prodby-error
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Latest Posts by prodby-error
the way he blinks in time with the helmet pats I can’t.
god, I love him so much. words are not enough anymore.
![Romance In Film Gif Meme: [1/5] Gestures](https://64.media.tumblr.com/e5176af8bb47777cf61b8a8cb98e796e/22731d3f84a63914-22/s500x750/04ca84b8b4beabf8e9525637e840b9876ee7f4a2.gif)
![Romance In Film Gif Meme: [1/5] Gestures](https://64.media.tumblr.com/0aaa7c2a7f71b3c11e7e22d7d840f38a/22731d3f84a63914-6d/s500x750/e8ff8139a4c75870cbfa46c56919d7e418c9951d.gif)
![Romance In Film Gif Meme: [1/5] Gestures](https://64.media.tumblr.com/71c327ab9400eb5c38219ad7e9ba5a34/22731d3f84a63914-4a/s500x750/4ec17f67bce81426434c32da0805632511d2ab2d.gif)
![Romance In Film Gif Meme: [1/5] Gestures](https://64.media.tumblr.com/fe8edd32e2e16dad6cf64f1d621f1370/22731d3f84a63914-ac/s500x750/a10d5824fa2f84af4a3fb4004cecc976aeeac79a.gif)
romance in film gif meme: [1/5] gestures
"I'll tell you what it says. it says 'I love you.' because I love you. and, no offence, but you're wrong." "I'm wrong about what?" "you're wrong about us being on different paths. we're not on different paths, you're my path. and you're always gonna be my path." the amazing spider-man 2 (2014) dir. marc webb
She came in and she… she was like a shot of espresso, she was like… being bathe in sunlight. She’s incredibly energetic and enthusiastic and she had this sense of play and fun which was incredibly exciting.
- Andrew Garfield
Mockingjay
Me after reading Mockingjay: Don't know whether to be grateful because Suzanne Collins ended the series with a happy ending or to be sad because Suzanne Collins killed Finnick
Me after watching Mockingjay Part 2: Don't know whether to be glad because the director followed the book and actually killed Finnick or to be mad because the director really followed the book and killed Finnick
All Over You
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: Touch has always been your love language, until one overheard conversation makes you question everything. When you start to pull away Max realises just how deeply he’s come to need it.
2.7k words / Masterlist
Max always says you’re like a blanket come to life.
You cling. You cuddle. You drape yourself across him the second the opportunity arises. If Max’s lap is free you claim it without hesitation. If he’s stretched out on the couch, you’re pressed against his side before he even blinks. Your hand finds his thigh during dinner, your fingers sneak into his back pocket when you’re walking together, and every morning, like clockwork, your nose tucks into the curve of his neck.
It’s not something you think about, it’s instinct. It’s how you express the things you sometimes struggle to say. How you offer comfort. How you say I love you.
And for the longest time Max never says a word about it.
He lets you curl up beside him during movie nights. He leans into your touch when you rub lazy circles into the back of his neck while he’s gaming, or when you lace your fingers with his under the table at dinner.
So you think, this is us. You think, this works.
Until one night, when you overhear something you weren’t supposed to.
It’s nothing serious. At least, not really.
You’re padding back from the kitchen with a cup of tea, bare feet muffled by carpet when you hear Max talking on the phone on the balcony. His voice is low, casual. He’s talking to Daniel you think. Laughing at something.
And then you catch it.
“Yeah, you noticed huh? No she’s super touchy, always has been. Like, always on me.”
A beat.
“No, I don’t mind it. It’s just... I’m not really used to it, you know?”
You freeze, feet still against the carpet. The tea sloshes slightly, forgotten in your hands.
He laughs again, easy and relaxed. “She’s like a human magnet. If I’m sitting, she’s sitting on me. I swear sometimes I think she’d climb into my skin if she could.”
Daniel says something you can’t hear. Max chuckles. “No, she’s not annoying. She’s just... really affectionate.”
You don’t stay to hear the rest.
Your fingers tighten around your mug as you quietly retreat, heart a little heavier than before. You curl back into bed without saying a word, staring at the ceiling while your tea goes cold on the nightstand.
You’re not angry. He didn’t say anything cruel. Not really.
But for the first time questions being to lodge in your chest like a thorn... do I touch him too much? Does he just tolerate it because he loves me?
And just like that, something in you begins to shift.
You're still beside him. Still laughing at his jokes, still making him breakfast. You kiss him good morning and smile across the table. From the outside nothing changes, but the little things in all the tiny invisible places, the things that used to come so naturally they stop.
You don’t climb into his lap while he’s watching race replays, don’t tuck your face into the slope of his shoulder like you used to. You don’t slide your hand beneath the hem of his hoodie when you hug him from behind in the kitchen, fingers sneaking against warm skin. You don’t curl into his side when the movie starts, don’t tuck yourself under his arm like you belong there.
Instead you sit beside him on the couch with your legs tucked neatly under you, wrapped up tightly in a blanket like armour. A careful distance. A subtle retreat.
You keep your hands in your lap at dinner. You nod and listen and smile, but your fingers don’t find his thigh. You don’t reach for his hand beneath the table.
You still want to. God, do you want to.
Your whole body aches to reach for him, to run your fingers over his jaw, to smooth back his hair, to trace lazy shapes across his stomach. You miss the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek.
You miss being held without thinking twice, but now that you’ve heard him say it out loud, that he’s not used to it, that he’s not like you, you can’t unhear it. It loops in your mind when the silence stretches between you.
Slowly you start to convince yourself you’ve been suffocating him. That maybe the way you love is too much for him. That maybe softness, when it clings like yours does, feels like smothering.
So you pull back, quietly, carefully, and hope he doesn’t notice how much it hurts. Or worse that he does, and lets you do it anyway.
Max doesn’t say anything at first, but after a few days he starts to notice.
A few inches of space on the couch. Your hand not finding his like it usually does. The way you don't crawl into his lap during breakfast, don't lean into his side during movies, don't rest your hand on his leg during long car rides.
At first he tells himself maybe you’re tired from work. Maybe it’s just one of those quiet moods that passes like the weather. He gives you space, the way people are always saying partners should.
But the distance doesn’t fade.
It expands.
One morning he slips behind you in the kitchen to steal a piece of toast. Normally you’d laugh, you’d wrap your arms around his waist and bury your nose in his hoodie, but this time you step aside without touching him.
He frowns, just a quick flicker, then hides it, but his stomach twists violently anyway.
It’s not like Max to spiral. He’s not wired for emotional uncertainty he prefers problems he can fix with strategy, planning, control.
But this?
This isn’t a problem he knows how to solve.
The way you sit on the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone like it’s more comforting than him. You barely brush his arm when you slip into bed at night. When he tries to kiss your neck absentmindedly like he always does you duck away, not unkindly, but enough to make him panic
He tries not to panic, but that’s what this feels like panic.
It gnaws at him over the next couple days. The silence between your fingers and his. The distance that didn’t use to be there. The way you won’t look at him for too long, like he might read too much in your eyes.
Max isn’t good with emotional guessing games. He’s never been the type to bottle things up or pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. He doesn’t do insecure. He confronts things. Fixes things. Puts it all on the table and makes it make sense.
And Max doesn’t know how to read silence the way he reads telemetry. He doesn’t know how to fix something when he doesn’t know where the break is.
He replays your interactions hunting for the mistake. Did he forget something important? Miss a signal? Are you sick or bored?
Is she pulling away because she’s planning to leave?
The thought stops him in his tracks. His chest aches with it, sharp and sudden. He sits with it, stunned, rubs at his sternum like he can soothe the ache.
You’re still sweet. Still say good luck before he gets into the car. Still text him updates about your day, what podcast you listened to, what ridiculous thing your coworker said. Still fold his shirts when he leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed. Still laugh at the stupid jokes he makes when he’s overtired. You're still there.
But it’s different. Your body has gone quiet, your touch has gone still. Less warm. Less you.
And Max, who never thought he’d crave something so soft, so intangible starts to feel the absence like a phantom limb, it feels like someone turned off the sun and expects him not to notice. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t know what he did to lose it, or how to ask for it back.
You can feel the ache in your chest growing stronger every day.
You don’t want to stop touching him. You miss touching him. You miss his warmth, the way he instinctively leans into your touch even when he’s focused on something. You miss curling into his lap without thinking, his fingers combing through your hair like it’s second nature.
But now? Every time your hand so much as twitches toward him, doubt rushes in like cold water.
Am I smothering him again? Is this too much? Is this what he meant?
You thought you were just adjusting. Giving him the space you assume he needs. You told yourself it was mature, respectful, kind, but it’s starting to feel less like an adjustment and more like a punishment.
Every second you don’t touch him? It hurts. In tiny, deceptive ways like a thousand paper cuts.
By the end of the next week, you’re sitting on the hotel bed in Jeddah, scrolling through your phone in silence, without reading a word, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still smells like his aftershave. Max pauses when he sees how far you’re sitting from the edge of the mattress. From him.
That’s when he finally speaks.
“Did I do something?”
You blink. “What?”
“You’ve been...” He trails off, eyes searching yours. “Distant.”
You hesitate. “No, I’m just tired.”
He studies your face for a long moment hoping you’ll offer somthing more, but when nothing comes he doesn’t push. Just nods slowly, then climbs into bed beside you.
You don’t cuddle him that night.
You face the other way, pretending to scroll while your chest feels like it’s being wrung out.
Max doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift, the slight dip of the mattress, the warmth of his body inching closer in the dark, not quite touching. He stops just shy of you, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around and meet him there.
It takes until Sunday night, after the race for everything to crack open.
You’re both back at the hotel. Max steps out of the shower, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, sweatpants slung low on his hips. You’re perched on the window seat, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting forgotten in your lap as you stare out over Jeddah’s lights.
You think maybe you’ll just go to sleep early. Then Max sits beside you.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits close enough to feel the heat off your arm. He’s never been good at this part, the vulnerable bit. The what if it’s in my head bit. The what if I’m asking for something she doesn’t want to give me anymore bit.
The part where he has to name the thing that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. The part where he has to admit he's scared he’s already lost something and just hasn’t caught up to it yet.
He’s spent enough time memorising the way you speak when you're lying. You don’t flinch or fumble. You just get quieter. Softer. Like you’re afraid the truth will hurt more than the silence.
But he needs the truth now, because he’s been tying himself in knots trying to figure it out. Replaying conversations in his head, wondering if he forgot someone’s birthday or crossed a line or said something he shouldn’t have.
And now all he wants is to be close. To be touched. Held. Seen.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice low, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.
“Yeah…” you say, trailing off.
And then, when you don’t say anything else, something in your eyes flickers and he just knows.
Max’s heart kicks hard in his chest, the kind of lurch he only gets right before lights out. He swallows, throat dry, like he’s one bad move away from losing something he doesn’t know how to live without.
“I miss you,” he says, voice quiet. “Even when you’re right here.”
You close your eyes. Then you look at him, really look, and something in you gives. Like you’ve been carrying a weight for days and it’s finally too much to hold, too much to hide.
“I heard you,” you say.
His brow furrows. “Heard me?”
“On the phone,” you clarify. “With Daniel. A couple of weeks ago”
Max’s pauses for a second, trying to remember, and then his stomach drops.
“You heard that?”
You nod slowly, eyes still on the window. “You said I’m always on you. That I’m really touchy. That you’re not used to it.”
His expression shifts, jaw tight, eyes suddenly filled with something that looks a lot like guilt.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I wasn’t trying to. But after that...” You pull your sleeves over your hands, voice quieter now. “I started wondering if I’d been overwhelming you. If I was too much—”
“Wait, baby—”
“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, force you into something you don’t want.” you rush on. “So I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Max’s heart actually hurts.
He didn’t even realise how it might’ve sounded. He remembers the conversation now, half-distracted, casual, him laughing while Daniel joked about your human magnet tendencies. It hadn’t meant anything to him, just a passing comment… but it had meant everything to you.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for your hand. “Look at me.”
You look up. Max’s brows are drawn together. He looks devastated.
“I swear I never meant that in a bad way,” he says. “I wasn’t complaining. I was just… explaining it. I’ve never been with someone as affectionate as you, it caught me off guard at first sure. But I love it. I love the way you love me.”
A beat. His voice softens.
“When you stopped reaching for me, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been going crazy wondering why it felt like you were slipping away.”
You bite your lip, blinking quickly. “I thought I was just annoying you, that you were putting up with it because you love me, not because you wanted it.”
His forehead drops to yours, hands sliding to your waist, holding tight. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s the best part of my day. You crawling into my lap, always reaching for me. It makes me feel wanted... like I matter, like I make you feel safe.”
He leans back just slightly, fingers sliding to your jaw, cradling it gently.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “If I made you feel like you were too much. If I made you doubt what we have. That was never what I meant. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you thought you had to pull away from me just to make me comfortable.”
Your lips part slightly, like you're shocked by the weight of his words.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits. “Watching you pull away, thinking maybe I’d done something. I was scared I lost you and didn’t even know when it happened.”
“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I swear I wasn’t pulling away from you… at least not like that, I just thought I was doing the right thing.”
“I know that now,” he says. “But please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop”
Your arms are around him before he finishes the sentence.
He exhales into your neck, like he’s been holding his breath for days. Pulls you into his lap like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again. His hands spread across your back, and for the first time in a while something in him settles.
You crawl further into his lap like it’s where you belong. Arms around his neck. Fingers threading into his hair. He exhales like someone finally handed him back something precious.
“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin.
“I’m right here.”
He pulls back, eyes soft. “Don’t stop being you, okay? Promise me.”
You nod. “Promise.”
Later, curled up in bed, you trace lazy lines across his chest with your fingertips.
“You really don’t mind?” you ask sleepily.
“Mind?” he echoes, mouth brushing your forehead. “I crave you.”
You smile into his skin, small and shy.
He kisses your hair again. “You ruined me.”
“Good,” you murmur, already drifting.
You’re here. Wrapped around him, where you belong.
And Max? Max feels like he can finally breathe again.
hiii how are you ?
can I request a dad Charles where his daughter tells everyone that she French instead of Monegasque (just like Arthur) and Charles is just losing it every time she says it
She's Monegasque, not French
It started innocently, as most things with toddlers do.
Charles was sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, his three-year-old daughter Yn nestled comfortably in his lap, her tiny hands clutching a crayon-streaked drawing of what she insisted was “Papa’s race car.” The sun was bright, the paddock buzzing with media and mechanics and laughter as the summer European leg of the season carried on in full swing.
And then it happened.
“Papa,” she said sweetly, tilting her head up at him, eyes wide and so heartbreakingly sincere, “I’m French.”
Charles blinked.
“Quoi?” he said, pulling back slightly, eyebrows lifting in gentle confusion. “Ma chérie, no, you’re not French. You’re Monegasque, like Papa.”
Yn looked at him, lips pursed, deep in thought. And then she gave a little shrug. “Non. I’m French, like Uncle Thur.”
Charles groaned softly and let his head fall back against the couch. “Not this again.”
From across the room, Arthur—lounging lazily in a chair, eating grapes like he was Caesar in a past life—choked on his laughter.
“I didn’t teach her that,” Arthur said through wheezes. “She came up with it on her own. Genius, really.”
“You encourage it!” Charles accused, pointing an indignant finger at his younger brother. “You always say you’re French!”
“Well, I am French,” Arthur said with a grin. “Monegasque passport and everything. And clearly, Yn has excellent taste.”
“Excellent taste in traitors. And Monaco is not France,” Charles muttered, pulling Yn closer as if cuddling her tightly would somehow absorb her back into Monegasque pride.
But it didn’t stop there.
No, Yn had decided. French it was.
She told the Ferrari PR team she was French when they asked where she was from. She announced it proudly to the camera when someone tried to film a cute moment with her and her dad. She whispered it solemnly to Carlos while sitting in his lap eating strawberries.
“Papa’s sad ‘cause I’m French,” she told Carlos.
Carlos, eyes sparkling with mischief, leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s okay, Princesa. I’m Spanish, and he still talks to me.”
“Does he love you?” Yn asked, dead serious.
Carlos blinked. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Then maybe he’ll still love me even if I’m French.”
Behind them, Charles face-palmed.
The drivers got wind of it quickly—because of course they did.
By the next day, the jokes were relentless.
“So,” Lando said at breakfast in the hotel, stirring sugar into his coffee like he was preparing to deliver a monologue. “Do I address her as ‘Mademoiselle Yn’ now or...?”
“She’s not French,” Charles groaned.
“She told my engineer she wants her birthday cake in the shape of the Eiffel Tower,” Max deadpanned, walking by and tossing Charles a sympathetic look. “Good luck with that.”
Even Seb, who was visiting that weekend with his kids, gave Charles a comforting pat on the back. “At least she’s not saying she’s German. Yet.”
And then there was Esteban.
“Oh, this is fantastique,” Esteban beamed, scooping Yn up in the paddock one afternoon. “You’re French, just like me!”
Yn squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “Oui!”
Charles practically melted into the tarmac. “Mon dieu…”
But it was Arthur who reveled in it most.
He started wearing a beret. A beret, for god’s sake.
One afternoon in the hospitality tent, he presented Yn with a baguette and a small fake mustache. “For my fellow French citizen,” he declared proudly.
“Merci, Uncle Thur!” Yn beamed, sticking the mustache crookedly on her nose.
“I am living in a cartoon,” Charles mumbled into his hands.
No amount of explaining helped.
“But Monaco is in France,” she argued one night while Charles tucked her into bed in the team’s motorhome. “It’s right there.”
“No, chérie,” Charles said gently, brushing her curls back. “It’s close, but it’s its own country. Like Papa said before, remember?”
“I like France better.”
He sighed and tried the next best tactic: bribery.
“If you say you’re Monegasque again,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Papa will buy you ten ice creams tomorrow.”
Yn narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What kind?”
“Any kind. Strawberry. Chocolate. All of them.”
“Hmm…” she tapped her chin with exaggerated thought. “I still wanna be French.”
He clutched his chest. “Traitor.”
The situation hit a new peak during the Saturday driver briefing. Yn, accompanied by Carlos and Charles, had been allowed to come along briefly before things got official. She toddled in wearing sunglasses way too big for her face and a little Ferrari cap.
Yuki crouched down to her level with a big smile. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Yn.”
“I’m French!” she declared proudly, striking a pose.
Yuki laughed. “That’s so cool! Then you must know that Uncle Pierre is also French!”
Yn froze.
All the drivers went still.
Charles raised his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
Yn’s nose scrunched up.
“…Uncle Pierre?”
“Yes,” Yuki chirped, unaware he was about to break the world’s most stubborn three-year-old. “He’s very French. Like super French.”
The silence that followed could have swallowed a pit lane.
Charles watched her face shift—concentration, confusion… and then determination.
She took off her sunglasses, turned to her father, and declared solemnly, “Papa. I’m not French anymore.”
Charles blinked. “You’re not?”
“I’m Monegasque now.”
“...Why?”
She folded her arms. “I don’t wanna be the same as Uncle Pierre.”
“WHAT?!” Pierre shouted from across the room, utterly betrayed.
Arthur was on the floor, laughing so hard he nearly cried. “Nooo! The French alliance has fallen!”
Carlos, barely holding it together, whispered, “Monaco wins.”
Charles scooped Yn up with the biggest grin he’d worn in days. “You have made Papa so proud.”
Yn patted his cheek. “Do I still get ice cream?”
He laughed, hugging her tight. “You can have all the ice cream you want, mon amour.”
Behind him, Pierre was muttering in disbelief, “What did I do? What did I do?”
And from that day on, Yn was proudly, defiantly, loyally Monegasque.
Until next week, when she decided she wanted to be Italian because “Papa’s car is red like Italy.”
And Charles just sighed into his espresso.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.
-🩷🎀
You guys think the Stark Industries stock price plummets every time Tony gets his ass beat publicly in a fight.
people who don't experience hyperfixation don't know what it feels like to hyperfixate so much on something that it becomes not only your subject of obsession but also your source of happiness and literally the main reason why you still keep going; literal source of strength and life.
shoutout to my favorite fictional characters, favorite people, favorite ships, favorite movies, favorite tv shows, fanfics and archive of our own
people: do you like (character)?
me, a little unhinged about said character: He’s fine. He’s alright.
2025 carat revival : dynamics week 'this road is beautiful, because I have you walking beside me' no one loves seventeen more than seventeen loves each other🤍
#He went to the Andrew Garfield school of lying
