people knowing we’re together?”

Alexia’s eyes snap back to yours, and there’s something raw in them. Guilt. Regret.

“Y/n…” She steps closer, reaching for you, but you don’t move.

“You can’t have it both ways,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t treat me like I’m the most important person in the world when we’re alone and then act like I’m nothing as soon as other people are around.”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.

Then Alexia sighs, shoulders dropping. “You’re right.”

You blink. “I am?”

“Yes.” She takes another step forward, closing the space between you. This time, you let her. Her hands find yours, fingers curling around your wrists. “I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you.”

You swallow. “You were.”

She nods, gaze full of remorse. “Lo siento, mi amor.”

You sigh. “In English, Alexia.”

A small smile tugs at her lips despite the tension in the air. “I’m sorry, my love.”

You hold her gaze for a long moment, searching for any trace of insincerity. You find none.

Then she’s pulling you into her arms, wrapping herself around you like she’s trying to shield you from the world. “I’ll do better,” she murmurs into your hair. “I promise.”

You exhale against her shoulder, the weight on your chest easing just a little. “Okay.”

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumb tracing gentle circles against your cheek. “I love you, Y/n.”

Your heart stumbles over itself. She’s said it before, but never like this—never so openly, so unguarded.

“I love you too,” you breathe.

And then she kisses you.

It’s slow, tender, full of unspoken apologies and silent vows. She kisses you like she’s making up for every second she’s ignored you, like she’s trying to prove with her lips what she failed to show in public.

And you let her.

When she finally pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours. “Cuddle with me?” she murmurs.

You can’t help but smile. “Only if you actually acknowledge me tomorrow.”

Alexia chuckles softly. “Deal.”

You curl up together on the couch, her arms around you, her heartbeat steady beneath your ear. And for the first time in a long time, you feel seen.

Because in the end, love isn’t about the whispers in the dark.

It’s about the way someone chooses to hold your hand in the light.

[sincerelybubbles]

spencer x reader || alarms

late night working on a case, the hotel fire alarms on your floor won’t stop going off. what choice do you have other than to crawl to a pining spencer reid’s room to try and get some rest?

warnings: one slightly ? suggestive comment if you squint, mutual pining, not proof read. build up/background of a bubbly!reader i’ve been meaning to write about <3 v short n sweet fluffy!!!

————

“hey,” you whisper when spencer opens the door, pillow crammed under your arm. your sweats are rumpled, long shirt almost hitting your knees under an equally oversized academy shirt, hair mussed and eyes sleepy.

the sight makes his chest burn and his knuckles grip tight against the doorframe.

“hi?” spencer manages to respond, voice confused but still stepping to the side to let you inside automatically.

you shuffle by, pink fuzzy socks peeking over the tops of your dress shoes. it’s ridiculous, the sight of the fluff spilling over the edges of your mary jane’s (unbuckled), made even moreso by how cute he finds it.

“sorry, i know it’s early. the fire alarm on my building won’t turn off, it’s been almost 45 minutes.” you turn once you hit the small kitchenette in his hotel room and awkwardly clutch your pillow to your chest.

after a moment of squinting, eyes unaccustomed to the dim of the room and contactless, spencer realizes that you’re not holding a hotel pillow. rather, it’s covered in little pink daisies and looks far more comfortable than the rocks on his bed.

“i was wondering if i could take the chair in your room?” you ask, continuing despite how spencer’s mind is now racing with thoughts of your pink daisy sheets that he was aware of before tonight (this morning?) but wasn’t expecting to be reminded of when his mind is still hazy enough to crave the warmth of your body next to his.

“you—yeah.” spencer shakes his head in one, fast motion, rapidly switching to nodding when he realizes that could be misread as a no to your question. it makes him dizzy but wakes him up just enough to dig himself out of dreams. when he opened the door, there was a moment where his heart thudded in his chest, sure you were coming here to climb in his bed for other reasons.

not that you ever had before or that he thought you were the type to, of course not that—never that. it was just that his mind was stuck in a molasses of sleep that so frequently rewarded him of dreams where scenarios like that happen. or, even better, dreams where you two simply sit next to each other, your stocking-ed leg pressed against his pants, knocking together, hands intertwined, a warm glow emanating from somewhere for you to read to him by.

those dreams were the worst, just real enough that he could feel the love emanating from your breath, know that you want him close too, only to be yanked away with the spasms of beeps from his phone serving as his alarm.

“yes, of course you can stay here,” spencer finally says after his tragedy of a nod, moving past you and into the bed area of the room to yank the pillow he was using from the bed, “but you take the bed, i can take the chair.”

“no, spence, it’s like 3 in the morning and you’ll get a headache. i intruded on you, i’ll take the chair.”

spencer is shaking his head no before you finish, turning to stare at you. subconsciously, you mimic how he holds his pillow under his left arm and spencer makes a note to research if it’s actually true that attraction causes people to mimic each other.

and, fuck, this is why he had to put distance between you two because his brain can’t just be normal about things. you’re an affectionate person, spilling over with hugs and hands on arms and kisses on cheeks and he can’t help but analyze everything for a sign that it might be more.

“no, really, i’ll take the chair.”

you laugh at him, shaking your head and making your way closer. “let’s just share,” you suggest, tossing your pillow onto the side of the bed not made messy by spencer and rubbing your eyes with two closed fists, digging in deep. “i’m exhausted and we have to get back to it tomorrow. i’m not winning this fight and i can’t have my best brainiac impeded by a headache tomorrow.”

“no, it’s really—“

“spencer.” your eyes are earnest when you look at him, wide and tired and so so hypnotic. he can’t say no, not when you’re blinking up at him, only lit by the obnoxious street lights filtering in through the cheap hotel curtains, in your pajamas, taking in a tired, tiny voice.

“yeah, okay,” he says, forfeiting the back and forth and allowing himself to give in, just for tonight.

you yawn in response, hand coming up to cover your triumphant smile. you look exhausted, climbing into bed and shoving your feet under the sheets with much more aggression than necessary.

spencer climbs in after you, stretching his legs out and flexing his arm so his shoulder pops with a loud click. it’s a testament to how close you are to sleep that you don’t wince and tell him he shouldn’t do that—you always get onto him for it.

“hey,” spencer says after a moment, mind slowing but still moving fast enough to keep him on the cusp of sleep.

you makes a small sound, high pitched, as you roll over and press your forehead to his bicep. “what?” you say, voice half asleep, half complaint.

“is that my academy sweater? i’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

“mm,” you hum, head moving up and down against his arm. “you left it at my place. i like wearing it—miss you less when i do.” your voice is trailing off, spencer’s heart is pounding, and he nearly misses the soft sigh you let out before tacking on, “makes m’feel like yours.”

it could mean a million different things, spencer tells himself as he listens to your breath deepen and slow, but he lets himself imagine it means exactly what he wants it to as his eyes settle closed.

[moonstruckme]

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

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

Thank you angel, I love you <3

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 768 words

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

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

“Just checking in on you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. “Okay…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look like your eyes hurt.” 

“They do,” you admit. 

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

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

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

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

“That sounds nice,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought we agreed on no checking out.” 

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

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

[hitomisuzuya]

electro archon!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. bondage. fingering. cunnilingus. electro vision play. squirting. degradation. dirty talk. harsh!dom!scara pussy drunk scara.

i just wanted to write about scara talking super dirty and degrading for awhile. also, part 2 of yandere!bully scara coming this weekend.

scaramouche eats you out any time, day or night whenever the mood strikes him. even if the doors and windows are open, he doesn't care who hears. he dearly hopes the entire tenshukaku hears how good he is tongue fucking you.

scaramouche has plans.

his cock throbs seeing how helpless you look above him, your delicate wrists tied together above your head, firmly secured to the headboard. you couldn't get away from him. he wants to see you squirm until you cream on his tongue.

"you'd better not so much as hold anything back from me," scaramouche's tongue flicks against your throbbing clit, lapping between your creamy folds. "if you do, you don't get to cum," a favorite threat he likes to use, "understand, slut?"

your moans ring out loud and clear. "please, my lord, let me touch you," you plead between sweet moans, rocking your hips to grind your clit on his tongue. you long to tangle your fingers in his hair, and press his mouth onto your pussy.

"such impatient insolence. your archon has asked you a question," he growls, concentrating electro onto his tongue. he drug it over your clit, glaring up at you. "answer me, whore."

a shiver curls up your spine hearing his demanding tone. your legs shake as your clit throbs underneath his tongue. "yes, my lord!" you cry out, your walls squeezing around nothing as electro hums on your clit, "i understand!"

more precum beads onto the head of his cock. he groans into your pussy as it throbs. "fuck, i am so hard," he licks long, slow stripes up and down your cunt, lapping his tongue on your drooling hole. "when i am finished with you, you'll wrap those pretty lips around my cock, and swallow my cum like a good little slut."

he concentrates more electro onto his tongue, swirling it up inside you. your back arches off his bed, electro swirling and zapping along your sensitive walls. just when you thought you processed the current wave of pleasure he is inflicting on you, another one overwhelms you. he moans tasting your pussy clench harder on his tongue at his degradation.

a whimper is tinged into your louder moans. you writhe on his bed, desperately grinding your pussy on his mouth. your wrists strain in the ribbons restraining them. "i'll swallow like a good girl, i promise!" you cry out as tears well into your eyes.

"yes, you fucking will," he sweeps his tongue back up to your clit. he scoops it into his mouth to suck on, swirling electro around and around your abused clit as he pushes two fingers inside you. "you'll take my cock on your hands and knees, arching that back prettily into my cock while i fuck you from behind."

he imbues electro into his fingers, scissoring your walls apart. he massages electro into your sweet spot. "you'll beg for your archon to breed you like an obedient whore."

pleasure nearly shatters your body as he bullies electro against your sweet spot. "my lord, my god, please give me the privilege of cumming inside me! i need you to fill me!" your orgasm is so close he can taste it. "cum..inside.. please..." you whimper, sobbing in pleasure.

scaramouche laughs as you shake from the sheer desperation to cum. he reveals seeing the embarrassed flush on your cheeks, and smirks. he knows this look well. his cock aches harder knowing what was about to happen.

he increases the pace of his fingers. "listen to how pathetic you sound," he moans, grasping your hip tighter, holding your pussy against his mouth, "so fucked dumb on my tongue that you can't put a single sentence together," his tongue is ravenous on your clit as his fingers squelch in and out of your cunt.

one final zap against your clit as he sucks is all it takes to break your body down. your orgasm frays and snaps apart. cumming hard, you tremble as you squirt. "look at this precious slut shake," he laps at your release like a starved dog.

oh yes, scaramouche has plans. in your fucked out state, you don't even know that he is planning to announce to all of inazuma that he is going to marry you in a few days.

[katebishopsbaefy]

PROMPT 3. DOM BILLIE. EDGING.

NEED THIS MORE THAN AIR

prompt list

3) fully clothed x stark naked

words: 577

You squirm underneath her, but don’t get very far. Her hand is trapping your wrists over your head too firmly. You know she won’t be happy with all of your movement, but you can’t help it; not with three of her fingers pounding into you.

All you’d done was talk to some girl at a party. It meant absolutely nothing; she’d just asked if you had a girlfriend, you'd said yes, and she left. That was all it was, but Billie loves to take that kind of thing and run with it. She likes to pretend she's jealous, pretend she’s angry with you, which is how you ended up here.

She’s got you completely naked on the bed. She’d been threatening to tie you up, but you know she won’t. She wants you completely bare, even your wrists and ankles, just to make it more humiliating for you, especially considering she was still fully clothed. All she would allow was her hand pinning yours into the mattress.

“Shhh… hold still. You’re just gonna make it worse,” she murmurs lowly into your ear, continuing to fuck into you. She’s got three fingers shoved into your cunt, and that’s it. She knows it takes you forever to cum like this, with just her fingers, so it’ll make you even more frustrated. More fun for her.

“Billie-” you start to choke out. You barely even did anything wrong, and even though you know her anger is all fake, her fingers in you aren’t. 

She quickly shushes you with a particularly harsh thrust. She probably knows your body better than she knows how to spell; she knows exactly what spots make you tick, exactly what spots make you scream, exactly what spots will work you up the most. “Don’t complain. Jus’ shut up and take it, baby. Don’tchu wanna be good f’me?”

Of course, you're nodding before you can even register you are. All you want is to be good for her, even though you know you never stepped out of line in the first place. And so, to be good, like she wants, you know you have to tell her when you get close. “G-Gonna come… please…”

When she bites her lip and smiles, you know you’re fucked. She pounds into you for about ten more seconds before abruptly pulling away, leaving you trembling on the bed with wide, tearful eyes. You whine and sniffle and squirm, but she just holds you down and giggles way too sweetly for what she’s doing to you.

She watches you come down from your edge, and only when she’s sure you’re completely calm does she press her fingers back into you. They immediately find your sweet spot which is already sore from the first edge, and you have to force yourself to relax. You know you’re in for a long night of crying and lost pleasure, but you want to be good for her.

“See? Not so bad, right?” she mumbles against your shoulder, starting to place open mouthed kisses to your bare skin. You can feel the material of her shirt on your chest when she leans down (which happens to be incredibly sensitive from her abuse on your nipples just before this), and it serves as a reminder of your position. She’s got complete control. You shake your head, and she grins against your shoulder. “Good. Jus’ keep bein’ good f’me. We’ll keep goin’ ‘til I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

[coldfanbou]

Toying Around

Here we go back to this storyline with Chaeyoung! And we get some story bits. I just wanted to add a little more to Chaeyoung

Length 3.2K

Chaeyoung X Mreader

Previous Part

Sitting around the bar, Chaeyoung happily explains her adventure with you. “This big! " she nearly shouts, moving her hands apart. She smiles and shuts her eyes as she remembers that night. “Ah, I want to see him again. I hope he calls me,” she giggles before opening her eyes to see her friends shaking their heads. 

“I’m not sure anyone would want to spend a second night with you,” Tzuyu teases, sticking her tongue out. Chaeyoung’s mouth hangs open, shocked that Tzuyu was bold enough to say that to her face. 

Hearing the other woman laugh, Chaeyoung turns her head to Mina. “Don’t laugh!” She yells, shaking the older woman’s shoulders. “I can totally sleep with him again.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you call him?” Tzuyu asks, amused by the tantrum she managed to get out of Chaeyoung.

“I will!” Chaeyoung roars, pulling out her phone. She scrolls through her contacts, reaching the bottom and not finding you. She looked through her contacts again before realizing she had put her number on your phone, but she didn’t have yours. Chaeyoung’s breathing quickens, and she gulps, knowing she’s about to get a tongue-lashing for not having your number. 

“She doesn’t have his number!” Tzuyu shouts, pointing and laughing at her friend. 

“I do!” Chaeyoung shouts, her tone more whining than anything else. Mina couldn’t help but laugh at the situation; Chaeyoung was flustered, blabbering whatever she could think of to explain why she didn’t have your number. 

“Maybe I’ll give you his number so you can have someone to see again,” Mina giggles, handing out your number to Chaeyoung.

“Not you, too,” Chaeyoung whimpers; the teasing she was getting from her friends was unending. Pitifully, she accepts the number, typing it into her phone.

“Go ahead and call him. I want to see this.” Chaeyoung huffs at the request, but already beaten down, she presses the call button and puts the phone to her ear. She listens to the soft beeps of the dialing tone.

“It’s ringing,” she tells the others as she waits. Chaeyoung feels a sense of shame as she calls you in front of her friends. While they were close, it was embarrassing for her to be asking for sex while they were right in front of her. 

“Hello? Chaeyoung?”

“Hi,” Chaeyoung said weakly, pursing her lips as her friends tried to keep their laughing to a minimum. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet again. I’m-I’ve been thinking about you a lot.” Chaeyoung balled her fist, wanting nothing more than to beat her friends who were moving away from her, their laughing becoming increasingly loud. 

“I’m a little busy at the moment,” You reply, thinking about what to do. “But if you wanted to come by my place tonight, that would be fine.” 

“Yeah, that’s great. I’ll call you later.” Chaeyoung blurts out, wanting to end the call as quickly as possible. “Thanks, bye.” She says before pressing the button. Chaeyoung presses her head against the bar counter. Mina and Tzuyu continue laughing, their stomachs starting to hurt as they try to catch their breath. 

“So-so what did he say,” Tzuyu manages to get out between laughs. 

“I’ll see him tonight,” Chaeyoung huffs, keeping her head against the counter.

“Cheer up; you're going to have a good time tonight,” Mina says, patting the short woman’s head. 

“I guess.” Chaeyoung was not happy about how this situation had happened, but she took a deep breath. 

You put your phone down and get back to work. Jeongyeon sits down a moment later, sitting on your right. She smiles at you, “Hey, there’s something I want to talk to you about.” She says, moving her hair behind her ear as she readies herself. 

Just then, Dahyun sat on your other side. “Hey, you two. Guess who just got put onto your team?” 

“You?” 

“Yep! Not just me, though, Nayeon too. We’re all going to be right next to each other.” 

“O-oh, that’s so nice.” Jeongyeon gulped; the last thing she wanted was to have everyone so close. Before, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but now that it was known they all wanted to be with you, it would be. Jeongyeon curses her luck; it would happen just when she was going to ask you out.

“Why don’t we all go out to karaoke to celebrate?” Dahyun pushes the idea, purposely wanting to keep solo dates from happening. “We can do it at the end of the week.”

“Oh, I don’t know about-”

“Did someone say karaoke?” Nayeon interrupts. She places a hand on Jeongyeon and Dahyun’s shoulder as she pokes her head forward. “Karaoke would be so much fun. Let’s go!” Nayeon stomps her feet, clearly excited to go out with friends. 

“A-alright then, this Friday.” Jeongyeon stammers. She tries to hide her disappointment with a small smile. Nayeon shakes her friend's shoulder before taking a seat next to her. 

“It’s been a long time since I heard you sing. You guys are in for a real treat.” Nayeon says, leaning forward to look at you and Dahyun. “She’s a great singer.” 

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear her sing then.” You reply. “Let’s get back to work, though.” You say, trying to refocus you all. The three of you work through the day with each of the women, blocking each other from having a moment alone with you. The mountain of work you had was slowly whittled away; by the end of the day, you had gotten through a little over half of it. The four of you were tired, frustrated, and annoyed by your bosses piling on more just before you left. It would mean more work for you tomorrow. 

You drive the girls home in silence, without the radio on. Each of you just wanted some peace and quiet. You drop them off at their homes. They wave to you as you leave, and you get home quickly. You walk to the door slowly when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. Pulling it out, you see Chaeyoung’s name. “Hey, Chaeyoung, what’s up?” You answer.

“Are we still meeting…Master?”

You chuckle at the mention of being her master. “Come on over.” You reply, “I’ll be waiting. I have a lot of stress to get out, so be ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Chaeyoung says before hanging up. You head into your home and lay down on the couch after changing into your regular clothes. You hang your head back and try to relax as you wait for Chaeyoung. Your mind thinks back to the busy day; having Jeongyeon, Dahyun, and Nayeon working with you made the work you were doing a little more bearable, but you were still frustrated about getting more work dumped on you at the last second. Your phone buzzes with a message from Chaeyoung telling you she’s here. You tell her to come in, and a moment later, the door to your home opens. You watch the young woman walk into your home wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. “Hi, Master,” She says quietly, gripping the hem of her shirt as she stands in front of you. You flick a switch inside yourself, ready to release all your stress.

“Come here, sit, " you tell her, patting your lap. Chaeyoung nods and quickly shuffles over, sitting on your lap and wrapping her arms around you. You place one hand on her soft thighs and gently squeeze them. “So, what did my little toy want?” You ask, moving your hand under her shirt. You find that she wasn’t wearing a bra and pinch her soft nipple, making Chaeyoung moan. 

“I-I wanted my Master to fuck me. I’ve been thinking about your cock all day.” She answers, leaning her body against yours. “My pussy misses you,” Chaeyoung whispers into your ear. Chaeyoung couldn’t believe what she was saying; she blamed Mina and Tzuyu for telling her to say those things, even if they were the truth. Chaeyoung grabbed the hand under her shirt and dragged it down to her panties. She was already wet. Chaeyoung gives you a slight smile as you look back at her. 

“We’ll get there,” you tell her as you slip your hand under her panties and run your fingers along her slit. Chaeyoung’s breath hitches as she feels your hand touching her directly. Your other hand moves to the front, grabbing Chaeyoung's small breasts. You massage her body, making Chaeyoung moan. “You know I had a really tough day at work. I could really use those pretty lips of yours on my cock.” You push two fingers into Chaeyoung’s cunt, making her raise her voice.

“Y-yes, Master. Whatever you want.”

“That’s a good girl.” You whisper as you pull your hands away from Chaeyoung’s body. The petite woman quickly places herself between your legs, kneeling before you. Chaeyoung tugs at your sweatpants; with your help, she’s able to get them off quickly. As soon as she sees your cock Chaeyoung smiles. She opens her mouth and drags her tongue along the shaft, flicking the head as she reaches the top. Her hand grabs the base of the shaft, and she gives you slow and short strokes while she wraps her lips around the head. Chaeyoung’s tongue moves around the tip as she sucks on it like it is a lollipop. You tilt your head back and groan, enjoying the feeling of her soft lips wrapped around your cock. Chaeyoung bobs her head slowly, keeping her tongue moving at all times. It moves from side to side along the underside as she slowly takes in more of you. Soon, you’re hitting the back of her throat. 

Chaeyoung keeps you inside as if trying to memorize where every vein on your shaft is. She pulls back slowly, keeping her lips tightly wrapped around the shaft. The petite woman keeps her hands around your shaft, stroking the base as she spits on your cock. “I missed it so much, Master.” She tells you, her eyes watery from her earlier actions. Chaeyoung drags her tongue along the shaft, “It’s so good. You can cum whenever you want, Master.”

“I know,” You reply, touching her head. Chaeyoung understands your wants and leans back down, taking your cock into her throat. You fill her tiny mouth as you push her down, making her take every inch she can. Chaeyoung missed this feeling. As you push her down, Chaeyoung can feel her body crying out for more. She reaches between her legs, about to touch herself when you let her go. “No touching yourself, Chaeyoung.”

“But,”

“No buts.” Chaeyoung nods and goes back to servicing you. Her desires grow stronger as time passes, more when she gets a taste of your precum. She can feel her thighs becoming wet with her juices as she bobs her head. Despite her increasing desires, Chaeyoung holds off on touching herself. She places her hands on your thighs just so you know she isn’t defying you. You smirk at her subservience and push her head down to the base of your cock, choking her as you fill her throat. “I’m cumming, Chaeyoung; I want you to drink it all.” 

The petite woman tries her best to drink the waves of cum pouring into the back of her throat. It becomes too much, though; it spills from the corners of her mouth, rubbing down her cheeks. You were more than satisfied with her work. As you look at Chaeyoung, you see her bloodshot eyes. She had nearly passed out. Still, though, she wanted more. Chaeyoung licked the cum on her cheeks, cherishing every drop of the salty liquid. You pat Chaeyoung’s head. “Come on, let’s go to the bedroom.” Chaeyoung rises and waits for you to lead her to the bedroom. 

You take her arm and get her in front of you. You stare at Chaeyoung for a moment, remembering how you woke up with her the other day. You grab her ass and lift the young woman, kissing her as you lay her on the bed. Moving your hands from her soft cheeks, you pull her shirt off her, leaving Chaeyoung in a pair of red panties. You pull away the soaked garment and rub your cock against her slit. She whimpers, her body craving your cock.

“Tell me what you want, Chaeyoung,”

“Please fuck me. I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk anymore.” Chaeyoung begs, holding her legs apart for you. You smile and push your cock inside the young woman, giving her a little more than half before you begin to pull out. Chaeyoung moans, resting her head against the bed as she feels your cock stretching her tiny cunt. It almost hurts, but the pleasure she feels covers it all. 

Leaving the head inside, you wait for a second before ramming your length inside Chaeyoung. Her soft moan becomes a shrill scream as she feels your cock hit her womb. This was the feeling she remembered. Chaeyoung’s toes curl as the pleasure hits her like a truck.  You grab Chaeyoung’s legs, placing them close to your chest as you thrust into her cunt. 

Chaeyoung’s tightness was nice; it held you tightly as you slid in. Considering she was wet before you had started, you were able to slide in and out quickly. You drive yourself deep into Chaeyoung, smashing yourself against her womb. Chaeyoung moans your name as you fuck her senseless, your pace becoming quicker as time goes on. The petite woman was already on the verge of cumming. Now that you were feeding her desires, her core was tightening, her muscles flexing. “I’m gonna cum,” she moans softly, biting her lip as the pressure in her body builds up. 

“You’re going to cum already? I’m not even close.” You reach down and pinch Chaeyoung’s nipples, making her whine. “Well, I’m not going to stop even if you do. Cum for me, Chae.” You pull on her nipples, stretching them. Chaeyoung cries out, the mixture of pain and pleasure becoming too much for her. 

“I’m cumming!” She screams, her walls tightening around you, trying to get your cum. You continue thrusting into Chaeyoung, the waves of pleasure crashing over her, only getting stronger as you overstimulate her. “Fuck!” Chaeyoung cries out as you continue to thrust into her. You slow down, letting Chaeyoung get a small break. You didn’t want to break her yet. You steal a kiss from the young woman, groping her breasts as you wait for her body to relax. “Thank you, Master,” she mumbles. 

You smirk. “Don’t thank me yet, Chaeyoung.” You pull away and look over the young woman; her chest rises and falls quickly, and she already looks like she’s in heaven.

You grab onto her waist. Tongue hanging out of her mouth and eyes nearly shut, you begin thrusting into the petite woman again. She wraps her legs around your waist as you fuck her like a toy. Chaeyoung grips your wrists, biting her lip as she feels your cock slam into her womb. “Oh fuck, harder, fuck me harder,” Chaeyoung moans. You lean in and kiss her, keeping her quiet while you move in and out. You dig your nails into her skin, making the young woman moan louder. She felt herself melting away, accepting your ownership like the night you met. Chaeyoung’s walls began to tighten around your cock; you grunt in response, the pleasure becoming too much. Your cock began to throb, telling Chaeyoung what was coming next. “I want it inside; please cum inside me, Master,” Chaeyoung begged you, tightening the grip she had on you. You didn’t care where she wanted it; you just needed to get all your energy out. 

You continue to thrust into the young woman, speeding up as you get closer to your climax. Chaeyoung’s moans grew louder. She shut her eyes and yelled. “I’m cumming!” Her hips shot up as she came, and her walls began milking you, squeezing down on your cock. You drove your cock deep inside Chaeyoung, pouring your seed into her needy womb.  Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she felt your hot cum fill her body. “It’s here,” she murmured. Chaeyoung moved a hand down to her slit; her fingers slowly circled her clit. “You’re the best Master.” 

Chaeyoung turns onto her stomach, laying her head down on the bed. She was tired, her body tingling all over from her previous orgasms. You watched her small ass shake as she turned over, and you still had the energy to get out. You weren’t considering Chaeyoung’s feeling as you raised her ass into the air. You slapped one of the full cheeks, making her yelp. Looking over her shoulder, Chaeyoung watched as you got behind her and slammed your cock back into her dirty cunt. Weak moans flowed from her lips as you settled down deep inside her. She groaned as you snaked your arms around her legs. “Master?” she mumbled, wondering what you were doing. You move your hands around Chaeyoung’s arms and place them on the back of her head before gathering your strength and lifting her off the bed. You began your thrusts against going deeper than before as you gave her every inch. “Oh shit, you’re so deep.” You forced Chaeyoung’s head down; as she looked toward you from her position, she watched your cock disappear into her tiny cunt with every thrust. The sight, along with the lack of mobility, turned Chaeyoung on. 

She couldn’t do anything else but watch as you used her. She watched as your cum became creamy as you stirred it inside her. Chaeyoung could hardly contain herself; her body was already sensitive, and now that you had given her an entirely new feeling, she was losing it. Every thrust you gave her was like another orgasm coming over her. The petite woman was a toy to use at will, and you were going to spend all your energy on her. You came inside her again, dumping another load inside her sore cunt, but Chaeyoung was grateful. She mumbled a thank you as you continued slamming yourself inside. At some point, Chaeyoung began to drool on the floor, her mind completely gone.

As you began to run out of strength, you moved her over the bed, letting Chaeyoung go and dropping her onto it. It wasn’t the end just yet, though; you want to get one last use out of her. You continued your thrust until you came again. Thoroughly spent, you pull out of Chaeyoung and collapse next to her. The young woman was covered in sweat, her hair messy and matted to her forehead. Cum was running down her legs, dripping from her red cunt. You lean over and kiss the top of her head, “My little toy did a good job,” you tell her. The edges of Chaeyoung’s lips curl up at your praise. Dragging her full body onto the bed, Chaeyoung gives in, falling asleep instantly, more than satisfied even if her body aches when she wakes up in the morning.