#its not their fault you have problems in your life and its not your fault they have problems in theirs. grow up and log off

[sparrows4bats]

Nest AU

Damian Wayne somehow keeps finding babies and keeping them, like his father before him. It's mostly Talias fault.

The first of Damians' babies arrives one night as he is getting off of a shift at the hospital.

He opens his door, thinking it's the pizza he ordered only to find a sleeping baby in a basket on the doorstep.

In shock and exhausted, Damian brings the newborn inside. The tiny baby wakes up when Damian lifts them from their basket to check for any injuries or obvious health issues.

Damian prepares for them to cry, but the baby just stares up at him, smiling a toothless grin, and Damian can't help smiling back.

"Hello there, I don't suppose you know why you're here, do you?"

The baby gurgles and Damian nods seriously in response.

"I understand. You were asleep, but thank you for your insight."

Once Damian ensures the baby has no outward signs of abuse or neglect, Damian tries to settle them down in the basket again, only for the baby to cry every time Damian tries to let them go.

Damian gives up and carries the baby around his apartment, humming a tune he remembers his mother singing to him when he was a child.

He manages to free one of his hands and look at the basket properly. Under the blankets tucked in a waterproof pocket, Damian finds a letter with his name on it and a birth certificate with him named as the father and the mothers name redacted.

Except there is no possible way he is the biological father. He has not slept with anyone in years because between med school, internships, and part-time vigilantism, he really has not had the time or desire to. And the baby doesn't look like him, even a few days old she, the baby is a she named Amira Wayne apparently, has wide brown eyes and black curls her skin a shade or two darker than his own.

Damian opens the letter with a bit of difficulty.

There are two notes inside, one from Amiras birth mother and one from Talia Al Ghul.

Amiras mother was a League Assassin who felt pregnant and didn't want to have their child raised in its rank but did not wish to leave, so she went to Talia with her problem.

Damians' mother had offered her protection and a solution. Talia had started to mend her relationship with her son and decided that he would make an excellent father and a safe person who was able to protect the baby from any and all threats.

So Amira was given his name and left in Gotham for her new father to find.

Damian sighs at the explanation even if a part of him settles at being seen as safe, especially for someone as vulnerable as a newborn.

Talia writes about how proud of him she is, how he grew up to be better that Talia ever dared hope and that she hopes that he will give Amira the life and childhood neither of them got to experience. That she expect to meet her granddaughter again soon.

Amiras mother only asks him to love her daughter and how she knows of him through his reputation as a hero and a warrior. She ends her letter by saying she hopes Amira brings him joy.

Damian reads them both three times and looks at Amira again. The little girl is now cuddled into his chest, and Damian, who has never considered having children before now, feels himself melt.

"I guess you are staying with me then."

Amira yawns at him and drifts off to sleep, like that's answer enough.

The doorbell rings again with Damians pizza.

It's only after Damian goes to feed himself that he realises tha yes, he is a father now, his heart had set on it in an instant and he has nothing for his new baby to eat. Or diapers. Or a crib.

He can't even leave to go get stuff because he doesn't own a carrier or a carseat yet. Damian begins to panic because Amira needs so much, and he has only just started his residentancy. He wants this baby, but it all feels so impossible all of a sudden. That's doesn't mean he regrets his hasty decision just he really didn't have a game plan, and his mother hadn't provided one when she gave him a baby.

Damian looks at his sleeping daughter and begins to hyperventilate.

Then his window bursts open to reveal Jonathan Kent.

"Damian! Are you okay? Your heartbeat -... Is that a baby?"

Damian looks at his childhood best friend and sighs in relief.

"Jon! Thank God! I need you to buy me diapers, wipes, formula and baby clothes. Now!"

"Wait, but where did you get a baby? Is she yours?"

"She just got dropped off from the League, I'm on her birth cert. No, I'm not her biological parent, but goddammit, she's mine already. Now, can you please go get the stuff!"

Jon has more questions, but Damian is scribbling him a list of stuff to buy and shoving his credit card at him before the Super can ask any.

It's midnight in Gotham, so Jon flees to the opposite coast to find an open baby store. Luckily, a very nice lady explains baby sizes to him and recommends products when Jon gets overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. He never knew babies needed so much stuff, though he does get a cute Superman themed onesie he spots before leaving.

Damian is going to hate it so much.

He flies back to Gotham to find Damian singing to the now crying baby.

The sight stops him dead. The domesticity of it all does something to Jon. Damian, who when he met him, was so hurt and angry and turned out to be so caring, so loving.

His best friend sees him floating there and grabs the bags from his arms, grabbing supplies while he balances the baby.

Damian, thanks every lucky star that he knows basic baby care, like how to make formula correctly from his time as Lizzies Babysitter, though Lizzie was never this young.

Jon is ordered to build the crib while Damian feeds his daughter.

Amira goes right back to sleep once she's fed and changed, and the boys have a moment to breathe.

Damian finally eats his pizza while Jon quizzes him. The super looks kind of shocked that his mother just gave him a baby but less shocked that Damian intends to keep her.

Jon offers to stay the night after he sees how exhausted the young doctor is. His superhearing means that he will wake up with the baby because they both forgot to get a baby monitor.

Damian makes him learn how to make a bottle and change a diaper before he finally falls asleep. Jon would be more insulted if he didn't know that is just how the former Robin worries.

Jon is left watching his Robin sleep with his arm outstretched towards the crib. He takes plenty of photos to show everyone later.

Jon doesn't know how Damian is going to explain this to his family. Not that Batman has much room to judge.

Amira starts crying two hours later, and Damian wakes up to get her only for Jon to kiss his forehead while tucking him back in and whispering that he's got it.

Jon holds Amira in his hands and is terrified of how tiny she is, but the little girl just grabs his finger, and Jon falls a little in love.

Damian wakes up the next time she cries, and they both end up staring at her like weirdos when she falls back asleep after another bottle.

Come morning, both Supersons are tired but content. The domesticity of Damian making them breakfast as they talk and cuddle Amira makes Jon ache.

Because if he's honest with himself, he's been in love with Damian for years. He had never done anything with those feelings before now because he was terrified he would lose Damian. They grew apart years ago, and Jon feels like he has been just about hanging on to his friendship with Damian over the past couple of months between hospital shifts and Jon own heroing.

Damian seemed like he had everything together and had no place in his life for Jon to fit into anymore.

Last night was the first time Jon had felt truly needed in months.

And while he never saw himself with a family, especially after Ultraman, standing here with Damian makes him yearn for it.

Damian calls into work and messages his family about his little suprise. It takes thirty minutes for the bats to invade.

There are questions, accusations, and demands to hold Amira. Bruce is especially insistent that he meets his granddaughter.

Dick arrives last after racing from Bludhaven and steals the baby from the Batman, Damian laughs when she spits up on him. The others call it Karma, even Bruce.

Damian takes his daughter back and goes to change her, conveniently leaving Jon to the wolves.

"Why are you here?" Jason begins.

"Damian needed help, so I came to help."

"He called you? Before us?" Dick asks, hurt.

"No, I heard him panicking." Jon defends before he has to deal with a pouting Nightwing.

"So you just listen to him? Always?" Tim asks, and Jon really doesn't like the way he is looking at him.

Bruce crosses his arms, "Does Damian know?"

Jon swallows. "Yes, I've had his heartbeat memorised for years."

The room somehow gets even more awkward, that is until Damian bring Amira back.

"Jon! Why are the only onesies you bought Superman themed?!"

The bats are all horrified, but Jon thinks Amira looks adorable!

The next few hours are spent getting to know their newest addition, while Bruce tries to convince Damian to move back home only to get firmly rebuffed.

The bats leave after Amira is asleep and Damian falls asleep beside her again.

Jon was going to leave too but couldn't bring himself to do it. He sends photos of Amira in her superthemed colours to his parents instead.

Jon is still there in the morning when crates of gifts and baby supplies arrive from very overexcited aunts and uncles.

Jon is there the next night, too.

Damian forces him to sleep in bed with him after he complains about how short the couch is, and Jon just doesn't really leave after that.

He does a few rescues and shifts at the Watchtower, but he goes home to Damian and Amira afterwards. They don't talk about it, but Jons clothes migrate to the closet, and his toothbrush lives on the sink.

Damian goes back to work after three weeks and Jon stays with Amira most days, he even brings here to Kent Farm when both he and Damian could use a break.

On those days, Jon takes Damian out for dinner or patrol so he can let off steam.

They find a rhythm, and it's everything Jon never knew he wanted, and he finds himself on edge waiting for when it'll eventually end.

Then Amira gets a fever one night. Damian gets worried, and Jon rushs them all to the ER. The nurse asks what their relationship to Amira is, and Jon can't answer because he doesn't know where he fits in this little family he and Damian have created.

"He's her other father. We are working on getting the paperwork through at the moment." Damian says without hesitation, and Jon feels himself settle at words.

Until he starts spiralling because holy shit he's a Dad! He has a kid with Damian!

Amira turns out fine with some meds, and they do get Jons name added as Amiras parent with Oracles help when they bring her back home.

His parents are overjoyed but not surprised by the announcement of being grandparents.

All in all, Jon has never felt happier and more settled, and then, as always, things get a bit more complicated.

Damian gets a call from Talia on a random Tuesday. She doesn't give many details but does say a contact needs an immediate evac and texts him coordinates.

Jon flies them both over after dropping off the baby with Bruce. What they find is a Lazarus Demon worshipping cult that's about to sacrifice a baby.

Naturally, the Supersons put the cultists down and rescue the infant. Only to find out that Talia apparently is giving them yet another child and saving them from a bad situation.

Their second daughter comes home mere months after their first.

Idalia Wayne Kent has blue eyes and wispy red hair on her head and giggles up at her father's.

Juggling two babies is harder than one, but Damian and Jon manage with the help of their family.

Even though Damian regularly has to steal his kids back from an over enthusiastic Bruce.

Their third baby Talia delivers to Damian in person.

"He was going to be raised as an assassin, like you were, and couldn't let that happen again."

Jon takes the bundle carefully while Damian has a moment with his mother. He sighs as he realises they have three kids now.

They name him Richard, and Dick cries when they tell him.

Damian and Jon get a bigger house with farmland around it for their growing family and Damians many pets. Though, they still end up sharing a bed because it makes it easier.

Jon becomes a stay at home dad with Damian taking over whenever Jon goes on a mission.

Though Jon does keep worrying about how fragile his kids are. Damian has to talk him down from wrapping, then in kryptonitian bubble wrap after every scraped knee.

The only issue in their blissful domestic life is that despite living together, co parenting, and cuddling every night, Damian and Jon are still not together romantically, and it's driving everyone around them crazy.

Clark starts dropping hints, Lois plans an intervention, and the Bats place bets. Bruce is still trying to convince Damian to move home so he can see his grand babies more often. He doesn't even mind if Jon comes with them at this point.

Dick finally has enough of the unresolved tension when he finds Jon staring at his brother for the eighth time.

So he does the most logical thing possible and kidnaps his neices and nephew for a weekend and locks the two pining idiots in a containment cell together at the Watchtower.

Both men are extremely angry at him when he releases them, but they look more well rested than they have in weeks.

Damian also has visible bruises on his neck while Jon looks unbearably happy, so at least his plan worked.

Jon and Damian get married after they find their fourth baby.

[demie90s]

Ask and you shall receive 😌

Kwn - Back of the Club gives me Shuri. Wakanda’s night life has got to be it. Only black people, no problems, and vibranium, they’re having a time. And Shuri has self restraint as reliable as a rubber band 😭 They can’t go back to the castle? lab? idk what its called, so the back of the club and a cigarette is all she’s got. Plus the newfound gay freedom she must have in some sense has to be explored. My wish for Shuri is peace and to get laid. 😂💋

I Want You

Shuri Udaku x Black!Fem!Reader

MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Wakanda’s nightlife doesn’t need clout, it is the moment. Shuri came to disappear into the lights for one night—nothing more. But when she sees you? Yeah. Nah. She’s not walking out untouched.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 3.1k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: club tension, queer awakening, sneaky rendezvous, slow burn turned fast heat, post-royalty problems

ᴠɪʙᴇ: Glitter on your collarbone. Bass in your chest. Her hands on your waist. Just a little taste of freedom she wasn’t supposed to want this bad.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. explicit language, sexual content (fingering, grinding, public play), mentions of queer repression, smoking, tension so thick M’Baku could cut it with a blade

I feel her before I see her.

It’s in the air shift—the kind that makes your skin tighten, the hairs on your arms lift. Wakanda’s nightlife is a thing of legend: glowing streets, gold-threaded silks, bass so deep it could rattle bone. But tonight, it’s her that hums beneath the surface. Not the music. Not the crowd. Just Shuri.

I see her near the DJ booth, chin high, posture tight like she’s bracing for war—but wearing that war in a cropped vest and low-slung pants that don’t belong to any royal decree. Her arms are bare.

So are her eyes. Sharp and soft all at once, scanning the room like she dares someone to name her title.

She finds me. And rolls her eyes. I grin, leaning back against the bar like I didn’t just catch the wind knocked out of me. “Queen,” I mouth.

She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. But her lips twitch. It’s enough.

I don’t go to her. Not yet. Instead, I dance. The floor moves like water, and I let it carry me. Body rolling slow, arms grazing strangers, sweat turning to shimmer under the lights. I want her to watch. And I know she is. Because when I finally drift closer—pretending I don’t notice how the circle parts to let me through—her gaze is molten.

“You’re outside,” I murmur, close enough to kiss but I don’t.

“Only for a moment,” she says. Her voice is low. Careful. Like she’s scared of spilling.

“I missed you.”

Her eyes flick over me like she doesn’t believe that. “You didn’t act like it.”

I shrug. “You had a country to save. I wasn’t about to compete with national security.”

That gets a breath out of her. Not quite a laugh, but something human. Something cracking.

We dance. Slowly at first. Close, but not too close. She moves like someone who’s been away from her body too long. Calculated steps. Intentional distance.

I don’t push. I let her settle. Let her feel me—hips loose, neck tilted, rhythm already pulsing through my spine.

But then I graze her wrist. Just barely. And she exhales like a fault line. Her hands find my waist before her mind does. I feel it. That snap.

Shuri was never shy. But this is different. It’s hunger masquerading as curiosity. Her fingers grip like she’s forgotten what softness feels like.

Like she’s starved for it. And when she pulls me flush, when our chests meet and she exhales against my collarbone like it’s sacred—It’s over.

She doesn’t speak. Just moves with me. We melt into shadow, into sweat, into music thick enough to drown in. Our foreheads touch. Her breath is hot against my lips but she still won’t kiss me. Not yet. Like it’ll mean too much.

“You smoke now?” I ask, noticing the slender silver case peeking from her waistband.

“Not often,” she says. “Just… when I need to remember I’m not a god.”

“Come on.”

I take her hand. She lets me.

Outside, the air bites cool against damp skin. We find the alley behind the club—tucked between stone walls and low vines, gold-lit from behind but dim in front. It smells like sweat and dust and possibility.

She leans against the wall like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“Give me one,” I say.

She raises a brow. “You don’t smoke.”

“I’m mourning something too.”

Her jaw clenches. Then she hands me the cigarette, lights it for me. Her fingers brush my lips as she holds the flame steady. I inhale, exhale. Pass it back.

“I’m sorry I left you,” she says suddenly. Quiet. Unflinching. “I didn’t know how to be anything but… the crown.”

I nod. “You didn’t have to explain. I would’ve stayed anyway.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I left.”

I look at her, really look. And there it is—grief sitting behind her eyes like an old friend. But so is want. Raw. Heavy. Unhidden.

I step in, tilting my head just enough to force her gaze to mine.“You need to be touched,” I whisper.

Her breath hitches. “And I know how to touch royalty.”

She lets out a small laugh, almost a scoff. But I see her hands. They’re shaking. Not from fear. From restraint. That tight coil she’s had to live with for months—maybe years—just to survive. But here, now? There’s no council. No war. No lab.

Just the night. The beat still throbbing through the walls. And me. “Nikupende.” she says under her breath. Voice broken open.

My lips part. “What does that mean?” She finally looks at me like she’s drowning.

“I want you.”

She’s looking at me like she wants to crawl inside my chest.

Like the beat from the club is still in her, pulsing through every nerve. Her body’s taut, jaw clenched, but her hands are back on my hips, and this time—she’s not letting go.

“I want you,” she says again, this time steadier. Firmer. But I don’t move. Not yet.

“You sure?”

She frowns. “Yes.”

I tilt my head. “No, I mean—are you sure? You just came back from leading a war. I know you’re tired. I know you haven’t… touched anybody in a while. I’m not tryna take advantage of that.”

Her face softens just a fraction. Then flattens again into amused irritation. “You think I don’t know what I want?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I think you’re full of grief. I think you’re used to people needing you, not wanting you. And I think you’re about two seconds from kissing me to shut me up.”

Her eye twitches. Then she kisses me. It’s hard. Hot. Immediate. But when we break, I’m still not done.

“You don’t owe me anything, Shuri.”

She groans. “S’thandwa sami. Please.”

My eyes widen. “Did you just call me—”

“Yes.” She drags her mouth along my jaw, then my ear. “And you’ll hear it again if you stop overthinking.”

“But—”

She grabs my face. Kisses me again, softer this time. Then murmurs against my lips, “I want to feel something that isn’t duty.”

That’s all I need.

The alley’s too public. So we don’t go far—just into the private lounge behind the building, past the guards who don’t ask questions, into the space meant for royals and visiting dignitaries. It smells like sandalwood and citrus, and the couches are too soft for anything appropriate.

She drops onto one and pulls me with her, long legs spreading as I straddle her thighs. We don’t rush. I cup her jaw, running my thumb along her cheek like she’s breakable. She closes her eyes.

“I got you,” I whisper. “I swear I got you.”

When our mouths meet again, it’s slow. Our tongues move like we’ve got all night—wet and patient, letting each other taste what we missed. Her hands settle on my back, under my shirt, warm and sure now. Not shaking. Just pulling me closer.

My fingers ghost along her sides. Her breath catches.

“Still good?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

I lean back. “You can say no at any time.”

She actually laughs. “If I didn’t want this, you’d already be gone.”

She spreads her fingers across my chest, like she’s memorizing me. Like she’s grateful. I let her. Let her touch. Let her relearn the world through skin instead of blood.

Her lips find my collarbone. Then the center of my chest. Each kiss is a question and a thank you rolled into one.

“I’ve never done this… like this,” she murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Where it feels like I might cry and cum at the same time.”

I grin. “Then I’m doing it right.”

She moans—low and breathy—as I guide her hand between my thighs.

“Feel how warm I am for you?” I whisper. Her breath stutters.

“You still want this?” She doesn’t answer with words.

Kkeeping my forehead pressed to hers. “Go slow, baby. You don’t have to be strong right now.”

“I don’t want to be,” she admits. “Not with you.”

She notices the dress when I straddle her again—short, sleek, sinful. Black like night. Like secrets. The hem rides up just enough to tease the tops of my thighs, and when I shift, she feels everything.

Her breath catches. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”

“Didn’t plan on needing them,” I whisper.

She lets out a low groan, head falling back against the velvet cushion like she’s praying for strength. Her hands grip my waist and slide down, under the dress, fingertips dragging over skin that’s already burning.

“Do you always come to see me like this?” she asks, voice hoarse.

“Only when I think you might need to forget you’re queen for a minute.”

Her eyes flick up, dark and focused. “And what does that make you? My subject?”

I smile. “Your peace.”

Something shifts in her face. That one hit too close to the truth.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just tilts her head and kisses the inside of my thigh—slow and deliberate. Then again. Higher this time.

Until I’m gasping softly, gripping her shoulders like she might disappear if I don’t hold tight enough.

“You’re already trembling,” she murmurs.

“Because you’re the one touching me.”

Another kiss, this one just beneath the swell of me. Hot breath skating over wet skin. My hips twitch.

She looks up. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Her tongue finally licks a slow line up my center and I shudder. Her hands slide around to grip my thighs, keeping me wide, grounded, spread just for her. There’s nothing messy about it. Not yet. Just lips and tongue and reverence.

Like she’s tasting something holy.

“Mm,” she hums softly against me. “S’thandwa sami. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

I bite my lip. “You eat like you been starved.”

“I have been.”

Another. This one firmer. My back arches.

Her mouth moves with aching precision—like she’s learning me, memorizing me, savoring every moan I give her like it’s the only sound she wants to hear.

She’s slow, intentional, patient with her pressure. And when she locks her lips around my clit, she groans like I belong to her.

Like she’s anchoring herself in the way I taste. I push her head gently, thighs trembling around her ears. “Fuck baby…”

“Shhh,” she murmurs against me. “Let me.”

I fall back, eyes fluttering, dress bunched around my waist, and her mouth still devoted. She holds my thighs open like a job. Like her life depends on it.

It does. Just a little. Because with every flick of her tongue, every hum, every praise she whispers into me like a prayer, I feel her unraveling. The tension bleeding out of her, replaced with heat. With want. With need.

“You feel so good,” she moans. “You’re so soft. So warm. You’re mine tonight.”

I cry out. My hips grind down. She growls. Then I’m close. Closer than I should be. But it’s her voice—deep, honeyed, reverent—that pushes me over.

“That’s it, baby. Let go. I’ve got you. I need to have you.”

I do. Shuddering. Fingers curled in her hair, legs locking around her head as I fall apart against her mouth.

She stays there. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t stop kissing me even as I come down—soft licks, gentle suckles, tiny praises between breaths.

“You’re incredible,” she says, voice wrecked. “You’re—” She kisses the inside of my thigh. “More than I should ever touch.” Another kiss. “But I’m going to keep touching you.”

I hum, breathless. “Then keep going.”

She looks up at me with wet lips, flushed cheeks, and something dangerous in her eyes.

“Don’t tell me that,” she says. “I’ll make you come again.”

I smile lazily, pulling her up by the collar.

“I’d love that.”

She’s still panting when I pull her up from between my thighs. Lips slick. Eyes hooded. My dress is still hiked up around my waist, but I don’t care. I let her sit back on the couch, catching her breath like she didn’t just try to taste her way into my soul.

But it’s my turn now.

She doesn’t even have time to speak before I swing my leg around, straddling her again. I press soft kisses to her neck, her jaw, just behind her ear. Her hands rest heavy on my thighs, but she doesn’t guide me. Not yet. She lets me move.

“You good?” I whisper.

She nods, eyes fluttering. “Better than good.”

I grin. “Still gonna ask.”

She opens her mouth to sass me, probably. But I shut it with a kiss. Deep. Slow. I taste myself on her tongue and moan into it. She groans, fingers digging into my hips.

When I pull back, I whisper, “Lay down for me.”

Her eyes darken. “You sure?”

“You just made me come on your face,” I say with a soft smirk. “I’m very sure.”

She chuckles, but there’s heat there—surprise, too. Like she’s not used to being handled. Not like this.

I guide her down, slow. Kiss her the whole way. Hands on her ribs, then her sides, then her waistband. I don’t rush. I drag her pants down like I’m unwrapping something rare. Something forbidden.

She lets me. Lets me kneel between her legs, lets me push her thighs apart, lets me kiss the inside of her knee, her inner thigh, the curve of her hipbone.

I look up. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I do.”

Her breath catches. Her hips twitch under my hands.

I kiss her again—lower this time. “You need this, don’t you?” She nods, barely.

“Say it.”

“I need it,” she whispers.

“Who you need?”

“You.”

“Good.”

Then I dive in. No teasing now. No light licks or shy kisses. I eat like I’m trying to make her forget. Like her pussy’s the last meal I’ll ever get. I suck on her clit like I own it. Sloppy, messy, loud.

My tongue slides everywhere—inside her, around her, circling like I’m drawing constellations between her legs. She gasps—back arching, hands flying to my hair. “Fuck!”

That’s right. Fuck.

She tries to stay quiet. Royal. Controlled. But I don’t let her. I moan against her. Suck harder. Grip her thighs and pull her closer like I’m drowning in her and loving it.

“Shit—baby, wait,” she pants. “You—you…”

I hum against her. “Mmm?”

“Fuck”

I chuckle. Keep going. Faster now. Sloppier. My face is buried so deep I’m not even coming up for air. Her slick is everywhere. All over my chin, my nose, my cheeks. And I love it.

She’s shaking. Legs trembling.

“You gone come for me?” I murmur against her clit, flicking my tongue just the way she needs.

“Yes—yes, yes, yes!”

Her back arches off the couch. Her thighs clamp around my head. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Not when she’s like this—voice cracking, body twitching, mouth open in something between a sob and a moan.

“Shit—don’t stop!”

She falls apart. Hard. Wet. Loud. My name stumbles out of her mouth like she can’t hold it in anymore. I keep licking through it, swallowing everything she gives me, moaning into her like I want her to feel me from the inside out.

When she finally relaxes, boneless and dazed, I press one more kiss to her clit—gentle now. Then her thigh. Then her stomach as I crawl back up.

Her chest is heaving. Face flushed. Eyes glassy.

“Still good?” I whisper.

She nods slowly, then pulls me into a kiss that says everything. Her tongue tastes like herself now. Like she wants more. Like she might not ever let me go.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” she breathes.

I smile against her mouth. “That’s the plan.”

She’s still breathing heavy when I tuck a kiss beneath her ear. Her body’s relaxed under me, but I can feel the tension curling back in—not stress, not grief, just the heat of need. Still humming through her bloodstream like she ain’t even halfway satisfied.

I stroke her side. “You okay?”

She nods slowly, then turns her face toward mine. Her eyes are lazy, warm, and hungry.

“Not here.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“I want to take you home.”

It’s not even a question. It’s barely a whisper. But it hits like a full-body chill.

I smile. “Yeah?”

She nods. “This couch too small. These walls too public. And you…” Her voice drops. “You make me greedy.”

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

She exhales a laugh. “You just sucked the strength out my legs and kissed me like we were married. I’m already in too deep.”

I grin, cheeks warm. “Say less.”

I help her up—she wobbles a bit, grabs my waist for balance, and mutters something sharp in Xhosa that makes me laugh.

“See? Weak in the knees.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. “Wait ‘til I get you horizontal. I’m reclaiming the throne.”

“Oh, I’m scared.”

“You should be.”

We don’t waste time. The guards are still outside, but she waves them off with a sharp flick of her hand. One glance at her swollen lips, at the way I’m clinging to her arm in this little black dress, and they know better than to ask questions.

The hover transport is quiet. Smooth. She keeps one hand on my thigh the whole ride—thumb stroking soft circles like she’s grounding herself, like she needs to touch me to stay upright. Her other hand eventually slides up, fingers weaving with mine.

“You okay?” I whisper, squeezing her palm.

She nods once, eyes locked on mine. “For the first time in a long time.”

The palace glows under the moonlight—slick and elegant, but cold in the way royal things always are. Until we walk in, and she leads me past the halls and empty corridors to her private wing. Her room smells like sage and sandalwood.

The bed’s massive. The lights adjust to her mood the second the doors close. That’s when I see it.

Her shoulders drop. Not in defeat. In release. She’s safe now. And she brought me into it.

I step in front of her, reaching up to tug her shirt over her head. She lifts her arms wordlessly. Then kisses me slow. Deep. No rush. Just home.

“Shuri,” I whisper between breaths, “you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” she says, thumb brushing my bottom lip. “I’m tired of holding back. Tonight, I want to feel everything. With you.”

My heart thumps. “Then let me make you feel it again.”

Her mouth finds mine once more. We fall into bed, tangle ourselves into the sheets, and this time, we don’t need to be quiet.

In the morning, the crown will still be hers. But tonight she’s just mine. I plan to keep it that way.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai @mrsarnold @prettyyyinblack

[enterideahere]

still flabergasted that i solved my chronic UTIs with extensive medical research and not by giving money to doctors who were just telling me to drink cranberry juice.

[leori-the-unlearned]

the problem with (mostly children-aimed) media friendships having these grand gestures and deep friendships most of the time is, if a lonely child’s only knowledge of friendship shines through the portrayals of grand gestures and huge generosity and unconventional tolerance - they won’t recognize friendship as it starts meekly, or friendship when it is subtle. they won’t be able to light the match and start the fire without kerosene and a torch, and once they leave this warm safe place with tools, they will be lonelier still.

the same vein as ‘media that presents the human experience’, drawing characters with asymmetry and crooked teeth and such because real people are like that and it’s normal, having media that can show the disappointing parts of life as something that still happens even if something goes great. not like a deep dramatic swandive into hazard or loss, but a simple disappointment, dissatisfaction.

[i23kazu]

idk ab yall, but i fully believe that everything happens for a reason :-) life is interesting indeed

[raspberryzingaaa]

Thinking about going to World Most Boring Bible Study Ever. Idk yall. Idk. Idek.

[bitegore]

"i need to justify myself to this internet stranger asking someone to care about their problems" should be a really good warning sign that you needed to log off ten minutes ago and you especially need to log off right now. however it would appear that no one but me believes this

[lovedlovingly]

law of attraction really is the biggest scam of the 21st century. the pseudo science that comes with it and from it is massive and destructive. anti vaxx WISHES they had what LOA has

[snekdood]

its too easy to become a conservative bc all it takes is to shut off your brain, which is why you shouldn't become one

[epicdogymoment]

straight up i am so fucking over it <- his fears and anxieties were justified. again

[puppybotz]

To everybody claiming that luigi mangione really is the guy.

This is the manifesto the cops say they found

“To the Feds, I'll keep this short, because I do respect what you do for our country. To save you a lengthy investigation, I state plainly that I wasn't working with anyone. This was fairly trivial: some elementary social engineering, basic CAD, a lot of patience. The spiral notebook, if present, has some straggling notes and To Do lists that illuminate the gist of it. My tech is pretty locked down because I work in engineering so probably not much info there. I do apologize for any strife of traumas but it had to be done. Frankly, these parasites simply had it coming. A reminder: the US has the #1 most expensive healthcare system in the world, yet we rank roughly #42 in life expectancy. United is the [indecipherable] largest company in the US by market cap, behind only Apple, Google, Walmart. It has grown and grown, but as our life expectancy? No the reality is, these [indecipherable] have simply gotten too powerful, and they continue to abuse our country for immense profit because the American public has allwed them to get away with it. Obviously the problem is more complex, but I do not have space, and frankly I do not pretend to be the most qualified person to lay out the full argument. But many have illuminated the corruption and greed (e.g.: Rosenthal, Moore), decades ago and the problems simply remain. It is not an issue of awareness at this point, but clearly power games at play. Evidently I am the first to face it with such brutal honesty.”

like "ohh yeah we got our guy, he was holding the murder weapon, a manifesto that says "Hey feds! I did that crime and did it with this gun!! this is because the US has the most expensive healthcare but we don't even live as long as some other countries? and its the fault of the american public who I hate!" anne 10 grand! is obvious that this is our guy, and he's just a low down criminal who hates your! the american public"

also if they did find him with that why would he respond to their arrest with immediate legal defense rather than dignified resignation like the manifesto implies.

[autisticlee]

it's so frustrating when I try to talk about struggling with a thing that isn't working, and people respond with telling me to..........just do the thing i'm struggling with that isn't working????

do you people not read or not think before you reply?! or am I that bad at explaining the problem and why I can't "just do the thing" 😭 I really can't tell!

[kuurechr]

Sukuna had woken up like an hour ago. But he didn't move. He stayed as still as he could be, in bed with you. He'd been sitting in pitch black for most of the hour, and he could only feel your legs, which were curled up on top of his torso.

As light began to peek through the windows, he could focus on your face. You were sleeping super well – it was to be expected after the night you both had. Drool dripped from your mouth as it hung open, your hands were splayed all over the place, Sukuna's shirt and your blanket were barely on your body – his shirt rode up and your blanket rode down.

He placed his warm hands on your legs, which were cold. You were always cold in your previous life as well – Sukuna had never liked it.

As he looked at you, in all your knocked out glory, he tried to figure out how to tell you so many things. Nothing worked though. And even if he could think up something, he knew the words would immediately get lost in his throat.

"'Kuna?" You shifted. Sukuna kept a firm grip on your thighs. "You been awake long?"

"No," Sukuna grunted. The lack of any usual morning gruffness in his voice gave him away. You brought your fingers up to his head, running them through his slightly tangled hair. "I have to tell you something."

You stopped abruptly. "Sounds serious."

Sukuna frowned. "Not that serious... I'm just... I was offered a job."

"Oh?" A small smile grew on your face. "You had me thinking that you were going to break my heart or something," you sighed.

Sukuna slapped your thigh lighty. "Are you stupid, I'd never do that."

"I know," you nodded, the smile slightly fading. "The accident just keeps making me think that the worst is gonna happen in my life, y'know? Like – what was my luck to drive your sister in law into disaster."

Sukuna reached out for your head. "That wasn't your fault at all," Sukuna huffed. "Jin and I know that... Kaori too." Kaori. She was a problem for a whole other time.

"I know," you huffed. But it just seemed like your default response. You would still think it was all your fault, no matter what Sukuna insisted. "So, tell me about this job."

"It's a ... teaching thing."

Your brows furrowed. "Since when were you qualified to teach?"

"It's uh, a religious school," Sukuna said the lies as he was told to tell. "Kinda far, but still in Tokyo, so not too bad... and uh, the pay is good."

"Do you want to do it?" You asked. "Money isn't tight, you know, I work too–"

"Yeah, but you hate that place," Sukuna huffed. "If I make enough money at this school, you can volunteer more often or work at that small library near the bowling alley, like you said you wanted to. And I do want to do it," Sukuna added, seeing your mouth open to ask again. "I... I think its' important for me to. It's like my callin' or something."

You snickered. "Calling? Am I just tired or have you gone insane?"

"Shuddup."

You can read more of this on AO3 ! Sukuna's Second Chance

[no-144444]

hey girl!

I LOVEEEE your writing, you're so talented! i was wondering if you could do a grid post where either the reader, or the driver starts crying during an argument? I'd just love to see how it would play out!

thanks ml :))))

crying during an argument

꩜ featuring: the entire grid, zhou guanyu, paul aron, jack doohan.

꩜ a/n: thank you for requesting and thank you for reading! I loved this idea and lmk if yall want a part 2 to any of them bc i have some ideas... :) also heads up, this is 14k words... my b i got carried away :p

mclaren

Oscar Piastri 

Oscar didn’t cry often. Special events required crying; terrible crashes where he genuinely felt scared for his life, his dog dying, missing his sisters’ graduations. 

And apparently this. 

You were ranting, not even raising your voice, just frustrated. You were so damn understanding too, so aware of the fact that it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control his schedule. You just missed him. You just wanted him there for one of the biggest nights of your life, and he couldn’t be there. 

He felt the emotion building in his throat, foreign and clunky. Uncontrollable. He tried to swallow it down, but he just made this weird choked sound, and he felt the tears on his cheeks. 

You’d somehow sensed it, like you did with everything else about him. Always, after every race, every tough day, every great day, you always knew just what he needed. You stopped talking. You whipped your head around, and you were already in front of him with wide eyes and more patience than he thought he probably deserved.  

A soft hand on his shoulder, a tentative breath. “Oscar?” You practically whispered. He nodded, wiping his tears away, only for more to appear seconds later. “Oscar, it’s ok, I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up and running through his hair, coaxing him to lean into you. He did. He dropped his head to your shoulder, his tears soaking your shirt. You didn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked out, not entirely sure what he was apologising for. You shook your head as he fisted your shirt, trying to hold onto something so he wouldn’t fully fall apart.

Your voice came soft and soothing. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” you tightened your grip on his waist. “Please don’t apologise.” 

“I just-“ hiccup- “I feel bad,” God, he sounded like a child to himself. You didn’t judge. “I want to be there so bad.”

“It’s alright Osc,” you hushed. “It’s okay. I know you support me,” you said it against his temple like a prayer, and it made him want to believe you. “I know you love me.”

He nodded, pulling his face out of its solace in the crook of your neck. “Okay,” he nodded, breathless. Your eyes were wide, but trusting. Truthful. “Okay.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar cry many times, mostly because he didn’t like to. He knew now, if he needed to, he could come to you. 

Lando Norris  

It was a dumb argument. Somewhere in your brain, you knew that. 

But it’s hard to remember that when you’re that angry, and that frustrated. 

You shouldn’t have shouted. You shouldn’t have stopped looking at him. You shouldn’t have let him go quiet. There were a lot of things you shouldn’t have done. 

He listened as best he could, truly. He wanted to solve the problem, to make it better, to make being with him easier. He can’t control his schedule though. He can’t control where he’ll be day by day. He can’t leave at a moment's notice. He has people who rely on him, too many people who rely on him. It weighs on him, and somehow, it’s started to weigh on you. You’ve become a background character in your own partner's life, and you couldn’t take it anymore. He feels like more of a roommate than a boyfriend, and he’s hardly ever home. He wanted to fix it, but when so many parts of your life are out of your control, you start to feel helpless. You start to believe the things people say online, the ones online telling him he should just break up with you since he only gets to see you twice a year. The ones who tell him he’s not a good boyfriend. The ones who remind him of his failings, and all the second chances you’ve given him without even thinking about it. 

He teared up and just left. The bedroom door locked behind him before you’d even notice he’d fucking left. 

Then the guilt settled, right down in your stomach, so deep you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You cupped a hand over your mouth, like it would reverse all the things you’d said. Like it could take it back. It couldn’t. You couldn’t. 

Time passed as you stared at that fucking door, debating about what you’d even do if you went in there. You didn’t know, but you knew you had to make it right. 

You knocked against the wood. “Lan,” your voice was breaking. “I’m so sorry,” you leaned your head against the door. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”

Slowly, you heard footsteps, and the door opened. He looked cosy, but the sad kind of cosy. The kind of cosy he looked when he was overwhelmed. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that,” his usual sentiment lacked any conviction, but there was a soft kind of humour in his words. “She’s a genius.”

You shook your head, that guilt clawing at you from the inside out. “I’m not sure I am,” you chuckled out, but it lacked any kind of humour. “I’m sorry,” you looked up at him, his red-rimmed eyes, his soft expression, his sunken shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He shrugged. “Probably not,” he let out a breath. “But I’ve said a lot worse, and you’ve given me another chance every time without thinking about it,” he admitted. “And I think we’re both exhausted.” 

“You’re too nice to me-”

“You’re not nice enough to yourself,” he corrected, wrapping his hand around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “I just needed a minute, I’m sorry I left.”

“I think we both needed a minute,” you admitted, that warm feeling in your chest somehow choking out the feeling of guilt. “I’m sorry again Lan.”

“Thank you,” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. “We’ll work through it. We always do.”

mercedes:

George Russell 

George argued like he drove; completely controlled until he wasn’t. He liked to think he could keep his cool, that an argument with his girlfriend wouldn’t shake him so much when he could make split-second decisions while driving 300km/ h. He couldn’t. Every word coming out of your mouth seemed to rattle him, make him falter, make him lose his mind. 

He didn’t realise he was crying. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t being overwhelmed. He was frustrated. He wanted to be what you needed, he wanted to be there for you, he wanted to always be able to drop everything for you, but he couldn’t. Yes, it was his dream to drive, but sometimes, it left a sour taste in his mouth on the nights you texted him sad and lonely, or exhausted and in need of affection. It made him feel… ashamed. He wanted to be the perfect fiance, be there for you more than anyone else. He couldn’t. And it made him feel like shit. 

“George,” your voice pulled him out of his shame-spiral, and he felt your hand on his cheek, wiping away the wetness. “Breathe,” you demanded, your voice full of fear and eyes wide. “You’re going to have a panic attack, George, breathe.”

He did as you asked, grounding himself with his hands on your hips, squeezing your shirt in time with his breaths like you’d made him do several times before. He focused on your eyes. Exploring the colours he knew so well, reminding himself that an argument is just an argument, and you were just frustrated, he was just frustrated. You’d both lie down together tonight, he’d kiss your shoulder, and you’d pretend to hate the way his hand sneaks up your shirt. You’d still be there. You’d still love him. 

He nodded. “I’m alright,” he sighed out, the tension finally breaking. You didn’t look convinced, you never did during one of these. “I’m alright,” he spoke slower again, reassuring you. 

You nodded, then pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” you let out, soft and small. Like you were scared he'd fall away if you didn’t hold onto him. 

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he whispered, a humorless chuckle in his lips. “You’re always there to support me and I can’t fucking be there for you. Ever.” He spat out the last word like he was embarrassed, or disgusted with himself. 

You looked up and pressed your lips to his. He kissed you back like it could maybe make up for it. Like he could show you how much he cared, how much he wanted to be there. “George,” you were breathless, he tried to kiss you again, and you stopped him. “You’re always there for me,” you smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him see into the future, wrinkles and kids, everything he wanted. “Even when you’re a million miles away, you’re always checking up on me. You care so much it scares my friends sometimes,” you chuckled and pressed a kiss against his forehead. “I’m just…” you couldn’t finish your sentence, you didn’t even know how you felt. 

“I know,” he whispered, his forehead against yours. He always knew when it came to you. 

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

Kimi hated arguments. He hated making you upset, hated not knowing what to say. 

“You can’t say shit like that Kimi, it’s not fair,” you scoffed, fluffing the pillows of your couch. Moving in together had been tumultuous. You both loved it, but it was a long process to figure out the balance between being together all the time, and not ripping the heads off each other. He’d said something stupid, some off-handed comment that made you see red. He sat on the couch as you rage-cleaned the apartment, ranting all the way. He felt too much like a child for his liking, sitting on the couch as you scolded him. 

Kimi was an emotional person, and you’d only had so many arguments in your relationship. He hated seeing you upset, and knowing it was his fault just started a guilt pit in his mind, picking apart every single thing he did that upset you. 

“I think I just need some time alone,” you sighed, putting down the towel in your hand. “I’m going to go for a walk-“

“Don’t go!” He shot up, the emotion building behind his eyes as panic surged through his chest. You couldn’t leave, not like this. He grabbed onto your wrist and pulled you against his chest. “Please don’t leave, talk to me, scream at me, just don’t leave. Please.” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his grip was practically bruising. 

You’d never seen him like this. Begging. Pleading. Like if he didn’t convince you to stay, you’d never come back. You cupped his cheek, the beginnings of tears falling from his eyes as he tried to blink them away. “Kim,” your voice was soft. “I’m not leaving,” you assured him, stroking his cheek as he kept his eyes fixed on your face. “I’m right here.” You took his hand and placed it on your waist, showing him you weren’t leaving. 

“I hate it when people leave,” he admitted, breathless. “I don’t-“ hiccup “-want you to leave,” he closed his eyes. “I never want you to leave,” he pressed his forehead against yours, like it could somehow stop you from running. 

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “I’m not leaving, Kim,” you shook your head. 

He tightened his grip on your waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just tired, I didn’t mean it-“ 

“I know,” you nodded, voice full of warmth and understanding. He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he took it all the same. “You don’t have an angry bone in your body Kimi, I know you didn’t mean it,” you chuckled, and he felt lucky to ever hear the sound. “It just… upset me.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t,” you cooed, and his frown relaxed. “Again, I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body either. It just… it was what it was. And it’s done now.” 

Forgiveness, it had never tasted so sweet. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you,” he repeated, on his lips like a chant. 

williams:

Alex Albon

It’s haunting how strange Alex looks when he cries. That’s what he thinks anyway. He’s almost sure you think it too. He’s just so used to not being upset, that he really doesn’t know what to do with himself when he is. You were there for him, through everything. Through RedBull. You’ve seen him cry. You’ve seen him rise up from it, rise up to Williams, rise up to P5 being a genuine result, a constant result. He’s proud, of course, but there’s always that voice in the back of his head that sounds surprisingly like Will Buxton, telling him that he’s a problem. 

Even in his relationships. Even in your relationship. 

That’s what this stemmed from. He didn’t feel good enough. He shut you out again. He didn’t text for a full week. 

“Alex, you can’t just not text me for a week, alright?” You were exhausted, exasperated, and downright pissed. Frankly, you had every reason to be. He was in the wrong, he knew that, but he just couldn’t help feeling slightly justified. He would’ve caused a fight either way, especially when he got like that. “I want to hear from you, the good, the bad, the ugly, the mundane! I don’t care once it’s coming from you,” your words were raw with emotion, and it almost shocked him. He sometimes forgot the fact that he made a difference in people’s lives. 

He didn’t feel the tears falling until one landed on his shirt, and he almost thought it was somehow raining inside. “I know,” his voice broke despite himself. “I’m sorry.”

Your head whipped around and you were beside himin seconds. “Alex,” you whispered out, his name coming out like a secret. “It’s okay,” you wrapped an arm around his neck, your heart breaking as you felt him hiccup against you, trying against his better judgement to stop himself from crying. “You can cry.”

And he did. He wrapped his arms around your back and pulled you into his lap, and cried into your shirt. He didn’t know what to do after carrying this… hurt, for so long. But for some reason being beside you, having you hold him, it didn’t seem so heavy. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered once his crying has subsided. Your expression was full of care, of understanding, of love. He wondered how he’d gotten so lucky. 

He shrugged. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes there’s this voice in my head that, no matter what I do, tells me I should still be more,” he admitted, and immediately, he felt out in the open, and not necessarily in a bad way. You nodded your head, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

It took you a few seconds to formulate a response, but it didn’t make him panic like he’d thought it would in the millions of times he’d gone over this very scenario in his head. Your hand smoothed up and down his arm, and he knew you cared. You wouldn’t run away. 

“Thank you for telling me,” you smiled softly. “And I always want you to talk to me about these things, because I’m here for you,” you took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something that I know you won’t like, and that’s how you know I genuinely believe it. Alex, I think you should see someone again,” you placed a soft hand on his cheek as he stiffened. “Not right now, maybe not even in the next few months, but I think it would be good for you. I can love you as much as I can, and do, and evidently, I can’t make it go away. Race results don’t make it go away. Progress doesn’t make it go away. Nothing is going to make it happy, and if I’m understanding right, you can’t just turn it off,” you pressed your lips to his cheek again. “I think seeing someone would help.” 

He felt like you’d opened his eyes. You were right, nothing would make it go away, other than him. For the first time in his life, he was happy about an argument. 

Carlos Sainz

When he argued, he got quiet. Whether he meant to or not, he did. So there was nothing out of the ordinary when it seemed like you were talking to yourself as you listed out the problems. You didn’t want to go to a race when you knew a certain other girlfriend would be there, because she made you feel like shit. Carlos didn’t seem to understand that, and he fought you on it. He called you selfish. You walked off. This was part two of the argument, what you called the reconciliation, but Carlos was silent as he leaned against the counter, his back to you. 

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” You scoffed, feeling more than dejected. “I don’t know why I try,” you mumbled, starting to walk away again, but a strong hand gripped your waist and pulled you into his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered out. He hadn’t paid much attention before, when you’d said you didn’t want to go. He just felt rejected, and he ignored your reasoning. He stopped listening. He didn’t know it was because of the group chat you had been added to and humiliated by a girl you thought was your friend. He would’ve never fought you on it. He would’ve just agreed and moved on, asking you to come to the next one. “I didn’t listen, I’m sorry.”

“Carlos-” you reached up and cupped his face in your hands. “What’s wrong? I-I’m sorry-”

He sighed, that hole of guilt in his heart aching with every word out of your mouth. Of course you’d start worrying about him. You should get angry, but of course, you chose to be soft, to care, to love. Sometimes he wished he could do that. He wished he could think like that, instead of going straight for an argument. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shook his head, his big brown eyes dropping with tears as you tenderly wiped them away. “I’m in the wrong,” he reminded you, almost as if he thought you forgot. Maybe you had. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you, and I’m sorry I started an argument,” he sniffled. “I love you,” he pressed a kiss to your shocked cheek. “I love you so much, mi cariño.”

“Car,” you were wordless, not even sure how to react. “It’s alright,” you answered, your eyes focused on him, only him. “It was a mistake.”

His heart ached. The world didn’t deserve you, your friends didn’t deserve you, he didn’t deserve you. You should scream. You should tell him to shove his apology up his ass. But you don’t. You chose to forgive him. 

He wasn’t sure he deserved it, but you kissed him like he did, and he couldn’t really complain from there. 

redbull racing:

Max Verstappen 

Max probably wasn’t the best person to go to about emotions, and you knew that. Not only was he emotionally stunted, he was also Dutch, a nationality famous for being blunt. 

But you thought he would see your side and agree. He didn’t. He spent a half hour lecturing you on why your mother was justified in what she said to you. You just agreed, it wasn’t worth the energy to fight with him, he was always so fucking logical. He couldn’t just appeal to the illogical side of you, he couldn’t let you just be upset. He had to solve the problem, he had to explain why the problem wasn’t a problem, he had to make you feel like a helpless kid. 

You finished getting ready for dinner in silence. No music playing. No fun dancing he pretended to hate watching (and sometimes joining you for). No bright smile when your hair looked how you wanted it to, or your outfit came together exactly how you’d wanted it to. Just a flat line on your lips. Just a dull gaze in your eyes. He, on the other hand, was completely entranced by you. You looked stunning in that dress, with your hair done the way you had it.

“Ready to go?” You asked him, not even trying to bait him into putting your heels on you. Another thing pretended to hate, but secretly loved. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching you with a sense of curiosity and confusion. “Are you alright?” He asked, trying to snake a hand around your waist, but you just walked on. 

“I’m okay,” you nodded, but there was a stiffness in your actions and words. “Just tired.”

He decided to put it to bed for now, just enjoy the night together, and check back in with you in a while. 

You ditched him the second you got on the yacht. Alexandra was there, so you practically ran to her, and Max loitered around the drinks table with Charles. 

“Alex is mad at me,” he admitted. 

“I think Y/n’s upset with me too,” he admitted. He could blame the loosening of his tongue on the gin in his drink, but he knew it was because of his growing anxiety about the situation. You rarely fought, and it rarely went on this long. 

“What did you do?” Charles knocked back the rest of his drink and Max took him in for the first time that night. He looked practically disheveled. A broken man in front of him, because he had an argument with his girlfriend. 

“Nothing really, she had an argument with her mom over something stupid, and I told her to get over herself. I have arguments with my folks all the time,” he shrugged, and Charles looked at him like he’d committed several war crimes. 

Charles’s jaw dropped even further when he realised Max wasn’t joking. “Are you fucking crazy?” He demanded. “Do you want her to break up with you?”

Now it was Max’s turn to think Charles was crazy. “Obviously not? I love her.”

“You sure?” He scoffed. “If I said that to Alex, I think she’d break up with me-”

“The fragility of your relationship has nothing to do with mine,” he interpreted because he’d finally realised what he sounded like. God, he’d been a fucking asshole, no wonder you were upset. 

You slinked into the bedroom with your head low and a tired expression on your face. You slotted into bed beside him, but you didn’t shock him with your feet against his, frozen against warmth. You didn’t turn to him. You didn’t show him the funny tiktoks you’d found that day. He felt something in his heart squeeze. 

You turned out the light without a kiss, and the air in the room filled with the atmosphere of a heavy silence, and he genuinely yearned to reach out for you. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed. 

You waited 30 minutes. Max was a good sleeper, and heavy sleeper. You could get away with sleeping on the couch for one night, not because you wanted to hurt him, but because you genuinely couldn’t sleep next to him after he told you to get a grip. 

Slowly, you climbed out of bed, pillow in hand. 

Something pulled you back. A hand. His hand. 

A sniffle. “Stay,” he whispered into the darkness of the room. “Please stay. I know what I said was shitty and wrong, and you can hate me all you want, but please stay.”

You halted in the darkness, his words carrying more weight than you thought he probably meant them to. “I don’t hate you Max,” you answered. “I’ll never hate you.”

“You can, if it means you’ll stay,” he admitted, his voice breaking. You climbed back into bed slowly, but he felt that hole in his chest, the one that had been there since the day his father left him at a petrol station, close up just a little more. The way it always did when he was near you. You climbed into his arms, feeling small droplets of water against your shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

You breathed out. “Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you for apologising.” He practically held his breath. What the fuck was he doing crying when he was one the in the wrong? He could hear his dad now, telling him to stop crying, telling him to grow up, telling him- 

“You can cry, y’know,” you whispered. “I like it better when you trust me. Like when we dance or when you put on my heels. You’re less nonchalant than usual. Makes me feel like you really care about me,” you admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Makes me feel like you like me enough to trust me.”

He closed his eyes, tight. Of course you’d say the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing anyone had ever said to him and act like you’re the one inconveniencing him. “I trust you,” he whispered. 

And that was the first time you’d ever seen Max cry. 

Yuki Tsunoda

Fathers were funny in the way they showed their love. You understood that Yuki probably didn’t have the healthiest relationship with his, especially based on the way he practically shunned him when he came out of the car, another disappointing Sunday. You knew it was already weighing on him with a simple glance. 

He clearly couldn’t. He complained the whole way back to the hotel, all throughout dinner, and even on the short walk back to your hotel rooms. 

And you couldn’t take it anymore. Yuki was trying his damnedest in one of the shittest cars on the grid, and the only reason it looked so bad for him was the fact that he had Max 4-Time-World-Champion-one-of-the-greatest-of-the-modern-era Verstappen as a teammate. 

“He’s trying. How can that not be enough for you? He’s trying,” you shook your head at her before bidding his wife a good night, and walking into your own suite. Yuki had no idea what to do, but his father just brushed by him coldly, his mother behind him offering a sympathetic smile. He felt twelve again, sandwiched between two things he wanted equally. He wanted his father’s approval, he wanted his dad to just say he was proud, just once. And he wanted your support. He liked that you stood up for him, that you were willing to, but it wasn’t that simple. The majority of things never were. 

He didn’t even know what to say. It happened in slow-motion. He couldn’t stop it, just watch the chaos unfold and have to deal with the aftermath. He just stormed in and demanded. “What the fuck was that?!” 

“Yuki, the way he was talking about you, it was disgusting,” you answered, shocked at his confusion. 

“You just disrespected my father, Y/n, you’ve just fucked the both of us,” he scoffed. He paced the floor, his eyes wide, panic surging through him. Tension filled the room, oozing from every corner. “He’s going to hate you now.” He knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but he needed you to understand the level of disrespect, and how his father would hold that grudge. 

You shrugged, unbothered, as you pulled your earrings out. Though he could tell, from the stiff and rigid nature of your movements, it bothered you. “Let him hate me,” you sighed. “I’m trying to support you, and hearing about every tiny thing you did wrong isn’t going to make you feel any better, just worse. He needed to shut up.” 

He groaned in frustration, his head falling into his hands. Despite the way he wanted to keep his composure, he could feel it crumbling under the weight of the day. He sniffled and looked up again, willing himself not to cry. He failed, and the first tear fell. 

You stared at him through the mirror, your eyes locked in on him. You slowly turned around and stood when you saw him. “Yuki,” you breathed out, pulling him into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you cooed. “I made it worse, and I know that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, emotion breaking his voice. “I just- I wanted today to be good. Not like every other fucking race this year. I wanted it to be worth it. Worth their sacrifice. Worth your sacrifices. And it’s not,” he sighed. “I just step into that car feeling like a failure.”

“I know,” you nodded as his hands circled your waist. “But you’re not, baby, you’re not a failure. Christian is. Helmut is. You’re just taking the brunt of the weight because they’re too small to admit their mistakes,” you soothed. He wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky. “And you’d never fail me.”

Something about the way you said it made him believe you, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t go to bed feeling like a failure. 

vcarb:

Liam Lawson

He hated crying. He hated how it made him feel. He hated how it made other people feel. You hated arguing just as much. 

The fact that both these things were happening simultaneously was entirely your fault.

He knew you wanted to meet his parents, he really did. You were just busy. The life of a software engineer was busy. You couldn’t change that, even if you wanted to, which you did. You would’ve been there, at that restaurant on 43rd, that gorgeous Italian place you two frequented when you were in New York. Yet you stood him up for a late-night coding session with your team because the contract you were working on was taking longer than expected, and you were contractually obligated to keep on working until you could get as close to done. His texts were just… miserable. 

Hey baby, where are you?  (18:04)

We’re going to start without you, alright? I’m sure you’re just late (please don’t be too late my dad is already teasing me about you not being real :)) (18:35)

Y/n, where are you? (18:47)

Are you alright?  (18:59)

Please text me I’m getting worried. (19:34)

Fucks sake Y/n. I just checked your location. Really? 

Work is more important than this? Than me?  (19:57)

Congratulations my parents are pissed and I’ve been doing fucking recon all night. I thought you’d actually make it this time. I thought you put the time aside. I thought you fucking cared.  (20:07) 

Don’t text me. I don’t want to talk to you until tomorrow. (21:49) 

I’m staying in my parents' hotel. (21:50) 

He was crying on the streets of New York like some bad romcom. He felt pathetic, in more ways than one. How was it that he could fuck everything up, all over again. He trusted you. He relied on you. He was so sure you’d show up for him like you’d done so many times before, and you just didn’t. His parents felt disrespected, fuck, he felt disrespected. He’d planned out the entire dinner, picked a place you loved, briefed his parents on you as a person so they could ask questions, briefed you on them, so you’d have just as many questions. 

And you didn’t show.

You walked towards his hotel, shame hanging off you so clearly, you were sure anyone who could see you would know. Fuck, you stood up Liam’s parents. Brilliant first impression, you thought to yourself. You knew him well enough to know that after a night like this, even when you fucked him off so badly, him still wanted you to try. He’d messed up enough for you to know this routine, though you didn’t think it would go as it did regularly. You’d missed dinner with his parents. Possibly the worst first impression you could ever make, especially when you truly planned on marrying him. You loved him, so bad it hurt sometimes. 

You dialled his number. You couldn’t wait the 18 minute walk to apologise. You just hoped he’d pick up. 

He picked up on the fifth ring. 

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “I’m a fucking piece of shit, and you deserve so much better and I’m mortified that I missed it, I’m so sorry Liam.” You waited with bated breath as he just breathed on the line. He was quiet for a minute, so still you thought he almost hung up. 

“I can see you,” he answered. You raised an eyebrow, and looked around, seeing a figure that looked a lot like Liam, just across the stream between you. 

“What-? Liam-” you started, hearing the thickness of his voice. He’d been crying. The knife twisted in your heart, and you had only yourself to blame. 

“Across the water,” he finished. “You look beautiful,” he smiled through his tears. “So fucking pretty.”

Again, that knife got deeper. Of course he’d compliment you even after what you’d done. Of course, because that’s the kind of man he was. Caring. Loving. So fucking sweet it hurt your teeth sometimes. You let out a small humourless chuckle. “You’re too sweet to me.”

“You fucked up tonight,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he stared at you from across the water. “Figured a compliment might soften the blow.”

“You don’t need to soften the blow, I was an asshole. I deserve the full consequences,” you breathed out. “I’m so sorry Liam. I’m genuinely so embarrassed and fucking… ashamed. I’m such a fucking idiot,” you played with the ring on your middle finger. He’d given it to you after he noticed that you liked to fidget while you spoke. That's what he did, he noticed. 

He let out a teary laugh. “Yeah, you were an asshole,” he agreed, nodding his head. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He hated saying shit like that, but objectively it was true. You were the asshole in the situation. “But I fucking love you,” he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “And for some reason spending a night we could spend together, alone, makes me sick to my stomach. I want to fall asleep next to you and I want to wake up beside you tomorrow before I fuck off to wherever,” he admitted, his vulnerability pulling at every single string of your heart. “And I fucking love you so much I spent all of tonight convincing my parents I got the date wrong. So you owe me.” 

You breath caught in your throat at that. Of course he did. Always protecting you. Always caring too much. “Liam, you didn’t have to do that. You should tell them-”

“Just come over here,” his voice was pleading, like he wasn’t above begging for you. “Please,” he added at the end. 

Against your better judgement, you walked straight through the shallowest part of the stream, ruining your dress from the knees down, and running right into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered against his lips as he kissed you like he hadn’t seen you for months, not days. 

“You fucking better,” he chuckled, wiping away the last of his tears as he pulled away. 

Isack Hadjar

Isack had vowed to himself he wouldn’t cry until the end of the season. Was it the healthiest thing on planet earth? No, very much not, but he seemed set on the idea, so you let him. You were just ready to be there if it fell apart, and he needed some comfort. 

He did pretty well, up until it started. You came home, quiet. You weren’t humming in the kitchen as you made a snack, you weren’t asking him about his day, it was like you were there physically, but not mentally. And it didn’t change. He’d thought it had been a once-off, but no, the next day you pushed him further and further away, and he had no idea why. You’d always been the better communicator out of the two of you, hell, you’d taught Isack everything he knew about communicating effectively. So getting radio silence from you was not only unusual, it was worrying. He left for the double header, thinking you were just mad and needed time to process it, and then you’d talk. You didn’t. You texted him a few times, small messages wishing luck, or congratulations on a good result, but your regular messages about your day were gone, much like your hours-long facetime calls. He didn’t let it bother him. He gave you space. He didn’t lose his cool, because he knew you loved him, and he loved you. That wouldn’t change.

He walked into the living room with a confused expression when he found you sitting on the couch, the apartment looking more barren than when he’d left. It hit him. His heart stopped in his chest and he dropped his bag. No. He thought. This isn’t real, she’s pranking me, she’s just mad at me, she’s just-

“Isack,” your voice was steady, but anyone could see the way you were breaking inside. “We need to talk.”

Those dreaded words. He nodded and gulped back the emotion building in his throat as he sat beside you, his eyes trained to you like you’d disappear if he looked away for a split-second. Maybe you would. He didn’t reach out and hold your hand or grab your thigh like he usually would, he didn’t know if he was allowed. He held his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked, all the care in the world in his voice. 

You sighed. “I can’t do this anymore,” you admitted out loud for the first time. For months you’d been going over every scenario in your head, trying to work through every possible fix, and none of it left you satisfied. You couldn’t just be someone’s WAG, even if that someone was Isack. You needed a boyfriend who could show up for you, always. And Isack never could. And the worst part was, it was never his fault. He always wanted to, tried to support you from oceans away, sent you message after message, and you’d see how disappointed he was once you came back and you had to recount the whole night to him. He cared so deeply, but it just wasn’t enough. You needed someone to be there, mind, body, and soul. Not in a racecar halfway across the world. “I love you,” you sniffled, a stray tear falling down your face. “But this isn’t working for me anymore. I need someone who’s here, someone who can be there for me all the time. And it’s not your fault. You’ve been nothing but the best to me,” you choked up, unable to continue as more tears fell down your face. He wanted so desperately to reach out and wipe them away, promise you he could be there, that he would be there, but that was unrealistic. He couldn’t be there, no matter how badly he wanted to be, and intentions and text messages after the fact are never as good as actually showing up. He couldn’t give you that. He understood. “You’re so kind,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “And caring, and loving. I just… I need something else right now.” 

You finally looked up and saw his face, tear-stained but accepting. He nodded. “That’s alright,” he whispered, though every syllable killed him. “You deserve someone who can be there for you,” there was a small smile on those lips you knew so well, and it hit you that it might be the last time you ever see him in person, you were sure you'd end up seeing him on your TV screen, even long after today, probably winning world championships. Time stopped for a moment and you let yourself remember what it meant to be with Isack, just one last time. “And I’m so sorry I cannot give that to you,” he sighed out a teary, angry sigh. “It is one of my great failings,” he sniffled, but brought a hand up to your cheek and wiped a tear away. “Maybe one day we’ll find each other again?” he asked, his voice hopeful. 

“Maybe,” you nodded, but you both knew this was the end of the two of you. 

You left the apartment after that. You didn’t look back. You saw him, years on, watching the sport you fell in love with because of the boy you fell in love with, with your family. Your husband and your children loved car number 6, and you didn’t have the heart to tell them you loved it for a different reason. He won world championships, like you always knew he would. He never got married, he just raced. He sent you Christmas cards and thank yous that you hid and cherished forever, because you never really forget your first love. 

Years on, you told your granddaughter about the boy with the hazel eyes and fighting spirit, and how some nights, you wished you’d stayed with him. She told you that you should’ve. You told her she was wiser than you were at her age. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should’ve held on a little bit longer. 

ferrari:

Charles LeClerc

Charles notoriously hated fighting. He had no idea what the point was, because he’d just apologise, kiss you, and want everything to go back to normal. That worked for him. He came from a family that didn’t yell, a family so tightly woven together through something so deeply upsetting, that shouting was never an option. He came from a family that took care of each other, no matter what it cost them. Loyalty. Strength in numbers. Unconditional love. 

You didn’t. You came from a family that made their children compete for love, made you hate your siblings and them hate you in return, and a family that boarded all that up with their perfect image. 

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have pushed if he did. He wouldn’t have gone behind your back and set up the dinner if he realised it was like this, on your birthday no less. 

Those carefully disguised jabs from your mothers, those deliberately placed smirks and sniggers from your siblings and their stuck-up partners, those blatant comments from your father, he saw how they all weighed you down slowly. Over the course of a dinner, he saw you turn from the extroverted, kind, and sweet girl he’d fallen for, to the small, picked-on, and scared child you’d been for half your life. The side of yourself you’d never shared with anyone. The side of yourself you promised you’d never have to. He saw how your eyes watered before you got up to go to the bathroom, another snarky comment about your career choice being ‘unique’, like you weren’t literally changing people’s life with your work. He shook his head as he watched you leave. 

“You are all terrible,” the words came out of his mouth before he meant them to, his eyes low as he looked at the table around him. He’d already said it, why not dig the grave deeper? “Get out of my house, now.” 

There was a tense stillness that followed. Knives stopped. Chatter died down. Anger pulsed through his veins. 

“Pardon?” your father asked, an incredulous smile on his face. He acted as if he didn’t hear Charles, and if he was a better man who wanted to keep a relationship with your family, he would’ve apologised and told everyone to continue eating. He wasn’t a better man, not when it came to you. He would do anything to protect you. He would go to any length to make you happy. He’d do anything if it meant he wouldn’t have to see you with that heartbreaking pout and cloudy eyes. 

“I said, get out of my house,” he repeated, standing from the table. “I don’t want to see you here again.” He walked over to the door and opened it wide, waiting for them to step outside. They looked at him dumbfounded. Like he wasn’t being serious. Like he wasn’t seconds away from grabbing your brother, who’d made an awful comment on how you were ‘parading yourself around the paddock like an instagram whore’, when he didn’t understand or know how long it took Charles to convince you to come with him. When he didn’t see the hours you’d spent before walking into that paddock, pacing your hotel room, and nearly backing out at the last minute, but you forced yourself to because you wanted to be there for him. 

“W-what’s going on?” you asked, walking out of the bathroom, the tension palpable. 

Your father turned to you. “Brilliant question, what is going on?” he demanded, his tone laced with anger. You flinched. Charles knew that was it. 

“They’re leaving,” he said, never raising his voice, never arguing. Just assertive and simple. “Say goodbye.”

The fear in your eyes broke his heart. Had this really been how you’d grown up? You looked around the room, panicked. “Charles, they’re not done their-”

“No, we are,” your sister bit out, standing up with her husband beside her. “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” she practically spat at you. You just flinched, those beautiful eyes filling with fresh tears. He wanted nothing more than to go to you, hold you, promise you he was sorry, swear he’ll never let it happen again. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make sure they left. 

“Meg, come on, I’m sorry-” you reached for her, but she slapped your hand away. Like it didn’t even matter. Like you were less than her. Charles couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, holding it tight. She gasped. You grabbed his arm and tried to get him to let go, begging in his ear gently, but he had this unbreakable focus and precision. He wanted to scare her, scare them all. He needed to show that you were untouchable now, that he wasn’t going to let this shit slide. By the way your mother’s eyes widened, he guessed she got the gist. 

“What did you just do?” he questioned, the terrifying calmness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. She didn’t answer. “Apologise, then leave.” 

She mumbled out something, and Charles let her go. It wasn’t that he actually cared about her apology, it was about scaring them. She shuffled out the door with her bitch of a husband behind her, your brother following, shouting about a lawsuit. Your parents were last to go, their eyes on Charles the entire time as you just watched them leave, feeling eight years old again. If you had it in you, you probably would’ve begged them to stay, just because dealing with their teasing is better than the opposite. Silence. For months at a time. Even when you were in the same house. Even when you were a child. 

Your hand was wrapped so tightly around Charles arm, he didn’t even notice the pressure until you released it. Your eyes were clouded over, you were shaking, and you just walked over to the table and started cleaning up dishes. 

“Y/n-” he started. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, your voice uneven and broken. It squeezed his heart. “Just don’t, Charles.” He held you clean up the table in silence. He dried the dishes after you washed them and he tried to push that terrified look in your eyes out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Your realisation of them leaving, the way you were trying to apologise, and the way you tried to stop him. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled, stopping in his tracks as his eyes watered. You just kept washing the dishes. Mindful, like it was a ritual, holding onto it like it was the only thing stopping you from crumbling. “Y/n, please,” he begged, reaching over and turning the tap off. “Talk to me.”

You looked up, a tear already flowing down your cheek. You dried your hands on a towel, then wiped your cheek. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, hsi voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.” 

You nodded, tears falling onto his shirt silently. “I know. You didn’t know. It’s alright,” you whispered, that heartbreaking frown on your lips against his neck. “It just sucks.”

“Was it always like that?” he asked in a broken whisper. You didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He choked back a tear. “It’ll never be like that here, I promise. I swear.” 

You nodded. You believed him. Charles made you feel safe. Sure, he made a mistake tonight, but he was already making up for it. 

He loved you. That was worth a shitty night.

Lewis Hamilton

The apartment was ground zero for an explosion of toys, arts and crafts, and Lewis was sure there was some mashed up food in there somewhere. And it was quiet. Too quiet. A newborn, two toddlers and a five year old meant there was constant noise, but none tonight. He raised an eyebrow as he expertly stepped through a broken lego set, and moved towards the kids bedrooms. 

No one in the nursery, not unusual, since the most time Millie spent there was sleeping. 

No one in the boys room, again, also not unusual at this time of night, they usually stayed up with you until about 8, then when he got home, they’d go down without a fight. 

No one in Emmy’s room, so they were in your room. 

He opened the door as quietly as he possibly could, and found three children sprawled out on the bed, already asleep, and Millie asleep in her crib. He smiled fondly, tucking them in, kissing Millie on the forehead. Moments like these made those shitty days in the car bearable. Just knowing he had his own little fan club back home, made getting into the car just that bit easier. 

The light from the bathroom spilled out from under the door, and he froze when he heard a tiny choked sob. He softly opened the door, worry furrowing his brow as you came into view. Red-rimmed eyes, hand over your mouth to stop the sobs from waking the kids, exhausted eyes. His heart ached and he pressed a cautious hand on your shoulder, just a simple ‘I’m here’. 

You whipped around and fell into his chest, everything you’d been holding in for weeks finally coming out. Then you did something unexpected, you pushed him away. 

You stood up, wiped your eyes, and went back out to the main room, and you started cleaning. He closed the bedroom door and followed you out, a confused brow raised. “Baby?” he questioned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing Lewis,” you spat, picking up toys, as tears fell like you didn’t even notice them. “Nothing’s wrong.” His heart ached. What could possibly be this wrong? Why would you be calling him by his first name? 

“Clearly something’s wrong,” he started, approaching you slowly. You stilled and stared, finally looking at him. Ferrari shirt and some jeans, necklaces and rings, hair done perfectly. It made you hate him. He got to go out and live his life every single day, every single weekend, while you were stuck in an apartment in a country hundreds of miles away from your family and friends, and you were just expected to deal. Deal with a newborn. Deal with your toddlers. Deal with the actual important things in your life while he gets to go race, and still be the favourite parent. God, you fucking hated him for it. You weren’t sure when it started. You weren’t sure if it was just your regular case of postpartum depression, or if you genuinely hated his guts, but either way, you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want him to touch you. You didn’t want him. 

Seeing him standing in your living room filled you with so much rage, you actually didn’t know what to do with yourself.  “Just fuck off Lewis,” you scoffed, resuming picking up the toys. “Go on the sim or something, leave me alone.” 

“Y/n,” his voice was stern, serious. “What’s wrong?” He tried again. 

And you broke. Even though you didn’t want to. Even though you’d been holding it together since Millie was born. You dropped the toys to the floor with a loud crash, and you sobbed. Openly. Angrily. 

You let yourself rage. You didn’t think about the other people. You didn’t think about the kids asleep inside. You didn’t think about the fact that you’d end up saying things you regretted, because you didn’t care. You just wanted him to hurt, to understand your hurt, and you didn’t know how else to show it. “Fuck you Lewis,” you sniffled. “You’re never here!” you shouted, thanking your past self that you soundproofed the apartment years ago, so hopefully, the kids wouldn’t wake up. “You’re never fucking here. You leave me, all the fucking time. You don’t parent our kids, ever. I do. Every fucking day. Every drop-off, every mess, every spillage, every argument, every fucking day. And I don’t get a moment to myself. Because I have four fucking kids relying on me, alone. Their father is never fucking here. And every time I remember that, I think back to your vows to me, as your wife,” you choked out, sobbing as you shouted. You didn’t even feel like a person anymore, just a mom. Not a functioning human with thoughts and opinions, and needs, and wants. “You promised you’d never leave me.” 

He stood there, dumbstruck. He had no idea. Of course you didn’t, you’re never here, a voice in his head shot back. “Baby, I’d never leave you-”

“You already have, Lewis. Clearly you have,” you sighed, letting your arms cross over your chest. “I just… I need to go home.” 

“You are home, baby,” his voice which was once soothing, sounded so fucking patronising now. You gritted your teeth. 

“I want to go back to my home. With my family, and my friends,” you bit out. “I’m bringing the kids with me. You can visit us there.” 

Fuck, that was heavy. You both felt that settle in the room, tension filling the air. He didn’t realise he was crying until it dropped down onto his shirt. “Y/n, you can’t just leave-”

“You do it every damn weekend,” you offered an angry smile. “I hope you’re satisfied by the end of the season, because if you don’t choose our family and me over your career, I’ll be filing for a divorce.” 

And the ultimatum was set. Fuck, he probably would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t already leaning against the wall. You didn’t notice. You just continued picking up the toys and putting them away. He felt bile rise in his throat. 

Zhou Guanyu

Zhou cried, he was just like that. But, he’d never cried because of you. This had rattled him. He’d never expected you to be so… mean. He knew you didn’t mean it, emotions were high anyway and this was just the cherry on top of a shit week. 

You knocked on the door, guilt heavy in your stomach like a bowling ball. “Zhou,” your voice was soft. He held his breath. “Zhou I'm so sorry,” you started choking up yourself. “Fuck,” you mumbled. “I’m being mean to you and I’m the one fucking crying,” you sniffled, leaning against the door. “I’m an asshole.” He felt your weight against the door, and heard the desperation in your voice. He just… wasn’t ready to respond yet. He didn’t have anything to say to you. 

You took another deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said that, I-I’m sorry,” God, you felt so small. Taking Zhou down just because you were stressed? Snapping at him like he wouldn’t do anything for you? Like he didn’t love you so much it hurts? You were disgusted with yourself. You honestly thought you didn’t deserve forgiveness. “I was stressed, and I know, that’s not an excuse. I just don’t know how to fucking deal with it. When everyone is breathing down my neck, a-and you’re just trying to love me with, with your fucking love languages and I love it. I swear I do, I don’t ever w-want it to fucking stop, I just… it gets c-crowded in my h-head,” you admitted, hiccups interrupting your explanation. You’d never been good at this, at love. But you were willing to try for Zhou, because you loved him so much you felt like you couldn’t breathe without him. You let out another sob. He felt the tears falling down his cheeks. “I just don’t know what to do with myself sometimes. I’m so bad at this, I just… I’m so scared you’re going to wake up one day and realise that I’m not worth the trouble. And I-I push you away because I already love you so much that losing you w-would break me,” you held in a sob. “And I’m so sorry Zhou. You deserve so much better than that.” You knocked your head against the door lightly, like it could somehow fix the turmoil in your brain. It didn’t. 

He sniffled from the other side of the door and it twisted the guilt in your stomach. The door unlocked. You stepped back. Zhou stood in front of you, looking just as broken as you were. 

No words were exchanged. He didn’t shout or demand an apology. He did the most Zhou-thing he could’ve done. He forgave you. He hugged you. He kissed you. He promised you he’d stand by you when you felt like this. 

He chose to be kind, because of course he did. He was your Zhou. 

haas:

Ollie Bearman 

He was fucked. Literally, and metaphorically, he was fucked. 

Seriously, he’d just fucked someone. And he’d just realised it wasn’t you. After the fact. After it was over. 

Dodging calls wasn’t like Ollie. Dodging texts wasn’t like Ollie. But, he’d changed a lot since moving up to F1. He was colder. Less goofy. Less… himself. He walked around like he cared what people thought now, which you guessed he must’ve. You saw it in the way he carried himself. You saw it in the light in his eyes, or lack-there-of. 

And you were seeing it in person, right now. He stood in front of you, eyes wide and teary, excuses pouring from his mouth like those tyre strategies he used to rattle off. 

“It was a mistake,” he sniffled. “And I’m so sorry.” He let his head drop, eyes falling to the floor. He couldn’t face it, face you. This was the biggest mistake of his life, and he was a Haas driver. He thought back to those nights where you’d hold him when he got like this. Whether it was results or pressure or stress, you always cared. You hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright. Well, right now, he wished you would. He knew you wouldn’t, knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t stop him from hoping.

“Alright,” you shrugged, no tone, no hurt, nothing. His head snapped back up, eyes filling with hope. “Pack your shit.” 

His world stopped. “Y/n-” 

“Fuck you Ollie, I don’t care. I don’t trust you. I can’t love someone I don’t trust,” you laid it out perfectly. Simple. Easy. He broke your trust, so he didn’t have you anymore. “Begging won’t change anything. Just leave with your dignity.” 

And even if he didn’t want to, he did. He left with that pit of guilt in his stomach, knowing he made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

Esteban Ocon

Esteban was quiet. You were tense. Your apartment was usually full of laughter and light. It was silent that night. The sun had set on the beautiful city of Geneva, and the chill crept in from the cracked window, or just the cold shoulder your boyfriend was giving you. The bed felt cold. He felt cold. You thought back and noticed how those sweet routine moments you’d cherished for years had slowly started to dwindle in recent months. He wouldn’t join you for a shower anymore. He didn’t bother teasing you while you did your makeup or skincare. He didn’t dance with you in the kitchen anymore. He spoke more French, a language you didn’t quite understand (though in recent months you’d been learning it, for him). He focused on work. 

Your heart broke slowly as it hit you. He fell out of love. 

“Just say it,” you whispered into the darkness of your shared bedroom. His hands weren’t around your hips like they used to be. His face wasn’t buried in your hair as he slept soundly. No, he stayed to his side of the bed like you had the plague. 

“Say what?” he huffed, tired voice and eyes turning over to meet your eyes. “It’s 2am Y/n.” 

You stared at him for a moment, and you knew she knew what you were saying. He knew exactly what you were saying, he was just too pussy to do it himself. “You’re seriously going to make me say it?” you scoffed. He shook his head in annoyance and looked at you expectantly. He was a small man. He was pathetic. That's what you reminded yourself as you spoke. Maybe your voice would shake, but at least you spoke. “You’re not in love with me anymore,” your voice sounded so small it was almost like you didn’t recognize it.

He was quiet for a moment, then he broke. Eyes weeping, chest heaving, fully sobbing. You stared in shock. Never in your three years together had he ever done that. Never had he fully broken down in front of you. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I never meant for this to happen.”

And you hated yourself for being right. Of course he fell out of love with you, everyone always did. “Yeah,” you shrugged, sitting up. “I know you didn’t.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm behind your words, but I think anyone could’ve excused you for that. You didn’t reach out for him. You didn’t comfort him. You didn’t care to. Who was he to be crying when he was the one at fault? You’d been the perfect girlfriend, perfect support system, perfect fucking WAG, and he fell out of love. That was his failing, not yours. You told yourself, but it had started to feel like there was something wrong with you. This kept happening. You’d give yourself to someone completely, and they wouldn’t care anymore.

He grabbed your wrist before you could leave the bed. “You’re going to find someone who loves you like I should’ve.”

Fuck, if that didn’t break you more. 

aston martin:

Fernando Alonso

Arguments weren’t uncommon in any relationship. People disagree, it’s just humans being humans. But these disagreements were showing up more often, cutting into you a bit more, his words became more harsh. You knew he didn't mean to, but he hurt you. He made you feel like a child, with the way he talked down to you, like you were too fucking stupid to understand the complex inner-workings of his brain. 

It made you feel less-than, and you fucking hated that. It made you feel like you weren’t in a partnership, but a mentorship, and you hated that too. He used language that he knew would hurt you, childish, adolescent, a baby. Like you couldn’t understand just how bad life can get because you were 28 instead of his wise age of 43. 

So you were quiet. You stayed quiet, shrunk yourself to fit in better. You didn’t take back when his friends made awful comments, you spent more time to yourself, you stopped wanting to come to races, you stopped wanting to dress up and go out, you stopped wanting things. Race weekends passed in a still kind of tension, one that he didn’t seem to notice. He did. He saw every time you made yourself smaller for him. Every time you gave up something you wanted for him. Every time you kept your mouth shut for him. And it broke him. Why would you think he wanted you to be any different? Why would you change yourself for him? Why would he let it go on so long? 

So he sat down at the table one day, dinner in front of him, you to his left, and he broke down. It was all too much. The pressure from the sport, the silence in the house, the shrinkage of the only thing good left in his world, you. 

You gasped. “Fernando,” you reached out and cupped his cheek, panic filling your eyes. “What’s wrong?” You asked, your food forgotten as you leaned in closer to him. So caring, so kind. It twisted the knife into his heart, but he was always good at persevering. 

He shook his head, a sad smile reaching his lips. “You deserve better than me, than this,” he spoke softly and your heart dropped into your stomach. He couldn’t make you miserable a minute longer. He couldn’t watch you shrink. “I think we have to take a step back,” The fear in your eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he knew he needed to do this. He had to set you free, you had to live your life free of him. He pushed your hand off his cheek. “I’m not interested anymore. I want you gone.” 

That was all it took. That panic and fear melted away into something darker. Resentment. Anger. Hatred. It killed him to watch, but he knew it was the right thing, even if it felt like his world was falling apart. 

Lance Stroll

“Just- shut up!” he groaned, his hands flying around the room uncontrolled. It was quiet for a moment, you were quiet for a moment. Just standing there, still, either in shock or rage, he couldn’t tell. He just knew nothing good could come of this argument since the minute he started it, and he still started it. “I just… I need a minute.” His voice broke and that unforgettable burning sensation began in the back of his throat. You stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his back, soothingly rubbing up and down. He could tell you were still upset, still mad, still raging. But you chose to put it aside for a moment, and calm him down. Fuck, he didn’t deserve you. 

You sighed, laying your head on his shoulder and leaning into him. “Lance, you can’t start an argument and leave it once it gets hard, or I get angry. It’s not fair,” you whispered out, your exasperation clear in your tone. “It’s not fair.”

He knew you were right, knew he should apologise, knew he should say something. He didn’t. He just nodded, trying desperately to hold himself together as he felt everything in him beg to be let out. You huffed. “Lance, you can cry, we just need to keep talking after. You have to stay here. Trust me enough to let me comfort you. If you don’t trust me I genuinely don’t understand why we’re still together,” you admitted, your voice raw and tired. You couldn’t do this dance again, you needed him to commit. Feel the fear, and do it anyway. Trust. Love. 

He nodded again, stronger this time. He took another shallow breath, and he turned to you. She has you. He told himself. She loves you, this isn’t going to scare her away. 

And he let himself go. 

sauber:

Nico Hulkenberg 

He missed it, even though he’d flown all night. Exhaustion had settled itself in his bones long before he reached his front door, and still, he continued. 

But he missed it. 

That’s what she would remember. Her dad wasn’t there for her birthday. He didn’t get there in time. 

You were waiting in the living room. It was 5am. Too early to get the day started but also too late to go back to sleep. You told yourself you should go for a walk, start breakfast, get ahead on your work, but something anchored you to the couch, watching the sun rise on Monaco. The harbour shone in the sunlight, making it as beautiful as the time you first saw it. When he brought you here for the first time, all those years ago. You sat on a boat beside him, a new exciting talent in the world of F1, a jittery 20-something guy you’d met through mutual friends. Someone had said to you that even then, he looked at you like he saw something else. A future, a loving home, a family. And they were right. You chuckled, remembering those moments where he’d come home to you after a shitty weekend, and he’d just melt into you. Not leave your side for three days. It made you laugh. 

“I missed it,” he whispered into the expanse of the dark living room, just brightening up in the new day's light. He didn’t approach you. He didn’t know if he was allowed. “I fucking missed it.” You stood up and walked over to him, hearing the wobble in his voice. It cracked your heart, just like every question from your daughter had, during the day. You wrapped your arms around his neck. You should be mad. You should shout.

“She’s four,” you whispered. “She loves you more than anything. Children are more forgiving than adults. Don’t miss the next one,” you advised with a soft smile on your lips. He squeezed you tighter, the beginning of tears falling onto your hoodie. “You’re not a bad father,” you reminded him, instilling in him that he wouldn’t become his worst fear. “You’re a lot of things Nico, and a bad father will never be one of them.”

He shook his head in the crook of your neck. “I don’t deserve you two.” 

Now it was your turn to shake your head. “You do,” you smiled. “We love you so much Nico.” 

Gabriel Borteleto

He wasn’t prepared, he didn’t think about it, he just said it, he didn’t realise the implications, didn’t notice the way you stiffened. 

Now his apartment was empty. It was his apartment, as he’d so unkindly shouted during that godforsaken argument. It all came back to him clearly, the housing, the tears, his unwillingness to stop. He hadn’t meant to drive you away, he just… he needed you to understand. Understand the pressure. Understand the disappointment. Understand how he felt like he was failing every single time he jumped into that car. But he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Even when you left, he sent you message after message, calling you selfish. Making you out to be the problem, as if you weren’t the only thing holding him up. 

The pounding in his head didn’t cease throughout the day. You’d told him to at least wait a day before talking to you, or else you’d never hear him out. It was torture. Counting the minutes down as the time slowly ticked by, never quite close enough for his liking. Then 8pm rolled around, and he was dialling your number as fast as he could. You picked up on the fifth ring. 

He spoke first, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.” He held his breath. He wasn’t expecting you to forgive him immediately. He wasn’t really expecting you to forgive him at all. He was expecting to get scolded, to get told just how bad he’d hurt you. 

“Alright,” you shrugged, indifference crept into your tone and it made his blood freeze, his whole body shivering with a scary sense of dread. You didn’t care. Not anymore. Not now. He’d pushed you too far. He’d done it. He’d fucked it. He leant against the bathroom door, a sob ripping out of his throat as the burning sensation of his unshed tears began. You sighed. He held his breath again. “Gabi, what do you want me to say?”

You might as well have stamped on his heart. God, he wanted to scream. Anything that shows you fucking care? He thought. Anything that makes me think this is salvageable? “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just… something. This has to be worth saving, we have to be worth saving.” He choked out through angry tears. Why weren’t you fighting? Why weren’t you angry? Why didn’t you care? 

“Is it worth saving?” you asked him, and his world tipped on its side. Of course it is. Was his immediate response. He loved you. You loved him. It made sense. You groaned. “We fight all the fucking time, Gabi. You’re not happy, I’m not happy. We haven’t been for a long time.” 

He thought back to those fights and those nights you both spent angry. By morning the problem would be forgotten and you’d make up right? You’d kiss his cheek and make him a coffee, he’d give you some half-assed apology but you’d accept anyway. That’s the way it was, and he never wanted it to change. Maybe she wants it to change, a voice in his head spoke up. She’s getting the short end of the stick. His heart dropped to his stomach when he realised he’d been ignoring all the animosity from you. The burnt coffees. The glares. The subtle and slow retreat back into yourself. He coughed. “It is for me,” He had to fight for you, promise you he’d change. “I’ll change, I swear. I love you.” 

“I don’t need you to change. I need to change. I need other things, and you can’t give me them. I’m sorry Gabi, but we’re over.”

alpine:

Pierre Gasly

He hated arguing, really he did. He was just good at it. Weirdly good. Like, he’d been told to become a lawyer on more occasions than one. But he hated arguing with you. And he hated when he took it too far. 

You wouldn’t understand. He’d said.

What, like I’m not smart enough now? You were livid, and rightfully so. 

I like taking care of you, is that so hard to understand?! He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he had. He just didn’t understand why it was such a big deal, it was just money, a simple thing he had more than enough of, and he wanted to spend it on you. You weren’t having it. 

It’s not being taken care of Pierre, it makes me feel gross, like I’m using you or something. And you could use that money to do so much good in someone’s life, God! You were just being kind, but he was frustrated. He just wanted to do something nice and you’d blown it out of proportion. It was a dress. A fucking 5,000$ dress. It made you sick to just look at the price tag, but he didn’t feel the same. That kind of money was cheap change to him. 

You’re being dramatic, it’s s dress, I just wanted to congratulate you. You got a promotion, it was a big deal. He was proud. 

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful Pierre, but flowers would have sufficed. 

And he snapped. He said things he didn’t mean, and you left. You went back home, leaving him in Austria with a race weekend to finish. You told him to sort his shit out. You told him to think before he speaks. God, he’d been thinking of you since you left. He called your phone. 

You didn’t pick up the first time. Or the second. Or the third. 

Ten times. Then you responded. You picked up the damn phone on his lucky number ten. 

“Pierre,” you yawned. “Isn’t it late over there?” you whispered into the phone like you’d wake someone if you weren’t quiet enough. You wouldn’t, you were alone in your hotel room, still sorting out your shit from the argument. 

“I missed you already,” he admitted, the first tears falling down his cheeks. He sniffled. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” 

You chuckled. “Yeah, you are.” He chuckled too. Quiet conversation filled both your hotel rooms as you both drifted back off to sleep. You didn’t talk about the fight. You didn’t talk about how he was crying. You just… talked. About your busy schedules, how you were running out of foundation, and how tired he was. Boring things. The in-between things. Monotony. Regular, normal life. 

He loved every second of it. 

Franco Colapinto 

His body ran cold when he looked at the time. 2am. You still weren’t home. He’d pretended it didn’t bother him long enough, he had to text you. Or call you. Make you come home. 

He wasn’t a stranger to fucking up, especially with you. He knew what he did was shitty. He knew he should’ve tried harder, worked harder to be there, but duty calls sometimes, and fuck, he has to answer whether he wants to or not. He called your number, his hands shaking. 

Pick up. He begged. Pick up, please. 

You picked up on the sixth ring. “Franco?” your voice was tense. Like he was annoying you. He didn’t care, he was just happy you were responding to him. Relief surged through his body like a fucking lightning bolt, and suddenly he could breathe again. “Why are you calling me?” You were sick of this, of him, of being a secondary priority. You didn’t even want to fucking fight anymore, you just wanted peace, a boyfriend would could be there, who could show up. 

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice quiet. Timid. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded scared. He was. He felt sick to his stomach that you were walking around Spielberg all alone. You left the hotel 4 hours ago. 4 hours of him burning a hole in the floor pacing the room, 4 hours of genuine fear that it might all be over, 4 hours of shit. Pure and utter shit. He was scared, alright? Fucking terrified. He wanted you back, in the hotel, in his arms, in his bed. He wanted you home, to him. He wanted to make sure he was still home. You were quiet for a moment, debating on whether to tell him. “Come on mi cielo, just… come back,” he let a small sob out, his voice just above a whisper. 

You stopped in your tracks. You’d seen him cry a handful of times at most. Over family stuff. Over results. But never was it over you. You didn’t think this had pushed him that far, didn’t think it would. He was so… unbreakable sometimes, you forgot he was just as fragile as you were. He hurt and bled the same, and of course he wouldn’t want you walking out in the dark in a foreign town with your location off, ignoring him. Of course not. “I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there soon.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut and held back a relieved sob. He nodded. “Great,” he choked out. “I’ll be here.” 

Jack Doohan 

It was important to you, he understood. He saw the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He basked in that light, he planned beside you. 

Blood is thicker than water. His father’s mantra rang out through his head, taunting him. He’d been the one to fucking say it and the hurt on your face told him everything he needed to know. Not that he hadn’t known it before, he had. He knew you wanted him there more than anything, he knew how much it would mean for him to get on a plane and meet your family. Yet, he flaked. For some fucking family holiday he didn’t even want to go on. But you cried when he left, and you asked him to practically never come back, and even though he felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest, he boarded that plane like he didn’t have another choice. He saw that he did now. He saw the right choice. 

Mick saw the changes in Jack. He saw the untouched food, the sluggish walk, the lack of interest. He texted you and got no response and he knew what it meant. 

Dinner was too loud, so Jack sought refuge with the sand and the water. His bracelet, the bracelet you gave him was threaded through his fingers as he watched the waves roll out. He was too deep in thought to see Mick sitting beside him. 

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice soft, though it startled him all the same. He jumped and turned to him, a slow smile made its way onto his lips, a chuckle leaving Mick’s. “She’s gone for good?”

That smile disappeared quickly. Jack looked back out at the ocean in front of him, so vast and wide. “I fucked it up,” he admitted, his heart aching with every word. “I left her for this.” He gestured to the area around him, but Mick got the gist. He sighed and clapped a hand on his friend's back. 

“Did you talk to her?” 

“She doesn’t want to hear from me,” he shook his head. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, he had. You genuinely didn’t want to hear from him. Emotion bubbled deep in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down regardless. He didn’t care if it’d choke him, he didn’t want it. Emotion admits more than words ever would. If he let himself break down he’d be admitting it was over. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wasn’t ready to kiss those moments with you goodbye. The way you smiled at him, the way you’d tease him over anything you could, just because you loved it when he’d finally tease back. He couldn’t say goodbye to those nights when you’d stay up until dawn, just talking, making promises about a future you two weren’t guaranteed. He wouldn’t leave those memories of you telling him you loved him in a box in the back of his mind. 

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying. Well, there it was. 

Over. 

Paul Aron

“You can’t fucking do this! You can’t leave for weeks at a time and not talk to me Paul, for fuck’s sake!” you groaned, your eyes wild and angry. It had been like this for 40 minutes, a back and forth that wouldn’t end no matter how much you both wanted it to. He wouldn’t see your side, and you couldn’t see his. He didn’t really have a justification for his actions, just empty promises, and you were sick to death of those. Your hands raked over your face, and you sighed, your eyes meeting his. “Either sort your shit out, or break up with me Paul, because those really seem like our only options right now.” You already knew you were crossing a line, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You just had to say it. 

He could’ve pretended that didn’t feel like a punch to the gut, but you knew him too well. You knew the second you said it too, because you stilled. His face faltered, his body twitched and jerked in a weird way. He wanted to recover, to pretend it was normal, act like it didn’t happen maybe. He couldn’t. Not when it was you on the line. Not when you were talking about a universe where he couldn’t come home to you every night and have you kiss his head or let him kiss you silly. 

You walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Your face was serious but tender and he cupped your cheek. The low light made him look like an angel, a crying angel, but an angel all the same. “Paul, I’m sorry,” you whispered, tender but timid. Like you were scared you’d make it worse. “I’m tired and you’re tired, and you’ve just had a huge weekend, and we just need… we need each other, right?” you offered and he just nodded, too shocked to really comprehend what was going on. “Let’s just head to bed, yeah?” 

He nodded, then dipped his head down and kissed you like it was the last time, like he was trying to put all the love and care and passion he had for you into the kiss. Like that would make you understand him. To an extent, it did. 

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

mclaren masterlist (OP81 &LN4)

ferrari masterlist (CL16, LH44 & AL65 )

williams & mercedes masterlist (GR63, KA12, CS55 LS2 &AA23)

redbull & vcarb masterlist (MV1,IH6 & LL40)

alpine masterlist (JD7, PA17, FC43, PG10)

[snail-day]

TW: Yandere Hybrids, Somnophilia, Dubcon, Oral fixation, Overstimulation, Gagging, Crying during sex, Power dynamics, Humiliation, Knotting mentions, Manipulation WC: Under 1k

A/n: have I yapped about this? Probably. Mmmm well here's more yapping about Satoru's suckling problem.

Imagine bringing home a puppy hybrid. They're sweet, loud, impossibly affectionate. They make great additions to the family! Now you got a real pretty kind with snowy white ears that twitch when he’s happy, a big fluffy white tail that wags wildly whenever you walk through the door before his arms snake around your waist, and the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen.

Satoru. Sure he's sweet. Clingy. Always wants to be touching you, whether it’s his head in your lap, tail thumping against you, or palms nudging under your shirt just to feel skin.

You got a great deal! You weren't even sure why the agency was offering him so cheap! They did warn you about a little problem, sourced from anxiety. Suckling. Though they assured you its common with puppy hybrids.

It starts small. Barely even noticeable. Just the blankets at first. Then your socks. Then your clean laundry, pulled warm from the dryer only to find damp chew spots on the crotch of your panties. You figure it’s probably the anxiety. Poor thing’s home all day, curled up alone, waiting for his human to come back. He probably misses your scent. Probably needs comfort.

But comfort becomes a little more complicated when you wake in the middle of the night to wet heat lapping at your chest. When you find him latched onto your soft nipple like a pacifier, soft pitchy whines in the back of his throat as his hips rock gently against your leg, grinding himself through his boxers, a wet spot forming in the front.

You try to be good. Attempting to gently peel him off. Drowsily hushing his protests. But your body betrays you. Slurps echo embarrassingly loud when the flat of his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud. You’re sure you came in your sleep. More than once based on the slick between your thighs. Thankful he hasn't discovered that region, giving you time to correct his behavior before it gets worse. Your poor soft nipples are sore for days, and even the cream you bought doesn’t help.

And now nothing else soothes him. Not blankets, not toys, not even the shirts you leave behind that smell like you. He wants you. Wants your tits in his mouth, wants to be smothered by the soft mounds for the rest of his life.

So, what do you do?

You get him a friend. A dominat hybrid. Someone who can put him in his place.

Which is how fox hybrid!Suguru ends up in your home, quiet, slow-moving, sticks mostly to himself. Occasionally narrows his keen eyes at Satoru's antics. Though it didn't work out like you'd imagine.

He’s not the solution. He’s the problem.

Because he doesn’t correct Satoru’s behavior, he cultivates it. Encourages it.

“You’ve spoiled him,” Suguru murmurs one night, his firm chest pressed to your back, voice thick and deep against your ear. His arm is slung around your hips, strong, holding you open while whine into his long dark hair, attempting to hide yourself away.

“No - not my fault - ” you try, but your voice dies in a choked sob when a soft tongue flattens against your cunt again, suckling on your puffy clit like it’s candy.

Between your thighs, Satoru whines. Loud. Messy. His pretty blue eyes are hazy with need, pupils blown wide as his hands clutch your thighs, nails breaking skin and buries his face even deeper in your pussy. His ears are drooping low, flicking with every moan you make, and his cock is leaking all over your sheets as he humps the bed like a mindless mutt.

“See?” Suguru hums. “He likes direction.”

You’re overstimulated. Sore. Barely coherent. Your clit aches, your hole’s fluttering, and you don’t even realize you’re crying until Suguru kisses the tears from your cheeks, soothing you while his other hand grabs the panties you wore yesterday and shoves them between your teeth.

“There we go,” he croons, lips brushing over your cheek. “Let him taste you properly.”

You sob around the gag as Satoru moans, loud and high-pitched, grinding his tongue deeper like he’s trying to fuck you with it. Your hole aching at the desperate pushes. His nose nudges your clit with every thrust and his tail is wagging wildly behind him, thumping against the bed. You’re cumming. Again. Again. You don’t even know which number you’re on.

Suguru just watches. Eyes heavy-lidded and glowing in the moonlight. Something hard pressed against your back. His hand never leaves your belly, his claws gently stroking patterns over the soft skin.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs against your ear, before shoving Satoru's face more into your cunt, a loud groan leaving the pup's lips. “your sweet puppy hasn’t learned how to knot yet.”

[humanjarvis]

piece of you

synopsis: with his good looks, talent, and intellect, caleb is the aerospace academy’s golden boy. but he was yours first, and he’ll stay that way.

tags: possessive clingy spoiled reader manipulates caleb, college party, reader handles their jealousy in an unhinged way, crocodile tears, caleb is attentive and sweet and unsuspecting, inspired by “piece of you” by shawn mendes

word count: 1.3k

a/n: i’ve been holding onto this mental music video for years and now i finally get to bring it to life :3 was originally going to write this from his perspective but i was like wait a second. he's the "you" that everybody wants a piece of

Beer, music, and sweat. The typical college party.

To celebrate the end of the semester, one of the student groups at Skyhaven’s Aerospace Academy had rented out a club for the night. And Caleb, ever the giver, had thoughtfully invited you to tag along.

A chance to visit him, to have fun together, to make sure everyone around him kept their hands to themselves—who were you to refuse?

There was only one problem: he was running uncharacteristically late, held up by a final flight assessment that’d been postponed due to weather. Which meant that you were here alone.

His friends, Gideon and Patrick, had spotted you and called you over, but while they drone on about school and flit watchful eyes at you from time to time, it seems more like they’re babysitting. You’re sure he put them up to it.

“Professor docked me on the last turn. I nailed it over and over in practice, but I totally choked on the real thing—couldn’t get it tight enough.”

“Same, man. I honestly think there was something wrong with the test aircraft. It’s so old, all the controls seemed laggy.”

It’s nice that they like planes. So nice. But you get enough of that sort of talk from your star pilot already. Where is he? you sigh in frustration as you unlock your phone yet again. 

Lucky for him, it chimes just before you can send a stream of angry faces.

special agent apple: Just pulled up :D I’m on my way.

Moments later, a beam of moonlight flickers by as the doors slide open. And when Caleb steps through, nodding casually at the bouncers, everyone’s chatter fizzles out into a hush. 

All eyes are on him. Because Caleb, still in his flight uniform, looks good.

Like, even better than normal.

With his unzipped jacket, windswept hair, and the leftover adrenaline boosting his confidence, he’s a fantasy come to life. And as the guests watch him like he hung the stars in the sky, you realize you’re not the only one who’s daydreaming. 

Neutral violet eyes scan the crowd and light up when they meet yours. Brushing off the people clamoring for his attention, including a disgruntled student body president, Caleb heads straight toward you.

“Sorry I’m late, pip-squeak,” he greets as he leans down to ruffle your hair. “Aced the flight after the storm passed, though. Everything alright here?” he asks, squinting at his gossiping friends behind you.

“Yes,” you huff, folding your arms over your chest. “You have some world-class babysitters. You should give them a raise.”

Caleb’s eyes twinkle. “I should, huh? Maybe it’s not that they did a good job, but that someone was on their best behavior while they were waitin’ for me.”

“You wish. I have a list of crimes to commit tonight. I was just saving them for when you got here so I could blame it all on you.”

“Oh? You tryin’ to get me banned, pip-squeak?” he chuckles. “I guess it would be my fault for inviting you. But if I’m guilty, then you’re my accomplice. We’ll get kicked out together.” 

“Whatever,” you sigh, rolling your eyes in pretend annoyance. The air feels lighter, now that he’s here. “How was the rest of your—”

“Hey, Caleb!” a deep voice interrupts. Trying to find its owner, your eyes land on Caleb’s basketball friends, all huddled at a table in the corner of the room. When he spots them, he waves briefly before turning back to you. “Just a sec,” he says, ruffling your hair again. “I’ll be right back. Keep yourself out of trouble, okay?”

***

Ten minutes. Ten whole minutes.

You could be obnoxious at times. Childish, demanding. Spoiled.

But at no point, under any circumstance, should Caleb spend ten minutes away from you when you’re in the same room. 

The guys on his team are talking his ear off, and he’s letting them! Joining! As if you didn’t fly all the way to Skyhaven just to see him. 

You’re already glaring at him so hard you’re surprised you haven’t gotten heat vision yet. But as some tall brunette—the sports writer for the student newspaper, you recall—saunters over to him, you decide those powers would really come in handy right now.

She enters the conversation with an ease that makes your jaw clench.

And as she rests a coy hand dangerously close to Caleb’s dog tag, laughing at some dumb joke he should be telling you, the intermittent twitch in your eye becomes constant.

This won’t do. 

Your bloodshot eyes are nearly unrecognizable in the chipped bathroom mirror.

You had to be thorough tonight. Since you were kids, Caleb had taken care of you when you were sick—meaning he’d seen your attempts to fake sickness and knew your tells like the back of his hand. One overdramatic sniffle, one exaggerated groan, and he’d know something was off. 

In the fifteen minutes since you’d been holed up in the club’s bathroom, you’d smudged your makeup, mussed your hair, coughed until your voice was hoarse, and disheveled your outfit. Now, only the finishing touch was left. Recalling the ending of a sad romance you’d watched last week—the husband never remembered his poor wife after the accident—you shut your eyes for several seconds, and the tears roll down your cheeks like raindrops.

Perfect.

Pressing one hand to your temple and the other to your stomach, you stumble out of the bathroom in feigned dizziness, a pout on your face as you search through the crowd. 

Caleb is still with his teammates, chatting casually with the sports writer, but the way his eyes frantically scan the room betrays his nerves. Once his panicked gaze finds you hobbling toward him, he immediately rushes forward, wrapping an arm around you and cradling your head. “What’s wrong? What happened? I was keepin’ an eye on you, but I looked away for one second and you were gone.”

“Hurts,” you mumble, slumping into his arms and clinging to his jacket. “Think I drank something bad.” If plain ice water counts.

Caleb’s face darkens for a split second before he masks it with a soft frown. Previous conversation—and conversation partner—forgotten, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you through the sea of students. 

They part for him with the urgency of subjects making way for their king. And as your body jostles from the force of his hurried steps, you know you made the right decision tonight.

Caleb didn’t need that kind of admiration. Not from anyone but you.

Thanks to the path cleared for him, Caleb reaches the exit in seconds. And as you lie there limp in his arms, about to get your way once again, a boldness overtakes you. Smugly, you raise your head to lock eyes with the pouting sports writer, throwing her a shameless wink that Caleb would never think you capable of. Not when you were in dire need of his care. 

Her mouth dropping open in outrage is the last thing you see before the doors slide closed behind you. 

Satisfied, you nuzzle into Caleb’s neck as he carries you to his car and buckles you into the passenger seat. 

“You did the right thing, findin’ me right away,” he murmurs. “Just a few more minutes, and I'll get some medicine for you. I'll take care of you, just like I did back then.”

“Thank you,” you mumble feebly. “I didn't mean to ruin your night. I just don’t know what happened,” you whimper, using his short trip to the driver’s side to force fresh tears into your eyes.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says firmly, gaze fixed on yours as he switches on the ignition. “How could you have known you’d get sick? It’s not like you planned it.”

“I guess,” you sniffle, hiding your smile with your shirtsleeve. “Still, though, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, pip-squeak. Now, let’s get you home.”

As his doting smile gives you butterflies, you can see why people like him so much. But unfortunately for them, you like him more.