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⚠️: I am on a break !

[fangirlfuel]

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[cinemalune]

𝑪𝑨𝑺𝑼𝑨𝑳 – Garrett Graham

༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺

Summary: You and Garrett Graham are basically together without the label. He calls it casual. You pretend that doesn’t hurt. Until a party makes everything collapse and forces the truth to surface too late.

༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺ ༻✧༺

The truth about Garrett Graham was that he had never meant to become someone you loved this deeply, not because he didn’t want connection, but because he had always been careful with it, always kept things light, always kept himself just far enough away from anything that could turn into something real, and somehow, without either of you fully naming it, you had slipped right past every boundary he didn’t even realize he had built, until there you were, woven into his life so completely that pretending you weren’t mattered became impossible even when he insisted on doing exactly that.

He called it casual the first time without thinking much of it, like it was just an easy answer to an easy question, something light to protect him from expectations he didn’t want to name, but you had felt it immediately, the weight of that word pressing somewhere under your ribs because nothing about the way he treated you felt casual, not the way he showed up for you, not the way he texted you first thing in the morning, not the way his hand always found yours without hesitation, not the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, like you were something he was slowly, quietly becoming dependent on.

And still, he said it.

Casual.

Like it meant nothing.

Like you were nothing more than a habit he could set down whenever he wanted.

Except he never did set you down.

That was the part that made it worse, because Garrett didn’t act like someone who was casual about you, he acted like someone who already belonged to you in every way that mattered except the one that required him to admit it out loud, and so you stayed in that in between space with him, where nothing was defined but everything was felt, where hope became something dangerous but impossible to let go of, because every time you thought maybe this was it, maybe he was finally going to say it, he would do something so gentle, so careful, so heartbreakingly boyfriend like that it convinced you to keep waiting just a little longer.

And Garrett, for all his confidence, for all his charm, for all the ways he could read a room in seconds, was completely unaware of how much damage he was doing just by refusing to name what you already were.

Or maybe he wasn’t unaware.

Maybe he was just scared of what it meant to admit it.

Because somewhere along the way, you had stopped being temporary in his mind, and that realization didn’t sit comfortably in him, it never did when it came to feelings that mattered, because feelings that mattered meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant losing control, and Garrett Graham did not lose control, not ever, except with you, and even then, he convinced himself he was still fine as long as he didn’t say anything too real out loud.

So when people asked, when it mattered, when it was easier to simplify things, he said it.

We’re casual.

And every time he did, something in your expression shifted just slightly, something soft and hopeful trying not to crack completely.

But he never noticed how close it was getting to breaking.

Until the night everything changed.

It started like every other night between you and him, easy at first, familiar in a way that had become dangerous because familiarity made it feel like stability even when nothing about it actually was, and you were on his couch like you had every right to be there, curled into his hoodie, your presence so natural in his space that he didn’t even think about it anymore, didn’t think about how strange it was that someone could become so essential without ever being officially anything.

He walked in talking before he even saw you properly, something light, something teasing, because that was what he always defaulted to when he wasn’t sure what version of himself to be, but the moment he saw you, really saw you, something in him shifted, because you weren’t looking at him the way you usually did, not immediately, not warmly, and that alone should have warned him that something was already wrong before either of you said a word.

He sat beside you anyway, shoulder brushing yours like muscle memory, like instinct, like something he couldn’t stop even if he tried, and when he asked what was wrong and you said nothing, he didn’t believe you, he never did with you, because you had never been good at hiding your feelings from him even when you tried, so he pushed, gently at first, then more firmly, until your phone ended up in his hand and he saw the messages, saw the name of your ex and the way he was suddenly back in your life like he still had access to you, like you were something that could be reopened and reclaimed, and something in Garrett tightened immediately at the idea of anyone else thinking they still had that kind of space in your life.

He handed the phone back too quickly, jaw tight, irritation slipping through before he could filter it, because the idea of someone else bothering you didn’t sit right with him even if he refused to name why, and when you mentioned not being available, when you said there was someone else, the air between you shifted in a way that neither of you acknowledged out loud, because Garrett already knew what he assumed you meant, and yet he still asked, still needed to hear it, still needed to confirm what he both wanted and feared at the same time.

“Do you ever think about us?” he asked before he could stop himself, and the moment the words left him, something in his chest tightened because he already knew the answer mattered more than he was prepared for.

“All the time.”

And that should have been the moment everything became clear.

Because the realization hit him so hard it almost knocked the breath from his lungs, he loved her, not in the easy, uncomplicated way he’d cared about girls before, not in the temporary, fun way he’d always preferred, he loved her in the terrifying kind of way that made his chest ache whenever she looked even slightly unsure, the kind of way that made every other girl in the room fade into something irrelevant, the kind of way that made him realize too late that everything he had been doing, every distance he had kept, every time he had chosen the word casual instead of the truth, had been pushing her further away from the only thing he actually wanted.

You.

But Garrett didn’t say it.

Because love, for him, didn’t feel safe.

It felt like loss before it even began.

So instead of closing the distance, instead of finally stepping into the truth that had already been sitting between you for too long, he pulled back just enough to protect himself from it, and he saw it immediately in your face, the way something inside you registered the shift even before you fully understood it, the way hope didn’t die all at once but instead flickered like it was trying to survive something it already knew it was losing.

And after that, everything started to fracture.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just slowly.

In ways only you seemed to notice at first.

Shorter texts.

Longer silences.

A distance that didn’t match the way he still looked at you when he forgot to control it.

And then came the party.

A crowded house full of noise and movement and people who didn’t know what was happening between you and him, and Garrett walked in already pretending he was fine, already defaulting to charm and familiarity and distraction because that was easier than sitting with the way things had been between you lately, because lately every time he looked at you he felt something he didn’t know how to handle.

So he avoided it.

He avoided you.

At first it was subtle, just enough to not be obvious, conversations that ended too quickly, attention that drifted elsewhere, laughter that didn’t fully reach him when you were nearby, and you noticed, because of course you did, because you always noticed him even when he pretended you didn’t.

And then he made it worse without meaning to.

Girls talked to him, and he responded out of habit, out of avoidance, out of the need to keep moving so he didn’t have to think too hard about why nothing felt right anymore when it wasn’t you, and every time he looked across the room and saw you watching him, something inside him tightened, but he still didn’t stop, because stopping would mean going to you, and going to you would mean admitting what he already knew.

That he had already chosen you.

He just hadn’t said it.

And then he saw it.

A girl beside him, closer than necessary, something said near his ear, laughter that he didn’t fully register, movement toward the stairs, and he went because it was easier than staying still, easier than facing you, easier than feeling the weight of everything he had been avoiding, but halfway up the stairs something in him snapped into clarity so sudden it almost physically stopped him, because suddenly he could see it, not the girl, not the party, but you, downstairs, watching, and the way it would look to you, the way it already did look to you.

And he stopped.

Not gradually.

Not thoughtfully.

Abruptly, like his body rejected the direction he was going in.

He didn’t even look at the girl properly when he told her it was a mistake, when he asked her to leave, because suddenly nothing about her mattered in the way it had five minutes ago, and the moment she was gone, everything came rushing back at once, everything he had been trying not to feel all night.

You.

Gone.

—

Logan didn’t even need to be told what happened, the look on his face already enough to make Garrett’s stomach drop before a single word was spoken, and when Logan finally said it, when he finally told him you had left, that you had run out crying, something inside Garrett went completely still in a way that had nothing to do with calm and everything to do with shock.

Crying.

You.

Because of him.

Because he had been too scared to say something as simple as the truth.

His phone was already in his hand before he even fully processed it, calls going unanswered one after another, each one sinking deeper than the last, because silence wasn’t neutral anymore, it was consequence, it was distance, it was the sound of you not wanting to pick up because he had given you every reason not to.

And for the first time in his life, Garrett Graham didn’t know how to fix it.

He just knew he had to try.

So he moved.

Fast.

Out the door.

Into the night.

Because if there was even a chance you were still somewhere out there, still close enough to reach, then he was going to find you, not because he was sure what he would say when he did, but because for the first time in his life, not doing anything at all was the only thing that felt unbearable.

༻✧༺

End of Part 1

Part 2 coming soon…

༻✧༺

[cinemalune]

Dean Di Laurentis as a Jealous and Clingy Boyfriend

Dean likes to act like he’s above jealousy. He’ll laugh whenever someone suggests he’s the possessive type and throw out some cocky comment about how he has nothing to worry about. But the second another guy starts getting a little too comfortable around you, all that confidence becomes something much more dangerous.

The first sign is how quiet he gets.

Most people expect Dean to make a scene, to crack a joke or insert himself into the conversation. Instead, he watches. He leans against a wall with his arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending he isn’t paying attention while tracking every smile, every laugh, every second your attention is on someone else.

And when you finally look over at him?

That smile is gone.

Not completely. Just enough that you know exactly what’s bothering him.

He won’t say anything in front of other people. Dean is too proud for that.

Instead, the second you’re alone, he’ll casually ask, “So who’s that guy?”

You answer.

He nods.

Then comes the follow-up questions.

“How do you know him?

“Why does he text you so much?”

“Has he always been that friendly?”

When you point out that he’s being jealous, he’ll immediately deny it.

“I’m not jealous.”

“Dean.”

“I’m not.”

“You literally stopped talking for twenty minutes.”

“I was observing.”

“You were glaring.”

“I was evaluating the situation.”

The worst part is that he genuinely believes he’s being subtle.

He’s not.

The entire hockey team knows.

Garrett knows.

Logan knows.

Tucker knows.

The moment Dean wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him while staring directly at another guy, nobody is fooled.

Dean also becomes ridiculously clingy whenever he’s feeling insecure.

If you’ve been busy all week with classes, work, or friends, he’ll suddenly decide he hasn’t seen you in years.

You’ll be sitting in your dorm trying to study when he appears out of nowhere.

“What are you doing?”

“Studying.”

“That’s boring.”

“Dean.”

“I miss you.”

“You saw me yesterday.”

“I know. Tragic, isn’t it?”

He’ll flop onto your bed and refuse to leave.

He’ll put his head in your lap while you’re trying to read.

Wrap his arms around your waist while you’re making coffee.

Follow you from room to room just because he wants to be near you.

Half the time he doesn’t even need attention. He just likes your presence.

He’s the type to constantly reach for you without thinking.

His hand finding yours under a table.

His arm draped over your shoulders.

His fingers hooked through your belt loops while standing in line.

A hand resting on your thigh whenever you’re sitting together.

Physical touch becomes second nature for him.

And if you try moving away?

He’s immediately pulling you back.

Not forcefully.

Just enough to keep you close.

At parties, Dean somehow always ends up attached to you.

You start talking to someone, and within minutes his arm is around your waist.

Someone asks if you’re together and Dean answers before you can.

Someone flirts with you and suddenly Dean is standing much closer than before.

Not because he doesn’t trust you.

Because he doesn’t trust them.

When it comes to texting, he’s worse than anyone expects.

Dean pretends he’s low-maintenance.

He’s not.

If you don’t answer for a few hours, his messages slowly become more dramatic.

Hey.

How’s your day?

Miss you.

Are you ignoring me?

I know you’re alive because Instagram says you were active ten minutes ago.

This is actually a crime.

I’m suffering.

The second you respond, his reply appears almost instantly.

As if he’s been staring at his phone the entire time.

At night, the clinginess reaches another level.

Once Dean gets used to sleeping beside you, he’s ruined.

He wants you tucked against his chest.

He wants an arm around your waist.

He wants to wake up and immediately know you’re still there.

If you try getting out of bed early, you’ll feel his arms tighten.

A sleepy groan leaves him as he buries his face into your neck.

“Don’t go.”

“I have class.”

“So skip it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I believe in you.”

And if you actually manage to get out of bed, he’ll spend the next hour sending messages about how abandoned he feels.

The truth is that Dean falls harder than he ever planned to.

For someone who spent years avoiding serious relationships, he becomes surprisingly attached once he finds someone he loves.

He wants to know how your day went.

He wants random pictures while you’re apart.

He wants to hear your voice before bed.

He wants every spare minute he can get with you.

And no matter how much he complains when the team makes fun of him for it, the smile on his face whenever you walk into a room gives him away every single time.

Because Dean Di Laurentis is jealous.

He’s clingy.

He’s completely obsessed with you.

And honestly?

He stopped trying to fight it a long time ago.

[cinemalune]

HELLO ! can you write an enzo st john x reader fanfic... ? feel free to choose the plot !

A/N: heyyy this is so ironic cause I just written this last night, and was thinking if I should post it 😅 or not till I see this 😂

“You’re Looking at the Wrong Sister”

Enzo St. John x Forbes Reader

Tvd AU

It doesn’t hit you all at once.

It’s not some dramatic realization or a single moment that changes everything, it’s quieter than that, slower. The kind of feeling that settles in before you even notice it’s there.

One day you’re just… aware of him.

The way Enzo St. John leans too casually against doorframes like he owns the place, the way his voice always carries just enough amusement to make you wonder if he’s laughing at you or with you, the way he looks at people like he already knows exactly what they’re going to say next.

And then, somehow, that awareness turns into something more.

You start noticing when he walks into a room.

You start listening a little closer when he speaks.

You start remembering things, small things he’s said, the way he smirks before making a joke, the way his tone softens just slightly when he’s being sincere.

And for a while… it’s nice.

Simple.

Until it isn’t.

Because then you notice something else.

Him with Caroline.

She’s laughing, bright and effortless as always, her energy filling the room in a way that’s impossible to ignore. And Enzo, he matches it. Keeps up with her, teases her, leans in just a little closer than necessary.

And the worst part is… it looks natural.

Easy.

Like they fit.

Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

Of course.

Of course he’d like her.

Caroline is everything people gravitate toward without thinking,warm, confident, impossible not to notice.

You, on the other hand…

You’re not her.

And suddenly, all those little moments you thought meant something don’t feel so clear anymore.

So you do what feels safest.

You pull away.

⸻

At first, it’s barely noticeable.

You leave conversations a little earlier. You don’t linger as long when he’s nearby. You stop letting yourself get pulled into his orbit the way you used to.

If he looks at you, you look away first.

If he talks to you, you keep it brief.

If he gets too close, you find a reason to step back.

It’s easier this way.

Because as long as you don’t let it grow, it won’t hurt as much.

At least… that’s what you tell yourself.

⸻

Enzo notices.

Of course he does.

At first, he thinks it’s nothing.

A mood, maybe.

A distraction.

But then it keeps happening.

Every time he enters a room, you find a reason to leave. Every attempt he makes to pull you into conversation gets shut down before it can even start.

And that… isn’t like you.

“What, no witty remark today?” he asks one afternoon, watching you grab your things a little too quickly.

“Not in the mood,” you reply without looking at him.

There’s a pause.

“That’s new.”

You shrug and then you leave.

Again.

⸻

It doesn’t take long before confusion turns into something else.

Frustration.

Because Enzo doesn’t understand this, not from you.

He’s used to people reacting to him, pushing back, engaging, even arguing but not this.

Not distance.

Not avoidance.

And the more you pull away, the more it starts to feel intentional.

Personal.

Like you’ve made a decision about him, and he doesn’t know why.

⸻

It all comes to a head one night.

You’re halfway to the door, already planning your exit the second you spotted him across the room, when his voice stops you cold.

“Alright, what is your problem with me?”

It’s sharp.

Direct.

Not playful.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn around.

“What?”

Enzo is already walking toward you, his expression tighter than you’ve ever seen it, eyes locked onto yours like he’s done being ignored.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he says. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks.”

“I haven’t been….”

“Yes, you have,” he cuts in, his tone firm but not raised. “Leaving every room I walk into, barely speaking to me when I try, what exactly did I do?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Because he sounds genuinely confused.

And that makes everything worse.

“You didn’t do anything,” you say quickly.

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” he replies dryly. “So you’re just avoiding me for fun, then?”

“That’s not it”

“Then what is it?” he presses.

You hesitate.

Because how do you even explain this without sounding ridiculous?

Without admitting something you’ve been trying so hard to bury?

“You wouldn’t understand,” you say quietly.

His jaw tightens.

“Try me.”

You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“Humor me.”

There’s something in his voice now, less frustration, more insistence.

Like he actually cares about the answer.

And that’s what makes it slip.

“If you don’t like me, just say it,” he adds when you don’t respond fast enough.

Your head snaps up.

“I do like you.”

Silence.

Immediate.

Heavy.

Enzo goes completely still.

“…you do?” he asks after a moment, slower now.

Your stomach drops as the realization hits.

“I didn’t…” you start, then stop, pressing your lips together. “That wasn’t how I meant to say that.”

“It seemed fairly clear.”

You let out a frustrated breath. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Say anything about what?” he asks, softer now but no less focused.

You hesitate.

Then…

“About the fact that I like you,” you admit, your voice quieter now but steady. “I have for a while.”

Another pause.

“But it doesn’t matter,” you add quickly, “because you’re clearly into Caroline, so…”

“I’m sorry, what?”

You blink.

“What?”

“Caroline?” he repeats, brows furrowing. “You think I like Caroline?”

“Yes,” you say, confused now. “You’re always with her. Talking to her. Looking at her…”

“Because she’s impossible not to notice,” he interrupts. “That doesn’t mean I’m interested.”

You falter.

“It… doesn’t?”

“No,” he says simply.

The certainty in his voice throws you off completely.

“I thought that was obvious,” he adds, watching you carefully.

“…it wasn’t.”

A beat passes.

Then he lets out a quiet breath, something almost like disbelief.

“I’ve been thinking you couldn’t stand me,” he admits.

Your eyes widen. “Why would you think that?”

He gives you a look.

“You’ve been avoiding me like I personally offended you.”

“I was trying not to make things worse,” you mumble.

“You managed the opposite.”

Despite everything, a small, embarrassed smile tugs at your lips.

“Yeah… I’m starting to see that.”

There’s a shift then.

Something lighter.

But still charged.

“So,” he says after a moment, stepping just a little closer, “let me get this straight.”

Your heart starts racing again.

“You like me.”

“Yes.”

“And the only reason you’ve been avoiding me… is because you thought I liked your sister.”

“…yes.”

He nods slowly.

Then very slightly ,a smile appears.

“Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“Yes, good,” he says, his tone softer now, something warmer settling into it. “Because that makes this significantly less complicated.”

Your breath catches.

“Enzo…..”

“I like you,” he says, cutting you off.

Just like that.

No hesitation.

No deflection.

Your heart stutters.

“…you do?”

“Oh, don’t sound so surprised,” he murmurs, a faint smirk returning. “I thought I was being rather obvious.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Apparently not.”

“Clearly.”

There’s a pause.

A softer one this time.

“Let me take you out,” he says.

Your breath catches again. “What?”

“A date,” he clarifies. “Properly. No misunderstandings this time.”

You hesitate but only for a second.

Because this time, there’s no doubt.

No secondguessing.

Just him, standing in front of you, looking at you like he actually means it.

“…okay,” you say softly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

His smile is different now.

Less teasing.

More real.

“Good.”

And as he steps closer, close enough that the distance you created for weeks disappears completely, you realize something.

You weren’t wrong for feeling it.

Just… wrong about who he was looking at.

And this time…

He’s looking right at you.

—

A/N: hope you like this , a LIKE and REBLOG are greatly appreciated! 🩷

[cinemalune]

Loving again

Stefan Salvatore x Reader

At the beginning, it doesn’t feel like love at all. It feels like awareness. He starts noticing you in ways he doesn’t notice other people, how your voice sounds when you’re tired, the exact rhythm of your footsteps, the way your expressions shift when you think no one is paying attention. Stefan has always been observant, but this is different. This feels… focused. Intentional, even when he isn’t trying.

He tells himself it’s just because he cares. Because he’s learned to care carefully, cautiously. After everything he’s been through, he’s very deliberate about who he lets into his life. So he frames it that way, you’re important, that’s all. But the truth starts slipping through in smaller moments.

Like when he starts remembering things you mentioned in passing, things even you forgot you said. Or when he unconsciously positions himself closer to you in a room, not out of protection, but out of instinct. There’s a quiet pull there, something grounding about your presence, and he doesn’t question it at first.

What changes is how he reacts to your absence.

It’s subtle. He doesn’t panic, doesn’t spiral but there’s a noticeable shift in him when you’re not around. He becomes quieter, a little more distant, like something essential is missing from the background of his thoughts. He starts catching himself wondering where you are, if you’re okay, if you’ve eaten, if you’re safe. Not in an overbearing way ,just… consistently.

That consistency is what unsettles him.

Because Stefan knows patterns. He knows what it means when someone becomes part of your internal rhythm, when your mind starts orbiting them without permission. And the moment he realizes that, really realizes it, something in him pulls back.

Not from you but from the feeling.

Falling in love again scares him in a very specific way. It’s not just about heartbreak, though that’s part of it. It’s about what love does to him. Stefan loves deeply, completely, and historically, that depth has come with consequences, loss, guilt, destruction. There’s a part of him that genuinely believes that when he loves someone, he puts them in danger. Not just physically, but emotionally. That his darkness eventually bleeds into everything good.

So when he recognizes the feeling, his first instinct is restraint.

He becomes more careful around you. Not cold, not distant but measured. He watches what he says, how he acts, how much of himself he allows you to see. It’s almost like he’s trying to contain something before it grows too big to control. You might notice it as hesitation, those brief pauses before he responds, the way he sometimes looks like he’s about to say something and then doesn’t.

But love doesn’t stop growing just because he wants it to.

What really shifts things for him is usually something small, not dramatic. A moment where you show him kindness without expecting anything in return. Or when you understand something about him he didn’t explain. Or even when you challenge him, when you don’t let him hide behind his guilt or his selfperception.

That’s when it hits him.

Not like a realization he announces out loud, but something quieter and heavier: this matters more than it should. More than he intended it to.

And with that realization comes fear but also clarity.

Because Stefan doesn’t fall halfway. Once he acknowledges it, even privately, it becomes real in a way he can’t ignore. He starts recognizing that what he feels isn’t just attachment or comfort, it’s something deeper, something rooted in choice. He’s not drawn to you out of loneliness or need, but because of who you are.

That distinction matters to him.

Compared to how he’s loved before, there’s a noticeable difference in how he behaves. He’s slower now, more intentional. He doesn’t rush into declarations or grand gestures. Instead, he shows it in consistency, in being there, in remembering, in listening. He gives you space to exist as your own person, because he’s learned how important that is.

There’s also more honesty in him, even when it’s uncomfortable. Where he might have once hidden his darker thoughts or tried to present a more “acceptable” version of himself, now he lets you see more of the truth. Not all at once, but gradually. Because part of falling in love again, for him, is testing whether he can be fully known and still be… chosen.

That’s one of his deepest fears, that if you see all of him, the parts he regrets, the parts he can’t fix, you’ll walk away.

So when he starts opening up, it’s not casual. It’s trust, layered carefully over time.

And the moment he truly accepts that he’s in love again isn’t dramatic either. It’s quiet, almost still. Usually in a moment where nothing extraordinary is happening, just being with you, existing in the same space, and realizing he feels at peace in a way that isn’t fragile or temporary.

That’s when he knows.

Not because his heart is racing or because something intense is happening but because it isn’t. Because for once, love doesn’t feel like chaos or something he has to survive. It feels steady. Grounding.

And that, more than anything, is what both comforts and terrifies him.

Because now he has something to lose again.

But this time, instead of running from it, he stays.

Not without fear but with the conscious decision that you’re worth it.

—

Author’s Note: honestly when I first watched Tvd I was so damn shocked on how fast they moved , like….Stefan really fell in love with the face of the girl that destroyed his life 😖 and please don’t try to say how he fell in love with Elena because she was nothing like Katherine , he didn’t even know her good enough to say that ☠️

—

[fangirlfuel]

Please support my best friend and join her new community and follow her !!

She is an amazing writer ! 🥹❤️ @cinemalune

This is the link to her community:

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[cinemalune]

1 | Not something to hide

Oscar Piastri x reader

it starts like something small, or at least that’s what oscar tells himself, because in his head this isn’t a real problem, it’s just a difference in how you both see things, how you show things, how much of yourselves you’re willing to give away to the world that already takes so much from him, so he stays calm at first, composed like always, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed while you stand a few steps away, clearly more affected than he is, or at least more willing to show it

“i just don’t get why it’s such a big deal,” you say, your voice tight but not raised yet, like you’re still trying to keep this from turning into something worse, “i’m not asking for anything crazy, oscar, i just want to be there more, i want to come to your races, i want to support you properly, not just from a screen like everyone else”

he exhales slowly, already feeling that familiar tension settling in his chest, the one he gets when something personal starts pushing too close to the very controlled life he’s built around himself, “it’s not about you being there or not, it’s just… complicated,” he says, choosing his words carefully, always carefully, “fans notice everything, they pick things apart, and i don’t want you dragged into that”

you let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head as you look at him, “dragged into what? being your girlfriend? that’s not something horrible, oscar, that’s just… normal”

“not for me it’s not,” he replies, a little sharper this time, his patience thinning even though he doesn’t want it to, “you’ve seen how people are, how they talk, how they twist things, i’m trying to protect you from that”

“protect me or hide me?” the question lands heavier than anything you’ve said so far, and for a second he doesn’t answer, because he knows how it sounds even if that’s not what he means, not even close

he pushes off the counter, running a hand through his hair, “that’s not fair”

“isn’t it?” you shoot back, stepping closer now, your eyes glossy in a way that immediately makes something uncomfortable twist in his stomach, “you don’t post me, you avoid talking about me, i can’t even show up to your races without it being this whole discussion, do you know how that feels? it feels like you’re ashamed of me”

that hits something, deeper than he expects, and he shakes his head quickly, almost frustrated that you’d even think that, “i’m not ashamed of you, don’t twist it into that”

“then what is it, oscar?” your voice breaks slightly on his name and that’s what pushes the argument fully over the edge, because now it’s not just a disagreement, it’s hurt, real hurt, the kind he doesn’t know how to handle properly, “because from where i’m standing, it feels like you’d rather pretend i don’t exist than let people see how much i care about you”

“it’s not about that,” he insists, his tone tightening, composure starting to crack in small, subtle ways, “not everything has to be public, not everything has to be shown off, we’re fine the way we are”

“you’re fine,” you correct immediately, “i’m not”

that silence after that is heavy, thick with everything neither of you are saying properly, and he feels cornered in a way he hasn’t in a long time, like no matter what he says next it’s going to be wrong, so he falls back on something familiar, something easy, something he doesn’t think through nearly enough before it leaves his mouth

“i didn’t have this problem before,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but still loud enough, “lily never made it this complicated”

the moment the words settle in the air, he knows

he knows instantly he’s made a mistake, a big one, the kind you can’t just smooth over with a quick explanation or a change of tone, and the look on your face confirms it before he even has the chance to try and take it back

you go completely still, like everything in you just shut down at once, your expression falling into something he’s never seen directed at him before, something hollow and shattered at the same time

“you did not just say that,” you whisper, and it’s not even angry, which somehow makes it worse

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he says immediately, stepping toward you, the composure gone now, replaced with something far more urgent, “it just came out wrong, i wasn’t…”

“you compared me to your ex,” you cut him off, your voice trembling now, your eyes filling in a way that makes his chest feel tight, almost painful, “because i love you differently”

“that’s not what i meant,” he repeats, but it sounds weak even to him, because he knows exactly how it came out, how it sounded, how it felt

you shake your head, stepping back when he tries to get closer, and that small movement, that distance, hits him harder than anything else so far, “no, you don’t get to fix it that easily, oscar, you don’t get to say something like that and then just….what? take it back like it didn’t happen?”

“i’m not trying to pretend it didn’t happen, i’m just saying i didn’t mean it like that,” his voice is rougher now, less controlled, panic starting to creep in around the edges, “you’re not her, i don’t want you to be her”

“then why bring her into it at all?” you ask, and there’s tears slipping down your cheeks now, but you’re not wiping them away, like you’re too overwhelmed to even think about it, “why make me feel like i’m too much just because i don’t love you quietly enough for you?”

he doesn’t have a good answer for that, not one that doesn’t sound like an excuse, and the silence stretches just long enough for everything to sink in properly

“i can’t do this,” you say finally, your voice small but firm in a way that immediately makes his stomach drop, “i can’t be with someone who makes me feel like i have to shrink myself just to fit into their life”

“what are you saying?” even though he already knows, even though the words are right there, he still asks, like maybe hearing them differently will change something

you swallow hard, forcing the words out despite the way your voice shakes, “i’m breaking up with you”

and that’s it, that’s the moment everything really falls apart, because whatever calm, controlled version of Oscar Piastri has been holding onto completely disappears

“no,” he says immediately, stepping forward again, this time not stopping when you instinctively move back, “no, don’t do that, don’t make a decision like this over something i said in the heat of the moment, i didn’t mean it, i swear i didn’t mean it”

you shake your head, crying properly now, and it wrecks him in a way he’s not prepared for at all, “it’s not just that, oscar, it’s everything, it’s how you make me feel like i’m something you have to hide, like loving you out loud is wrong”

“i don’t think that,” he insists, his voice brking slightly, hands hovering like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to anymore, “you can come to the races, all of them if you want, i don’t care, i’ll post you, i’l do whatever you want, just don’t leave like this”

the desperation in his voice is so unlike him it almost doesn’t sound real, like he’s someone else entirely, someone who’s losing control in a way he never does

but you just look at him, heartbroken and tired, and that hurts more than if you were angry

“i don’t want you to do those things just because you’re scared of losing me,” you say quietly, your words careful despite everything, “i wanted you to want to show me, not hide me like i’m some kind of secret you’re ashamed of”

“i’m not ashamed of you,” he says again, softer this time, almost pleading, “i never was”

“then why did it feel like that?” you ask, and he doesn’t have an answer that can fix it, not now, not after everything that’s been said

you take a step back toward the door, and he follows instinctively, like he can’t let you leave, not like this, not at all

“please,” he tries again, quieter now but somehow more desperate, “we can fix this, just-just give me a chance to fix it”

you pause for a second, and for a moment he thinks maybe you will, maybe you’ll turn back, maybe this isn’t the end yet

but then you shake your head, tears still falling as you look at him one last time

“i deserved better than being compared to someone else just because i loved you differently,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word, “and i deserved not to feel like something you had to hide”

and then you’re gone

the door closes, and the silence that follows is unbearable, heavy and final in a way that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in

he just stands there for a long moment, staring at the space where you were, replaying everything in his head over and over, every word, every expression, every second he wishes he could take back

because there’s no way this is how it ends, not like this, not over something he should’ve never said in the first place

and as the reality settles in, one thing becomes painfully clear to him

he’s not losing an argument

he’s losing you

and there’s no version of his life where that’s something he’s willing to accept, not without trying everything he possibly can to get you back

—

Note: ohhh I love a good angst ! So how did y’all think , sorry if it was a bit dramatic but I love a groveling man 😅🤭

Anyway IF you did like it please drop a like and follow! 🥹🧡

[cinemalune]

Quite Things

Lando Norris x reader

he doesn’t think of himself as someone who needs much, not really, he’s always been fine moving fast, race weekends, media, noise, people constantly around him but never really there, so he gets used to it, the quick pats on the back, the half hugs, the joking shoves, it’s all surface level and he never questions it because he’s never had anything else long enough to miss it

and then you come in and you’re different without trying to be, it starts small, it always does, you hug him like you mean it, not like a greeting, not like something you do out of habit, you just wrap your arms around him and stay there a second longer than people usually do, your hand resting flat against his back like you’re grounding him there, and the first time it happens he laughs it off, hugs you back quickly, pulls away because that’s what he’s used to doing, but there’s this weird pause after, like something didn’t finish properly, like a sentence cut off halfway through

he ignores it at first, genuinely doesn’t think about it, until it keeps happening, you sit close to him, knees touching and you don’t move, you reach for him without hesitation, fixing his hair, brushing something invisible off his shoulder, your fingers dragging lightly through the strands at the back of his head when you think he’s not paying attention, except he is, he always is, he just doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know what he’d even say, all he knows is that every time you touch him something in his chest goes quiet in a way he didn’t realize was missing before

it becomes a thing before he notices it becoming a thing, he starts choosing the seat next to you without thinking, even when there are better ones, closer ones, more convenient ones, he just ends up beside you like it’s automatic, his arm brushing yours, his leg pressed against yours under the table, and when your hand finds his for the first time, properly, fingers slipping between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he completely loses his train of thought mid sentence, just stops talking, staring at your joined hands like he’s trying to figure out how something so simple feels so unfamiliar

you laugh at him, soft, asking if he’s okay and he says yeah too fast, a little embarrassed but he doesn’t pull away, not even a little, and after that he never does, it becomes something he waits for without admitting it, the way your hand fits in his, the way your thumb moves absentmindedly over his skin when you’re distracted, he starts leaning into you more, literally resting his head on your shoulder while you’re talking to someone else, barely noticing he’s doing it until he’s already there, and even then he doesn’t move because you don’t, you just tilt your head slightly so it rests against his and keep talking like this is normal, like he’s always been allowed to do this

that’s when it really sets in, not all at once but slowly, like something sinking under his skin, he starts looking for excuses, quiet ones, things no one else would notice, standing a little too close behind you so his hand can land on your waist when he passes, lingering just long enough to feel it, ducking his head toward you so you can “fix” his hair even when it’s perfectly fine, just because he likes the way your fingers move through it, slow and careful, like you’re not in a rush to let go

he doesn’t realize how much he depends on it until the first time it’s not there

it’s subtle at first, you still sit next to him but there’s space this time, not much, just enough that your knee doesn’t touch his unless he shifts closer, which he does, instinctively, but you don’t meet him halfway like you usually would, your hands stay to yourself, folded in your lap or wrapped around your phone, and he notices immediately, like a switch flipping somewhere in his head, something going wrong in a way he can’t ignore

he tries to brush it off, tells himself you’re just distracted, tired maybe, but then he reaches for you, casually, like he always does, his fingers brushing yours, and instead of lacing them together you pull your hand back slightly, not harsh, not obvious, just enough that it doesn’t happen, and it hits him harder than it should, way harder, this sharp, uncomfortable drop in his chest that makes no sense because it’s just a hand, just a small thing, but it doesn’t feel small anymore, it feels like something being taken away that he didn’t even realize he’d started needing

he goes quiet after that, more than usual, watching you without meaning to, noticing every little difference, the way you don’t lean into him, the way you don’t reach for him absentmindedly, the way your attention stays just out of reach, and it bothers him in a way he can’t explain, makes him restless, distracted, like he can’t settle properly in his own skin

by the time he finally asks, he’s already too deep in it

“did i do something?” it comes out more serious than he intended, quieter too, like he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer

you look at him, surprised for a second, like you didn’t expect him to notice, which somehow makes it worse

“no,” you say, but it’s not convincing, your eyes flicking away from his too quickly, “i just thought maybe i was being too much”

that actually stings, more than it should, because now he has to think about the fact that you almost stopped completely, that this version of things, this distance, could’ve been permanent if he hadn’t said anything

“too much?” he repeats, frowning slightly, stepping closer without realizing it, like he’s already trying to close the gap again

you shrug, small, unsure, “i don’t know, i just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything”

and that’s the moment it fully clicks, not gradually this time but all at once, the realization hitting him clean and sharp that it’s the opposite, that the only thing making him uncomfortable right now is the absence of you, of the way you touch him like it matters, like he matters in a quiet, steady way he’s never really had before

“it doesn’t,” he says quickly, a little breathless, like he’s been holding it in without knowing, “it doesn’t make me uncomfortable, it’s…” he stops, struggling to put it into words that don’t sound stupid, but there isn’t a better way to say it, so he just does, “i think i need it”

you blink at him, caught off guard, and he almost laughs at himself because of course that sounds ridiculous, he’s never been the type to say things like that, to admit something so soft out loud, but it’s true, painfully true now that he’s aware of it

“need it?” you echo, softer this time

he nods, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop awkwardly at his side, “yeah, like…when you stopped, i noticed immediately, and i don’t think i was supposed to, but i did, and it felt… wrong”

there’s a pause, not uncomfortable, just quiet, like something shifting between you, and then you step closer, closing the space he’s been trying to ignore, your hand finding his again, slow this time, giving him time to pull away if he wants to

he doesn’t

he holds on like he’s been waiting for it, fingers tightening slightly around yours, like he needs to make sure it’s real, that you’re not about to disappear again

and when your other hand comes up to rest against his cheek, light and warm, his eyes close for a second without him meaning to, leaning into it instinctively, like his body figured it out before his brain did

“you can just say if you want me to stop,” you murmur, thumb brushing lightly over his skin

he shakes his head immediately, almost a little desperate, “don’t,” and then, quieter, more honest, “please don’t”

so you don’t, and he doesn’t pretend it’s nothing anymore, doesn’t act like it doesn’t matter, because it does, more than he ever expected, more than he’s ready to admit to anyone else, but with you it’s easy, it’s quiet and constant and real in a way everything else in his life isn’t

and after that, he stops letting it be something that might disappear, he reaches for you first sometimes, pulls you closer without overthinking it, rests his head against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, because now he knows exactly what it feels like to lose it, even for a moment, and he’s not interested in going back to that version of things ever again

—

Note : Please be kind this is my first post and truly complete shot I did , like yea I will write in the past but never completely one or post it , English is not my first language so there can be some mistakes , but I did read it multiple times to make sure is as good as its gets !

If you did like it please give a like and follow!

[cinemalune]

hi, i’m elara ♡

I’m a 18 introverted, fiction lover, I love reading & writing fanfiction , lana del rey and pink, and I am a anime fan

fandoms i write for

DC

Marvel

Formula 1

Percy Jackson

The Vampire Diaries

House of the Dragon

Game of Thrones

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Vikings

Anime

Requests: Open 🩷

[fangirlfuel]

Hii everyone!

I need your help in making a choice, which request should i write first?

1 ) Hiii, can you do a small blurb or headcanon of Oscar Piastri or Landó Norris with a latina gf? Thank youuuu

2) Hi, I’m writing this from Argentina and I adore your stories! I’d love one with Franco Colapinto x OC who’s a famous young singer and they keep getting seen together at random places, always denying rumors but in reality they’re madly in love and keeping it secret.

3) Could you do a story with OC Verstappen (Max’s sister) x Lando Norris where they fall for each other but she tries to hide it from her family because she doesn’t know how Max will react?

4) Hey can you write anything the kid laroi

5) Can I please request a story with Sebastian Vettel x reader?, she’s a younger journalist who used to look up to him growing up, and now she’s working in F1? I love an age gap romance 🤭🙏🏻😫

Note: there’s so much more but honestly thse option captured my attention 😅🤭

sooo which one ?

1

2

3

4

5

Voting ended onApr 5

[silkdrs]

➤  IM SORRY, COME HOME ༄.°

summary: after a bad argument with the drivers, you leave the house to get some air. except, you lose track of time, your phone's dead, and your boyfriend? spiralling. drivers: lw44, cl16, op81, ln4, gr63, ak12, mv1, yt22, aa23, cs55, eo31, ob87, ls18, fa14, ll30, ih6, nh27, gb5, pg10, fc43 warnings: a bit angsty, mentions of an argument, mentions of walking out/leaving. notes: i actually giggled typing these out, i hope you like it as much as i did! i put translations for things at the bottom incase anyone is interested! no part 2 (sorry)

f1 masterlist !

FERRARI

══════════════════════

MERCEDES

══════════════════════

REDBULL

══════════════════════

MCLAREN

══════════════════════

WILLIAMS

══════════════════════

RACING BULLS

══════════════════════

ASTON MARTIN

══════════════════════

KICK SAUBER

══════════════════════

HAAS

══════════════════════

ALPINE

translations: stp/s'il te plait = please schatje = treasure/little treasure tu es ma vie = you are my life j'peux pas respirer sans toi = i cant breathe without you

[uniicorns-arereall]

are you guys ever reading a good fic and then the author just adds a random terrible line and you just stare at it like this:

[fangirlfuel]

Hii! I love your writing!

I just wanted to request something like, where Kimi is your father and he only has a single daughter, and say reader's mom died when she was young so its just both of them. And just your father-daughter relationship throughout the years, and all the ups and downs you both faced together.

Just the Two of Us

note: i wrote this in a rush and didn’t edited it so please remember that english is not my first language so thias is not perfect !

___

y/n grew up in a house that was quiet in a way that felt like it was holding its breath. sometimes it felt too big, too empty, and sometimes it felt like it just waited for something that would never come. her mother died when she was too young to remember anything clear, just little pieces, smells, shadows in pictures, stories that didn’t really make sense together. so it was always just her and her father, Kimi Räikkönen. the man everyone called cold, distant, a mystery, but to her he was just…there. solid, steady, a presence that didn’t need words. he never explained, never tried to fix things he couldn’t fix. he just…was there. he woke up early for work, left before she did for school, but somehow always knew when she had stayed up too late watching shadows move across her ceiling. when she came home with a scraped knee or a bad grade, he would be there, quietly, just there, like that was enough, like she was enough.

she remembers sitting in the hallway of their too big, too quiet house, too scared to go to her room at night, feeling too small, too alone. he would notice without saying anything, leave the hall light on, maybe sit nearby reading or drinking tea. that silence between them wasn’t empty. it was a way of saying, i’m here. it was enough sometimes. sometimes it wasn’t. sometimes she yelled at him, at herself, at the world, at the unfairness of it all. he would just sit there, awkward, shifting from foot to foot, frowning, not knowing what to say. she would hate him for it sometimes. but deep down she knew he was scared too, too scared to show it.

there were mornings when he made her breakfast just because. she would watch him in the kitchen, moving slowly, humming under his breath, and think, maybe this is love. maybe this is all the love i ever needed. no speeches, no dramatic gestures. just him. just the rhythm of his presence. somehow, it was more than enough.

she grew older, and things got harder. teenage years hit like a storm neither of them knew how to handle. she was stubborn, loud, angry sometimes over nothing, sometimes everything. he would answer with silence or a flat “do what you want.” fights erupted over stupid things, doors slammed, the house felt too loud and empty at the same time. and sometimes the anger lingered, a quiet tension neither knew how to fill. but then there were moments without words. a hand on her shoulder when she cried alone, a jacket thrown over her at the bus stop, a tea left on the counter with a note: “you’ll be okay.” small things, but somehow enough.

she started to notice the little things about him. the way he remembered the smallest details she had said months ago. the way he showed up at school events without telling her, the way he noticed when she was upset even when she said nothing. he never told her he loved her. he never hugged her for long. but she knew. she knew. the quiet, the presence, the small gestures, it was all love.

first heartbreak came. she came home crying, words stuck in her throat. he didn’t ask questions, didn’t force her to explain. he just made tea, left it on the counter, sat nearby without saying anything. it was enough. it always had been. it always would be.

high school ended, she left for college. the house felt empty in ways she hadn’t realized. she called him sometimes, short conversations, but his voice was enough. when she came home, even for a weekend, it felt like nothing had changed. no apologies, no speeches. just being together. just the two of them.

they fought sometimes, even as she got older. stubborn, flawed, both too much alike. she yelled. he muttered something. doors slammed. sometimes they didn’t talk for days. but somehow, always, they came back. not with words. with cups of tea, a quiet “you okay?”, a long drive with no music, no destination, just silence that didn’t feel empty. silence became their language, their love.

y/n had her own life, friends, loves, heartbreaks, mistakes. he was always there, steady, awkward, imperfect, unshakable. sometimes she wanted more. sometimes she wanted someone who would talk, who would hug, who would say i love you in words she could hear. and then she realized she already had that in him. in his way, his messy quiet way, he had always given her everything he could. always shown up. always loved her.

years passed, she became adult, moved to her own apartment, started a career. he grew older too, a little slower, quieter, but still there. she called him every week, sometimes more, sometimes less. she visited him. they drove aimlessly sometimes, just like old times, listening to the hum of the tires on the road, saying nothing, saying everything.

and now, looking back, she realized the house had never been empty. it had always been full. full of quiet, full of love, full of him. the mistakes, the silences, the fights, the awkward moments, the small gestures, it was all enough. it had always been just the two of them, and somehow, that had always been enough.

__

[fangirlfuel]

Cred că ți-ar plăcea povestea asta: " 𝕱𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝕺𝖕𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖆 ~ 𝕶𝖑𝖆𝖚𝖘 𝕸𝖎𝖐𝖆𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓 " de nyxera_x pe Wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/story/407553606?utm_source=android&utm_medium=com.tumblr&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=nyxera_x

𝔒𝔭𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔞 𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔦́𝔊𝔞𝔫 𝔙𝔞𝔩𝔢, 𝒂 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏-𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓-𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇-𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉, 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒈𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒂�...

Please go and read my new story, its a Harry Potter x The Originals crossover !

[fangirlfuel]

On Time, Too Late

Part 2 — Choosing Yourself Hurts Too

Max Verstappen x gf? reader

Max Verstappen Materialist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Morning arrived cruelly.

Not gently, not with warmth, just light flooding the apartment like it had every right to exist after what happened. Max had barely slept. The guest room couch still smelled faintly of detergent and emptiness, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw you at the table last night. Waiting. Believing. Breaking.

He heard the soft sound of cabinets opening.

His heart stuttered.

You.

He stood slowly, like sudden movement might scare you away. When he stepped into the kitchen, you were already there, back to him, hair pulled into a low knot, dressed simply, no softness, no effort. You looked like someone who had made a decision.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned against the counter, hands gripping the edge. “Can we talk? Please.”

You turned then. Your face was calm, but that calm was terrifying. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t anger.

It was distance.

“I don’t think talking will fix this,” you said evenly, pouring coffee into your mug.

Max’s chest tightened. “I know I hurt you. I know I fucked up badly. But last night—”

“Last night wasn’t the problem,” you interrupted, finally meeting his eyes. “Last night was just when it became impossible to ignore anymore.”

He swallowed. “Ignore what?”

You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Us.”

The word hung heavy between you.

“You’ve been gone for months, Max,” you continued. “Physically, emotionally, sometimes both. I learned how to eat dinner alone without complaining. How to fall asleep without you. How to convince myself that asking for time made me selfish.”

“That’s not true,” he said quickly. “You’re never selfish.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m always the one waiting?” you asked. “Waiting for you to come home. Waiting for you to be present. Waiting for a season that never really ends.”

He took a step toward you. “I do this for our future.”

“And what about our present?” you asked softly. “Because it feels like I don’t exist in it.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Max ran a hand through his hair, frustration and panic etched into every movement. “You know how much pressure I’m under. The championship—”

“I know,” you said. “I’ve always known. And I’ve always understood.”

Your voice cracked then, just slightly.

“But understanding doesn’t mean I don’t get hurt.”

That was when it hit him.

Not the anniversary.

Not the forgotten promise.

But the realization that you had been hurting quietly for a long time.

“I never wanted you to feel like this,” Max whispered.

“I told myself love meant patience,” you replied. “So I waited. And waited. And waited. Until last night, when I was sitting at a table meant for two, realizing I was alone again.”

His eyes burned.

“You promised me you’d be on time,” you continued. “And I believed you. That’s what hurts the most.”

Max’s voice broke. “I forgot what day it was.”

“I know,” you said gently. “And that’s worse than being late.”

He sank into a chair like his legs could no longer hold him.

“I love you,” he said desperately. “More than anything. I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly.”

“You didn’t fuck it up in one night,” you said. “You fucked it up by assuming I would always accept being second.”

The words shattered him.

“I don’t want you to feel that you are second,” he said, tears slipping free now. “I just don’t know how to do everything at once.”

“I’m not asking to be everything,” you replied. “I’m asking to be chosen.”

You took a slow breath, grounding yourself.

“I need a break,” you said.

The world tilted.

“No,” Max said immediately, standing. “No, please. We can work through this. I’ll change. I swear I will.”

“I know you mean that,” you said. “But meaning it hasn’t been enough.”

He reached for you again, hands shaking.

You stepped back.

That movement broke something deep inside him.

“I can’t lose you,” he sobbed openly now. “You’re my home. You’re the one thing that makes sense when everything else is chaos.”

“And yet I’m the one you keep leaving behind,” you whispered.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but your voice stayed steady.

“I need space,” you said. “I need to remember who I am without constantly waiting for you to show up.”

“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded. “Cancel races, skip meetings—”

“That’s not sustainable,” you said softly. “And I don’t want to be the reason you resent your own life.”

You grabbed your bag from the counter.

“I still love you,” you admitted. “But loving you shouldn’t cost me my self respect.”

Max looked at you like his heart was being ripped out.

“Please don’t go,” he whispered.

You paused at the door, fingers tightening around the strap.

“I hope you win the championship,” you said quietly. “I just don’t know if there’s space for me in the version of you who does.”

Then you walked out.

The door closed.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Max stayed where he was, sobbing into empty air, surrounded by proof of a love he hadn’t protected in time.

For the first time in his life, no amount of speed, strategy, or winning could fix what he’d lost.

Taglist: @torimcc @evilive @96mcobo @anunstablefangirl @beslayyyyy @gsaintt @l4ndo-norizz

[fangirlfuel]

On Time, Too Late

Part 1 — The Night Love Waited

Max Verstappen x gf reader

Max Verstappen Materialist

Summary: Three years of devotion collide with one forgotten promise, and a night meant for love becomes the quiet breaking point of a heart that waited too long.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Max Verstappen had always been intense.

Everything in his life revolved around focus, discipline, precision. Winning wasn’t just something he wanted, it was something he needed. It lived under his skin, in his bones, in the way his jaw clenched when things weren’t perfect. Championships demanded sacrifice, and Max had never been afraid to give everything he had.

What he hadn’t realized was that lately, the cost of that sacrifice had been you.

You noticed it slowly, the way one notices winter creeping in. Not all at once, just colder mornings, longer nights, silences that stretched where laughter used to live. He was still there, technically. Still kissed you before leaving, still texted when he remembered.

But he wasn’t present.

Most days, his free time disappeared into meetings, the simulator, endless debriefs. When he came home, his mind stayed somewhere else, telemetry data, tire degradation, championship math. You learned how to love him quietly. How to not interrupt. How to not ask for too much.

You told yourself it was temporary.

That once the season ended, things would return to normal.

So you swallowed the disappointment when he canceled date nights. You smiled when he showed up late, tired, distracted. You reassured him when he apologized halfheartedly, even when your heart felt like it was being placed second… again.

Understanding became your survival.

But tonight, tonight was supposed to be different.

Your three year anniversary.

Not a race. Not a deadline. Not something that could be postponed.

That morning, when Max had wrapped his arms around you before leaving, his voice had sounded sincere. Certain.

“I’ll be on time tonight,” he promised, thumb brushing your jaw. “I won’t mess this up.”

You’d searched his eyes for doubt and found none.

So you trusted him.

You spent the day preparing with a strange mix of excitement and nervous hope. You cooked carefully, taking your time, following the recipe exactly the way he liked. You laid the table neatly, lighting candles even though it felt silly to hope so much. You showered longer than usual, choosing the dress you knew he loved—the one he once said made him forget how to breathe.

When you looked in the mirror, you smiled softly.

Three years, you thought. We made it.

Seven o’clock arrived quietly.

You checked the time, still relaxed. Plenty of time. He’d said on time, after all.

Eight o’clock came.

You sent him a message, light and playful. No pressure.

No response.

Nine o’clock.

The food sat untouched. The candles flickered lower. Your phone stayed silent. The first sting of disappointment bloomed in your chest, sharp but manageable.

Meetings run late, you reminded yourself. He wouldn’t forget.

Ten o’clock.

You refreshed your messages obsessively. Your excitement had long drained away, replaced by an ache that settled deep in your ribs. You sat on the couch, still dressed, posture stiff, like if you relaxed too much you’d fall apart.

Eleven o’clock.

Understanding stopped working.

Your eyes burned. Your throat felt tight. The room felt too quiet, too empty for something that was supposed to be full of love. When you finally stood, it was with shaking hands.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t throw anything.

You just… broke.

Tears fell silently as you cleared the table. Each plate felt heavier than the last. The food, made with care, with love, ended up in the trash. The candles were blown out one by one, smoke curling upward like something dying.

In the bathroom, you wiped your makeup away harshly, not caring when mascara smeared. The girl staring back at you looked tired. Hurt. Foolish.

The dress slipped from your shoulders and fell to the floor, abandoned. You didn’t hang it up. You didn’t look at it again.

You changed into pajamas mechanically, crawled into bed, and finally allowed yourself to cry without holding back. Your chest shook, breaths uneven, heart aching with every sob.

You cried until your body couldn’t anymore.

You fell asleep still hurting.

---

Max realized far too late.

It was after eleven, the meeting dragging endlessly, numbers blurring together. More tests were requested. More discussions followed. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it, just a little longer.

When he finally checked, everything inside him dropped.

Your messages stared back at him like quiet devastation.

Are you okay?

You said you’d be on time.

It’s getting late.

Max…

It’s our anniversary.

His chest went hollow.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, standing so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Tonight. God, tonight.

Your face that morning flashed in his mind. The way you’d smiled, trusting him. The promise he’d made without hesitation.

He’d forgotten.

The drive home was a blur of red lights and regret. He stopped at a supermarket, hands shaking as he grabbed a sad bouquet of flowers, hating how pathetic it looked. He added chocolate, because what else could he do?

Nothing felt enough.

When he entered the apartment, the silence was suffocating.

“Baby?” he called softly.

No answer.

His heart pounded as he stepped into the bedroom and...shattered.

You lay curled on the bed, tear tracks still visible, lashes clumped, face marked by pain he had caused. You looked like you’d cried yourself into exhaustion.

Max dropped to his knees beside the bed.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking.

He leaned in, desperate, instinct screaming to touch you, to fix it somehow. But the moment you stirred, you pulled away, sitting up abruptly.

Your eyes met his.

Anger. Hurt. Disappointment.

All worse than shouting.

“Don’t,” you said.

Max froze.

“Please,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Go sleep in the guest room,” you said quietly.

The words cut deep.

“You don’t get to fix this right now,” you added. “Not after tonight.”

He nodded, defeated, and left without another word.

In the kitchen, the evidence of your love waited for him.

The table.

The melted candles.

The empty plates.

Your effort.

Max sat down slowly, hands covering his face as the weight of what he’d done crushed him completely.

For the first time, winning felt meaningless.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know if love would wait for him again.

Author’s Note: who wants to be added to the taglist, tell me in the comments 😊👋🏻

.

[fangirlfuel]

Everything but Me

George Russell x reader Blurb

Angst

Russell Materialist F1 Materialist

You slammed the cupboard shut harder than you meant to, but George barely flinched. He was already pulling on his jacket, already halfway out the door in his mind.

“Are you serious?” you asked, your voice trembling. “You just got home and you’re leaving again?”

His shoulders tensed. “It’s work, love. You know that.”

“No, George. It’s always work. Always the team, always the car, always the cameras. You give everything to everyone else, and when it comes to me...” Your voice cracked, the words choking you. “There’s nothing left.”

That made him turn, his eyes flashing with hurt. “That’s not fair. You think I don’t want to be here? You think I don’t wish things were different?”

“Then why does it feel like I’m asking for too much just to matter to you?”

The silence was sharp, like shattered glass under bare feet. George opened his mouth, then shut it again, because what could he possibly say? He had no excuse that would make the ache in your chest go away.

And when he finally reached for you, his touch lingered in the air between you, desperate, guilty, but too late.