soupsosa08

[soupsosa08]

lewis today part 2 !!!

[soupsosa08]

lewis today !!!!!

[soupsosa08]

A Melody Between Us — Victor Wembanyama X Reader

Synopsis: What begins as a simple piano lesson turns into laughter, closeness, and quiet confessions, as Victor realizes the music isn’t in the notes but in being there with you.

Warnings: fluff; height difference; awkward piano playing; soft romance; first-date energy

Note: I was playing the piano and thought about how difficult it must be for someone tall to play it (I’m only 1.58m, btw, but I know my boyfriend, who is 2 meters, struggles). I hope you enjoy!

masterlist

——————

The room felt as if it had been made for that moment. The amber glow from the lamps painted the walls with soft shadows, making everything warm and intimate. A bottle of wine still rested open on the coffee table, two glasses nearly full, and the silence was broken only by the occasional hum of cars passing on the street outside. Near the window, the polished piano stood quietly, like it had been waiting all evening just for the two of you.

“I still can’t believe you actually convinced me to do this,” Victor murmured, his deep voice carrying a lazy smile as he walked toward you.

You were already seated on the narrow bench, fingers brushing lightly over the keys as though you were stroking them with affection. You looked up and grinned at his complaint.

“It’s not that hard. And besides—you promised me you’d try, remember?”

He arched his brows, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “I promised… but I never said it had to be today.”

“Too late, monsieur,” you answered playfully, exaggerating your tone. “You’re already here.”

Victor chuckled, that low laugh that seemed to reverberate in his chest, and sighed before finally stepping closer. What happened next was almost comical: he tried to sit beside you on the narrow bench, but his impossibly long legs immediately collided with the underside of the piano. A dull thud echoed through the room, and he looked at you with a mix of disbelief and frustration.

“I told you,” he muttered, shaking his head while attempting to adjust. “This piano wasn’t made for someone like me.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing outright. “Maybe it wasn’t made for you… but this moment was.”

He clicked his tongue in mock protest, but his smile betrayed him. He bent his knees in every possible way, twisting his tall frame until he finally squeezed in beside you. Even then, he sat crooked, legs awkwardly folded, looking more like a giant trying to fit into a dollhouse than a man at a piano. And yet, he was still smiling.

“You’re laughing at me,” he accused, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion.

“I’m admiring the view,” you teased, giving him a playful wink.

He exhaled dramatically, pretending to be annoyed, but his eyes glimmered with amusement. “Fine. Teach me already before I give up.”

Your hand drifted toward his. His massive fingers hovered above the keys, and you almost laughed again when you saw how easily his hand stretched across nearly two octaves. It was ridiculous. And beautiful.

“Alright, slowly,” you whispered, your voice soft as though you were sharing a secret. “Just a C, then D, then E.”

Victor pressed the keys, but the notes came out heavy, clumsy—like a basketball hitting the ground instead of delicate music. You stifled a laugh.

“Gentler, Wemby. These aren’t hoops, they’re keys.”

He gave a small, embarrassed grin, scratching the back of his neck. “I am gentle,” he insisted, mock-offended.

“Mhm,” you hummed, unconvinced, sliding your hand over his to guide him. The contrast was overwhelming: your smaller fingers practically disappeared beneath his, but there was something tender in the way they aligned, something that made the whole room feel smaller, warmer.

You played a short sequence and waited for him to repeat it. He missed the notes completely, producing something far from what you’d just played. The sound was clumsy, awkward—and then he laughed at himself. That unguarded laugh, the one that made his eyes crease and softened his entire face.

“That was terrible,” he said, shaking his head.

“That was perfect,” you corrected softly, meeting his gaze. “Because you played it.”

Silence filled the air between you. He stopped looking at the piano and turned his attention entirely to you. For a moment, the world outside seemed to vanish. There was only his breathing, your closeness, and the golden light wrapping the two of you in a private cocoon.

“You know…” Victor started, his voice lower now, hesitant, almost vulnerable. “I never really wanted to learn the piano.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You didn’t?”

A slow smile spread across his lips as he leaned in just a little closer. “No. I just wanted an excuse to be here. Like this. Next to you.”

Your heart skipped, then quickened, heat rushing through your body. You swallowed hard, trying to stay composed, but the intimacy of his words clung to you. With a quiet breath, you squeezed his hand still resting on the keys.

“Then forget the notes,” you whispered. “We already have our melody.”

Victor held your gaze, and for several long seconds, the world seemed suspended: time, sound, air. He looked as if he was memorizing you—the glint in your eyes, the curve of your smile, the softness of your hand beneath his.

You tried again together, repeating the simple notes. Each time, he failed spectacularly, and each time, the two of you laughed louder. The piano bench was far too narrow, the instrument far too small for his frame, yet somehow it all fit. The music wasn’t in the chords—it was in the laughter, the patience, the quiet intimacy blooming between you.

When you finally gave up, Victor leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, fine. Piano isn’t for me.”

Tilting your head, you smiled softly. “Maybe not. But being here with me is.”

His grin widened—bright, genuine, warm. He leaned closer, just a fraction, his presence surrounding you. The untouched glasses of wine on the table, the songs you had planned, everything else faded into irrelevance. The only melody that mattered was the rhythm of your laughter, the soft hush of your breaths, and the steady, too-loud beating of your hearts.

That night, the piano never produced a masterpiece. But the two of you discovered something greater: sometimes music isn’t in the perfect notes—it’s in the pauses, the laughter, the way two souls fit together, even in spaces too narrow, even when nothing seems to fit quite right. Except the feeling.

[soupsosa08]

Nights in Jazz and Red — Michael B Jordan X Reader

Synopsis: After months of texting and video calls, you finally meet Michael in person in a hidden jazz bar in Paris. What begins as a first date quickly transforms into a night filled with intimacy, laughter, dancing, and a romance that feels timeless. Every touch, every glance, every whispered word deepens the connection, creating a memory that promises to last forever.

Warnings: Romantic tension; sensual scenes; alcohol; mild smoking; slow-burn romance; implied intimacy; Fluff!!!!

Note: Listening to jazz late at night here in Brazil and missing going to bars with my boyfriend… Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story!

masterlist!!

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You had spent months talking to Michael through messages and video calls. Every laugh, every word, every shared silence had become part of your routine. You knew each other in a way no one else did, and every message carried tiny sparks that set your heart ablaze. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared you for what you would feel when he finally appeared in front of the hidden bar in Paris.

The taxi stopped gently on the narrow street, and you saw the reflection of the old lamps on the wet cobblestones. A subtle scent of rain mingled with the distant aroma of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. You adjusted your red dress, feeling the fabric glide smoothly over your skin, and took a deep breath, trying to control the nervousness that pulsed through every vein. Your heart raced in anticipation, as if it knew this night would be unlike any other.

He was there, standing under the amber light, his broad shoulders relaxed, an easy smile on his face, and dark eyes sparkling. His presence was almost physical—strong, steady, magnetic. Every detail seemed made for you: the perfect cut of his dark shirt outlining his firm arms, the natural charm of his smile, and that warm, woody scent that made your chest tighten the moment you approached him.

“You’re even more incredible in person,” he said, his voice low, husky, enveloping, and you noticed him taking in every detail of you with a mix of admiration and contained desire.

“And you… you’re exactly how I imagined you,” you replied, trying to sound calm but failing miserably.

He extended his hand, and when you touched his, an almost tangible electricity ran through your arm. “Then let me take you inside,” he said, and together you stepped through the bar’s door.

The interior was magical, almost cinematic. Amber lights reflected on every polished wooden surface. Small candles flickered on tables, casting warm, soft shadows. The aroma of red wine, cigars, and aged wood filled the air, and the sound of an old saxophone echoed throughout, each note piercing straight to your soul. You breathed deeply, absorbing every detail, realizing that everything there seemed made for them—made for the two of you.

He led you to a discreet corner table, where the light fell gently over your red dress. His fingers brushed lightly against yours as he helped you sit, and the touch made your body respond uncontrollably. He sat, keeping just enough distance so that every look, every gesture, could be felt with intensity.

“You know…” he began, glancing at the light reflected on the bar, “I’ve imagined this moment so many times. Every detail, every gesture… but nothing, nothing compares to seeing you here, now, in front of me.”

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice. “Me too,” you replied, feeling the vibration of his hand as it touched yours, the immediate warmth spreading through your entire body.

The music shifted to a faster melody, inviting you to dance. He stood, extending his hand with a smile that made any resistance vanish.

“Would you like to dance?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “I do,” you replied, almost without thinking. He guided you through the small space between the tables, where the music seemed to fill you completely. The first touch was timid, but soon the digital intimacy you had built made everything feel natural. He held you firmly yet gently, and you felt the warmth of his body, the strong yet careful grip, the woody scent mingling with the faint smoke of his cigar.

“You dance as if you were born to do this,” he said, leaning his face close to your ear, his warm breath brushing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“And you… you take my breath away,” you replied, trying to steady the trembling in your voice but knowing it was impossible.

The dance became its own language. Every spin, every step, every physical touch was loaded with delicious tension, a desire that needed to explode. He held your waist, tilted you slightly, following every movement as if you were the only two people in the world. The music and amber light enveloped you, creating an aura of absolute intimacy.

He rested his forehead against yours, and you felt his heartbeat—strong and steady—matching your own. “I’ve imagined this moment for months… but nothing, nothing compares to feeling you like this, near me,” he whispered, and you felt the sincerity and desire mixed in every word.

Your lips finally met, first gently, then more deeply, each kiss charged with promises, longing, and restrained excitement. It was a kiss that spoke more than words ever could, a kiss that said: I’ve been waiting for you.

Hours passed without notice. Low laughter, whispered confidences, little secrets no one else knew. Every gesture seemed designed to make you shiver: the light touch on your hair, the brushing of his fingers against yours, the smile that appeared when you said something that made him laugh.

Later, you left the bar. The narrow Paris street was silent, rain glistening on the cobblestones, reflecting the amber light of the lamps. He held your hand firmly but naturally, as if he had always done this.

“I want every first date to be like this,” he said, looking deeply into your eyes. “Slow, detailed, full of us.”

“Me too,” you murmured, resting your head on his chest. “And I want more.”

He smiled, lowering his face to kiss your forehead, then your cheeks, and finally your lips in a deep, endless kiss. Every touch carried promises; every shared breath intensified the romance. The world seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of you, the amber light, the jazz still echoing, and his warm, woody scent surrounding you completely.

At that moment, you knew this would not be just the first night. It would be the start of something intense, sophisticated, and absolutely unforgettable. A romance built slowly but with a passion that could not be contained. A love that would live in every glance, every touch, every dance, every smile exchanged between you, now and forever.

He still held your hand as you walked through the silent streets of Paris. The fine rain made the ground glisten, reflecting the amber light in a path of golden sparks. Every step beside him felt like its own dance, and you felt the warmth of his hand around yours, firm and protective, as if silently saying, “I’m here, and I won’t let you go.”

“Are you cold?” he asked, low, almost a whisper.

“A little,” you answered, leaning against his shoulder.

He immediately pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you, and his warmth spread through you like a soft flame. The woody scent, mingled with the faint smoke of his cigar, made your heart race. Intimacy in its purest form: presence, touch, attention.

He stopped in front of a discreet, old wooden door, with a barely readable plaque. He looked at you with that smile that melted any resistance.

“How about we continue the night somewhere… more comfortable?” he asked, that voice turning every word into a promise.

You nodded without a word. Inside, you immediately noticed his impeccable taste. The home was cozy yet sophisticated: amber lights hanging from the ceiling, reflecting on polished wood and comfortable sofas. Velvet cushions, delicate throws, casually stacked books, candles lit throughout the space—all designed to create an intimate, inviting atmosphere.

He approached, taking off his coat and offering it for you to warm yourself. But you were fine just feeling his presence. He sat beside you on the sofa, and instinctively you leaned your head on his shoulder. He wrapped you in a gentle hug, letting his fingers play softly with your hair.

“I never want this night to end,” he murmured, and you felt every word reverberate through your chest.

“Me neither,” you replied, closing your eyes for a moment, absorbing the warmth and safety emanating from him.

He leaned in and touched your lips, first gently, then deepening the kiss, releasing all the tension that had been building since the first glance. Every touch, every movement, every sigh seemed synchronized, as if you were dancing again, but this time without music—guided only by presence and desire.

Michael pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, and you saw the same intensity bubbling within him. He smiled and cupped your face carefully, as if handling something precious—and you were precious to him.

“I want to know you in every detail,” he said. “Every thought, every laugh, every secret.”

You smiled, feeling warmth and trust growing within you. “Then let’s enjoy the night,” you said, leaning in for another kiss, longer, more intense.

He laughed softly, almost a purr, and you realized that this strong, confident, charming man also had a rare tenderness, a delicacy revealed only in small gestures: the way he held your hand, the way he looked at you, the way he stroked your hair while your bodies moved together.

Hours passed in laughter, confidences, and discreet touches. Every detail seemed to immortalize the moment: the wine shared, his fingers intertwined with yours, the soft jazz playing from an old speaker, the woody scent mingling with the warmth of his body.

At one point, he took your hand and led you to the kitchen counter, poured another glass of wine, and you toasted silently, eyes locked, the world disappearing.

“You know what’s amazing?” he said, smiling. “I feel like I’ve known you forever, even though we’re just starting.”

You felt tears of emotion threaten to fall. “I feel the same…” you said, pressing your forehead to his, feeling the warmth and firmness of his hand holding yours.

When the jazz music rose again, he stood, offering his hand. “One more dance?” he asked, and you laughed softly, knowing you were completely lost to him.

You danced through the apartment, bodies moving naturally, light and intense at the same time. Every touch sent shivers; every whisper near the ear made your heart race. Intimacy, desire, and romance in pure form—and you both knew this night would be remembered forever.

When you finally stopped, breathless, he held you firmly, as if he didn’t want to let you go.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he said, almost a whisper, and you felt the sincerity in every word.

“Neither do I,” you replied, surrendering completely to his embrace.

The night progressed, and while the city slept outside, you remained together—touching, smiling, kissing, speaking softly. Every moment was filled with romance, every gesture carrying a silent promise: this was just the first of many nights, the first of many dances, the first of many shared glasses of wine, laughter, and fulfilled desires.

And as dawn approached, you stayed wrapped in each other, feeling the world reduced to only the space between you. A space of warmth, desire, and love that had only just begun, yet already promised to be infinite.

[soupsosa08]

Safe in Your Arms — Jude Bellingham X Reader

Synopsis: Amid the intensity of Jude Bellingham’s career and the constant eyes of the world, you’ve found a refuge in each other. Between laughter, quiet moments, and simple gestures that carry more meaning than any victory on the field, you learn that love can also be a safe haven—and facing the spotlight together can be as delicate as it is beautiful.

Warnings: Fluff; Private life / daily life; Media exposure; Insecurities and vulnerability; Healthy relationship

Note: This is my first time writing about Jude! I was listening to I Hope to Be Around by Men I Trust and it inspired me. I hope you enjoy it! Please forgive any mistakes—English isn’t my first language :3 I sometimes use translators, along with the words I already know.

masterlist!!!

—

The apartment was wrapped in the silence of the early hours. Outside, the city seemed to have slowed down, and the only sound filling the space was the insistent ticking of the clock on the wall. You were lying on your side, covered up to your shoulders, feeling the soft weight of hours that passed too slowly.

Beside you, Jude kept tossing and turning in bed. The sheets were already messy from his restlessness, and you noticed how his movements were short, impatient, as if he carried something he couldn’t let go of, not even in his sleep.

“You can’t switch off, can you?” your voice came out low, full of tenderness but also worry.

He stopped, now lying on his back, staring at the dark ceiling. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“No…” he confessed after a few seconds. “It feels like my head won’t give me a break. Training, pressure, people expecting more from me all the time… even in silence, it feels like they’re still watching.”

You moved closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. Warm skin, the familiar scent—everything about him was both comfort and contradiction. Jude always showed the world the secure side of himself, the one that looked unshakable. But here, in the dim glow of the room, you saw the twenty-two-year-old boy still learning how to carry his own weight.

“Love…” you whispered, sliding your hand across his chest, feeling the fast rhythm of his heart. “I’m here. You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

He closed his eyes, a long sigh slipping from his lips. For a few seconds, his body relaxed under your touch.

“I know,” he murmured. “But sometimes it’s hard to believe that I can just… stop. That I can just be me.”

You kissed his shoulder softly, as if every gesture was a reminder that there was no rush, no pressure between you.

“With me, you can,” you answered firmly, though with the sweetness only he knew.

Jude turned on his side to face you. Even in the shadows, his eyes reflected something vulnerable, a kind of exhaustion no victory on the field could erase. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together with an almost hesitant gentleness.

“Thank you for being this safe place,” he said quietly, as if it were a secret. “I don’t know if I could do it without you.”

You smiled faintly, pulling him closer until his body finally surrendered to your warmth. He rested his head on your chest, and for the first time that night, his breathing grew slow and steady.

You closed your eyes, letting his warmth spread through you, and you knew that this was the real meaning of being together: not erasing each other’s fears, but learning to share the weight of them.

In that moment, between sleep and wakefulness, there was only the two of you—and the silent promise that you would always be there for one another, even when the world tried to steal this calm from your hands.

The sun filtered through the curtains, flooding the room with a golden, lazy glow. You were the first to wake that morning, still lying on your side, watching Jude asleep beside you. His messy hair fell across his forehead, lips slightly parted, showing a vulnerability only few were lucky enough to see.

He looked at peace—and you knew how rare that was for him.

Carefully, you traced your fingertips along his face, from the line of his brow down to the curve of his jaw. Jude stirred slightly, eyes opening slowly, heavy with sleep.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, voice rough and low.

“Good morning,” you smiled. “Did you sleep well?”

He closed his eyes again, stretching his arm to pull you against him. His warmth made you curl closer.

“I slept better because you were here,” he replied without hesitation.

The honesty in his words warmed your chest. For a few minutes, you stayed like that, wrapped in the kind of silence only real love could create. But reality soon knocked at the door.

Jude’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he groaned. You knew what it meant—training, commitments, interviews… the world outside calling him back.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with his hands. You watched him, knowing this was the moment when the intimacy of your quiet mornings always gave way to the weight of responsibility.

“Some days I just wish I could switch everything off,” he said, staring at the phone without the courage to pick it up. “Pretend the world doesn’t exist.”

You got up too, grabbing his T-shirt from the floor and slipping it over your pajamas. You walked over, cupping his face in your hands.

“The world can wait a little,” you said firmly. “You need to live for yourself too, Jude.”

He smiled faintly, that smile that was almost an apology for carrying so much.

“Lucky me, having you to remind me of that.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“It’s not luck—it’s choice. You chose to let me be part of this.”

The words seemed to reach deep inside him. He pulled you onto his lap, holding you tight as if trying to carve this feeling into his memory before stepping out into cameras and eyes.

A few hours later, you were in the kitchen. Jude was still in pajama bottoms, distractedly making breakfast while you cut fruit. The scene was simple, almost ordinary—but you both knew simplicity was the greatest treasure.

Yet, as he bit into a piece of toast, Jude suddenly looked at you, his brown eyes serious.

“Love… I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What?” you asked, raising a brow.

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the consequences.

“Maybe it’s time we stop hiding so much. I want people to know you exist—that you’re part of my life.”

Your heart skipped a beat. The thought of exposure—of being seen not just as yourself but as “Jude Bellingham’s girlfriend”—was terrifying. The judgment, the comments, the intrusion. But looking at him in that moment, you knew this was genuine. He wanted to share not just the fears, but the happiness too.

You took a breath, setting the knife down on the board.

“Are you sure about this?”

“More than ever,” he replied without hesitation. “If the world’s going to watch me all the time, I want them to see you by my side.”

The silence that followed was heavy. But within it, you felt your heart open—because intimacy was no longer just about being together in the dark of your room. It was also about facing the light, together.

The night in Madrid was cold, but the streets still pulsed with life. Lights reflected on puddles left from the afternoon rain, and flashes sparked irregularly whenever someone recognized Jude. Until now, going out with him had always been an exercise in hiding—caps, hoods, quiet places. But this time was different.

This time, you weren’t hiding.

Jude walked beside you, his hand firmly intertwined with yours. With every step, you could feel the mix of nervousness and courage pulsing in him, as if the simple act of holding your hand was also a declaration.

“There’s still time to change your mind,” you whispered, giving his fingers a small squeeze.

He looked at you, a soft, almost calm smile appearing.

“I don’t want to change my mind,” he answered, voice deep but steady. “I’m done letting fear decide for me.”

You entered the restaurant, and immediately heads turned. Murmurs spread through the room like electricity. The waiters tried to keep composed, but it was impossible—the whole world seemed to be watching this moment.

At first, the weight of it pressed on you. Every move felt observed—the way you fixed your hair, the way you touched your wine glass. But then Jude, sitting right beside you, leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Forget them,” he murmured, low enough for only you. “Just look at me.”

And you did.

The rest of the dinner passed in waves, between soft conversations and quiet laughter. Sometimes you still felt the stares, but every time your eyes met his, everything fell back into place. There was a calmness in him that only appeared when he was with you—as if, somehow, even under the weight of expectations, he had found refuge.

When you left, standing at the restaurant’s entrance, camera flashes erupted like storms of light. Jude didn’t let go of your hand—in fact, he held it tighter, pulling you closer. The gesture wasn’t just protection, but affirmation.

“It’s okay,” he said, glancing quickly at the photographers before turning his gaze back to you. “I’ve got you.”

And in that instant, amidst the chaos of flashes and shouted questions, there was a silence that belonged only to the two of you. A silence that said more than words: that even in exposure, you would always find each other in that untouchable, intimate space.

Back in the car, finally away from the noise and the lights, Jude rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes.

“It went better than I thought,” he admitted, a small smile on his lips. “Because I wasn’t alone.”

You smiled, the weight of the moment turning into something light.

“And you never will be.”

He kissed you slowly, with a calmness that seemed to resist all the turmoil outside. And once again, you understood that being with him wasn’t just about sharing the easy days—it was about learning to be a safe place, even when the whole world tried to intrude.

The night before was still fresh in your memory. The flashes, the stares, the whispers. It all felt so far away now, though it had only happened a few hours ago. The world outside was buzzing about you, but inside the apartment, there was only silence—the comfort of being far from cameras.

You woke first. Jude was still asleep beside you, his arm heavy around your waist, his body pressed against yours as if he was afraid you might slip away. There was something almost childlike in the way he slept after long, intense days, and you couldn’t help but smile, watching the calm soften his features.

Carefully, you brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He stirred slightly but didn’t open his eyes.

“Staring at me again?” his voice came out low, sleep-rough, without even opening his eyes.

You laughed. “Maybe.”

He cracked one eye open lazily. “Kinda creepy, you know?”

“Then stop looking so handsome when you sleep,” you teased, biting back a laugh.

This time, he laughed too—that slow, warm laugh that made everything lighter. Then he pulled you closer, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Last night was madness,” he murmured, still half-asleep. “But when you held my hand, I knew it was gonna be okay.”

You sighed, remembering the rush of flashes and voices. Your heart still raced when you thought about how intense it all had been, but now, with him here, it didn’t seem so scary.

“I was scared too,” you admitted softly. “But in the end, all I could think about was that we were together.”

He lifted his head, his brown eyes locked on yours, and smiled with the calmness he only showed when he felt safe.

“That’s all that matters.”

For a moment, the outside world disappeared again. No headlines, no comments, no pressure. Just the two of you, lying in a room where time seemed to slow down.

Jude reached out for his phone on the nightstand, hesitating as the screen lit up with messages, notifications, missed calls. Then he locked it again and set it aside.

“Not today,” he said firmly, turning back to you. “The world can wait today.”

You smiled, cherishing the weight of his decision like a precious secret. He rested his head on your lap, and you began running your fingers slowly through his hair. The silence was filled only by his steady breathing, the simple comfort of being.

There, between the memory of exposure and the silent promise of being together, was a safe space—a pause where everything felt right, even if the future was uncertain.

And maybe that was exactly what you both needed: to learn how to find peace, even after the light.

[soupsosa08]

omg damson, tyler, rocky, giveon and jide

[soupsosa08]

Wrong guy — Hobie Brown X Reader

Synopsis: Y/N has always lived a controlled, predictable life — every detail of her day meticulously planned. That is, until Hobie Brown, the city’s rebellious Spider-Punk, crosses her path. From unexpected encounters in the streets and subtle provocations at school to intense moments in the library, Hobie challenges her rules, breaking boundaries with charm, audacity, and a chaotic energy impossible to resist.

As Y/N gradually gives in to his presence, stolen kisses, and playful touches, she discovers that some experiences can’t be planned — they must be lived. Amid the chaos and rebellion, she finds herself drawn irresistibly to the one she thought was “the wrong guy.”

Warnings: Romance; Flirting; Kissing; Touching; Mild Rebellion; Emotional Tension

Note: Hi everyone! I wrote this inspired by a song from a Brazilian singer, “Garoto Errado” by Manu Gavassi. this song is soooo Hobie. I hope you enjoy it, and sorry for any spelling mistakes! English isn’t my first language.

Masterlist!!!

You had always had an almost religious relationship with your routine.
The alarm went off at 6:30 a.m., but your body insisted on waking up two minutes earlier — as if even your sleep obeyed your discipline.
Get up, open the curtains, put the water to heat, prepare the tea.
Sit down with your planner open, blue pen for daily notes, black for titles. The colors weren’t random — there was a system. A code only you understood.

Your wardrobe reflected that same organization: carefully kept pieces, neutral colors, thoughtfully planned combinations. You never left the house in a hurry or on a whim. Everything had to be in its place, and that gave you the feeling that nothing could surprise you.

But that day, the city decided to ignore your planning.

Rain had been falling since early morning, painting the sky a uniform gray. The smell of wet earth mingled with the aroma of coffee from bakeries whose glass doors were still fogged up.

You crossed the street with a floral umbrella in one hand and a cappuccino in the other, the sound of your heeled boots echoing rhythmically on the sidewalk. You were so focused on mentally reviewing your schedule that you almost didn’t notice the figure crossing your path.

Almost.

First came the sound: the weight of heavy boots striking the concrete, a slow but confident step. Then, the image: worn black jeans, a leather jacket covered in patches and metal pins, and long dreadlocks falling over his shoulders, some tied with tiny metallic beads that reflected the faint light of the streetlamp.

He didn’t look at you — not once. Yet there was something about him that caught your attention like an invisible hook.

The wind shifted a few of his dreads, and the smell lingering in the air was unexpected: rain, leather, and a hint of burnt wood.

You blinked and kept walking, telling yourself it wasn’t worth thinking about him.
But that night, the image of him crossing the street would return more times than you were willing to admit.

Two days later, chance didn’t just repeat the encounter — it intensified it.

It was Friday night, and the evening class had just started a few minutes earlier. The professor was explaining a concept for the third time, and you were there, notebook open, handwriting aligned, highlighter strategically used.

Then the door opened.

The metallic sound of the doorknob echoed through the silence, and everyone turned to look.

He entered unhurriedly. The same black jeans, the same leather jacket. His dreads swayed slightly with each step, some decorated with colorful threads and small silver rings. He had an old notebook under his arm and headphones hanging around his neck.

He sat at the back, letting his body sink into the chair as if arriving late was the most natural thing in the world.

You tried to ignore him, but your eyes betrayed your intention. He scribbled something on the pages, head down, the tip of a dread falling in front of his face. You couldn’t see what he was drawing, but there was a focus there that contrasted sharply with his casual posture.

When class ended, you packed your things slowly — pens in the case, notebook aligned. It was then you noticed him standing next to you.

— You’re the rules girl, huh? — His voice was deep and drawn-out, with an accent that made each word feel like a challenge.

You looked up, confused.
— Rules girl?

He leaned one hand on the desk beside you, his body angling slightly toward yours.
— Always on time. Clean notebook, blue pen for notes, black for titles… I bet even your highlighter has a priority code. Did I get that right?

You felt a pang of pride and another of irritation.
— And you? The boy who doesn’t even know how to hold a highlighter?

A corner of his mouth curled into a smile.
— I’m the wrong boy.

You tried to pass him, but he took a step, closing the distance. Your shoulders nearly touched, and the smell of leather and rain hit you again.

He tilted his head, his gaze locked on yours as if trying to decipher something.
— And that’s exactly why you won’t be able to stay away.

Without waiting for a response, he left the room, his dreads swinging with his movement.

In the following days, Hobie — now you knew his name — seemed to have a gift for appearing wherever you were. Leaning against a hallway wall, one foot propped behind him. Crossing the street at the exact same moment as you.

He didn’t talk much, but he was always there, as if waiting for the right moment to mess up your perfectly organized world.

And, although you still denied it to yourself, something inside you already knew: he wasn’t just the wrong boy. He was your wrong type.

From the first encounter in the classroom, Hobie seemed to have developed a personal hobby: testing your limits.
It was as if he had a special radar that sensed exactly when you were comfortable… and, on purpose, moved a little closer to mess it up.

On Tuesday, for example, you were standing at the bulletin board, checking a listing for the internship you had been dreaming about. You felt the cool morning air and were completely focused on the printed letters… until you felt something behind you.

More precisely, someone.

The warmth of a body approaching, the familiar scent of wet leather and a faint trace of smoke.
— “What are you looking at there, goody-two-shoes?” — he murmured, and the deep timbre of his voice came so close that you felt a dread brush against your shoulder.

You took a deep breath, straightening your posture.
— “None of your business.”

He chuckled low.
— “Everything in this city is my business. Including you.”

You turned to face him, but he had already taken a step back, hands in his pockets, that lazy smirk on his lips. His gaze didn’t waver — it never did. It was as if he had all the time in the world to study you.

In the following days, the routine repeated itself, but always with variations that left you even more disarmed.

One day, he leaned against the wall next to your desk in the hallway and peeked at your notebook.
— “I’m telling you… your handwriting looks like it came from an old recipe book. Makes me want to frame it.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the fact that he was close enough for your arm to brush against the rough hem of his jacket.
— “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or if you’re calling me old.”

He gave a slow smile.
— “It’s a compliment. But, if you want, I can find a way to get rid of your goody-two-shoes reputation.”

It was on a Friday night that he crossed the invisible line between “teasing” and “invading your personal space deliberately.”

You were at the water fountain, filling your bottle, when you felt two large hands land on your waist — firm, but not rough. He had come from behind, his chest pressing against your back as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

— “Relax, I’m just passing by…” — his voice was slow, almost dragged, but there was no hurry to pull away.

You turned your head to look over your shoulder, and ended up brushing your face against one of the dreads that fell over him. Hobie gave an almost imperceptible smile, as if he were amused by your reaction.

— “Do you always get this tense when someone touches you?” — he asked, leaning a little closer, his chin nearly brushing the top of your head.

You swallowed hard, trying to stay calm.
— “When it’s you… yes.”

He let out a low laugh, almost a purr.
— “Then I guess I’ll have to do this more often.”

And he left, as if nothing had happened, leaving you leaning against the fountain, trying to remember how to breathe.

Hobie seemed to have a special talent: he didn’t steal your time, he stole your air.
And the more you tried to keep your distance, the more you realized you were already leaning — even if just a little — toward him.

The following week, you had already gotten used to hearing Hobie’s steps in the hallway before he even appeared. He wasn’t exactly discreet — the chains on his pants jingled, the leather creaked, and sometimes he drummed some punk beat with his fingers on the walls.

It was Tuesday when he leaned against the classroom door, completely ignoring the professor inside, and gestured for you to come.
— “Come on.”

You frowned, closing your notebook.
— “Now? Class barely started.”

He shrugged, the insolent smile on his face.
— “Class will happen tomorrow. I’m calling you today.”

You hesitated, but he was already turning his back, striding down the hallway with long steps. Something inside you said to stay… but that “something” lost badly to curiosity.

He led you to the back of the school — that half-abandoned area, with graffiti-covered walls and the smell of rain puddles.
— “Welcome to the pretty side of the city,” — he said, spreading his arms as if presenting a work of art.

You crossed your arms.
— “Pretty isn’t the word I’d use.”

— “That’s because you look at everything with a ruler and compass. This place is meant to be felt, not measured.”

Before you could answer, he pulled a red spray paint from his pocket and started tagging the wall without a word. The strokes were quick, decisive, forming what looked like a stylized lightning bolt through a heart.

— “That’s vandalism,” — you remarked, even though you knew he didn’t care.

He smiled without looking at you.
— “This is art.”

When he finished, he turned and rested a hand on the wall next to your head, leaning close. The dreads fell slightly forward, and you could smell the faint metallic scent of paint mixed with his aroma.

— “You live in such a neat little world… but I bet part of you wants to break a few rules.” — His voice came lower, almost a challenge.

You tried to maintain composure, but he leaned just a little closer, enough to make your heart race.
— “Afraid of getting dirty, goody-two-shoes?”

— “No.” — your reply came too quickly.

He laughed, pressing his forehead against yours for a second.
— “Good to know. Because I don’t usually ask permission.”

The next moment, he stepped back, but not entirely — his hands still held your waist firmly. You noticed Hobie had this habit of touching as if it were his right, as if the space between you never truly belonged only to you.

— “Next week there’s a show in the basement on 9th Street. Good band. Chaos guaranteed.” — He spoke, eyes fixed on yours. — “And you’re coming with me.”

— “I… I don’t know if…”

— “That wasn’t a question, Y/N.” — He said, that dangerous smile making it seem like everything about him was a challenge.

And he left again, leaving behind the scent of paint, the distant sound of chains, and the uncomfortable — and thrilling — feeling that you had already started saying “yes” long before you realized it.

The subway to 9th Street was already a small adventure. Hobie entered the car as if he owned the place — taking up space, dreads swaying, broad shoulders under a studded leather jacket. You tried to convince yourself you were there just for the experience, for the “different,” nothing more.

But every time the subway swayed and you brushed against each other, the justification felt weaker.

— “Nervous?” — he asked, that crooked half-smile on his face.

— “No.” — you lied, adjusting the strap of your bag.

— “Good. Because tonight’s going to be loud. And noise is what keeps us alive.” — He winked, before grabbing your hand as you reached the station.

The “basement” on 9th Street wasn’t exactly a sanctioned venue. The entrance was a rusty iron door, hidden between a storage unit and an alley. Inside, the air was dense, smelling of beer, smoke, and sweat. The walls were covered in torn posters, scribbled setlists, and graffiti so colorful it seemed alive.

The sound of the band already echoed through the space — distorted guitars, fast drums, bass pulsing against your chest.

Hobie turned to you and, without asking, removed your jacket and draped it over your shoulders.
— “It’s cold in here… and I don’t want you all hunched up.”

You felt the warmth of him still clinging to the fabric and tried to ignore how much it affected you.

The band started playing louder, and the crowd moved like an uncontrolled tide. Hobie made his way through with ease, using his body to shield you from others, occasionally placing his arm around your waist to keep people from bumping into you.

And that’s when the problem started.

Because the touch wasn’t just protective. It was firm, warm, as if he wanted you to know he was there — and only there.

In the middle of a song, he leaned his mouth near your ear to say something, and the shock of his deep voice mixed with the guitar’s volume made you shiver.
— “Trying not to smile, goody-two-shoes. I see it.”

— “I’m not…” — you began, but he was already laughing.

The chorus exploded, lights flashing in red and purple tones, and Hobie pulled you closer until you felt the chains on his pants brush against your leg.

He shouted the lyrics with the band, eyes closed, and suddenly seemed… free. So alive, so different from anything you knew, it hurt realizing it was impossible not to look at him.

At one point, a girl in the crowd bumped into him on purpose, laughing, and Hobie just gave a short wave before placing his hand on the back of your neck, bringing your face closer to his.
— “Better this way. I don’t want anyone stealing my company.”

You wanted to say he was exaggerating, but the words stuck. Because the way he held you wasn’t a joke — it was possession.

And you weren’t supposed to like it. But you did.

The next song started, even heavier, and he held your hand, intertwining your fingers.
— “Don’t try to run now, okay?” — he said, that teasing tone.

You knew that if you stayed, the chances of falling for him would grow. And you didn’t want that. He was the opposite of everything you always sought: chaotic, unpredictable, dangerous in a way that went beyond leather jackets.

But every time his eyes met yours, you forgot about the “after.”

There was only now — the warmth, the sound, his smile as you finally let yourself sing along.

And maybe… just maybe… it was too late to fight it.

The show ended with one last piercing chord that seemed to vibrate into your bones. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, and you were slightly out of breath — unsure if it was from the heat or Hobie’s constant presence.

He didn’t rush to leave. He stood, staring at the empty stage as if absorbing every second. Then he looked at you, and the smile that appeared was the one you were beginning to recognize: dangerous, slow, loaded with intention.

— “Enjoyed it?” — he asked, voice still hoarse from singing.

— “It was… interesting.” — you replied, trying to stay neutral.

He tilted his head, observing you as if reading your thoughts.
— “Interesting… is that what you call it when you mean you loved it but don’t want to admit it?”

You huffed, turning your face.
— “It’s what I call it when I don’t want to feed your ego.”

He laughed low, a deep sound that sent shivers down your neck.
— “My ego doesn’t need feeding, love. But you…” — he leaned closer, stopping just inches away — “you’re making me hungry.”

Before you could respond, Hobie took your hand and started guiding you out. The street was cold, lit only by dim lampposts and a few shop windows.

The walk to the subway was silent — at least on your part. Hobie, however, talked about music, politics, about how certain bands had changed his life. You pretended not to listen closely, but memorized every detail.

On the subway, the car was almost empty. Hobie sat on the bench and patted the seat beside him.
— “I don’t bite… unless you ask me to.”

You rolled your eyes but sat down. Mistake. Because he leaned against the seat, legs open, his knee brushing yours. A simple touch, but calculated.

— “What exactly are you trying to convince me of?” — you asked, staring forward.

— “That you shouldn’t fight it.” — He leaned close, voice low, too near your ear. — “Not me.”

You took a deep breath, turning to look at him.
— “And if I say I don’t want to?”

He smirked, that smile that said, “I know more than you’re admitting.”
— “Then I say you’re lying.”

The subway braked, and you almost lost your balance. Hobie used the moment to place his hand on your waist, holding firmly.
— “See?” — he said, thumb lightly stroking your skin under your shirt. — “I always catch you when you’re about to fall.”

— “That’s not how it works.” — you retorted, but your voice came out lower than intended.

— “Exactly how it works.” — He kept his hand there, in no rush to let go. — “I’ll be here, whether you want me to or not.”

The final station arrived too quickly. You exited and walked side by side. Near your street, he stopped.
— “Can I walk you to the door?” — he asked.

— “No need.”

— “I know I don’t need to.” — He took a step closer, closing the distance. — “But I want to.”

The silence between you was dense. He was so close you could smell him — something between leather, smoke, and a woody perfume that didn’t match the chaotic image, but matched him.

Hobie leaned in, not enough for a kiss, but enough for you to feel his breath brush your lips.
— “You’ll give in.” — he said, almost challengingly. — “Just don’t know if it’ll be today or tomorrow.”

And, as if he hadn’t just set your thoughts on fire, he stepped back, hands in pockets, and started walking the opposite way.

You stood there, trying to convince yourself you were still in control. But deep down, you knew he was winning the game.

The following days were a torment disguised as routine. You kept trying to maintain distance, but Hobie seemed to appear everywhere �� the hallway, the library, the school café. Always with that teasing smile, always with the dreads swaying, always managing to touch your waist almost imperceptibly.

On Friday afternoon, the inevitable happened. You were alone on the rooftop, trying to breathe in the fresh air and organize your thoughts, when you heard those familiar steps.

— “Wait… you’re here alone?” — his voice cut through the silence.

You turned, closing your book quickly, trying to look serious.
— “Just… getting some fresh air.”

— “Fresh air, or trying not to think about me?” — He took a step closer, his knee brushing yours in a calculated way. — “Because I feel like you’re wasting time.”

You sighed, trying to hold your gaze, but his eyes were a magnet.
— “Hobie, you’re impossible.”

— “And you’ll find out impossible is my specialty.” — He smiled, leaning slightly, so close you could feel each other’s breath. — “But you… you’re not exactly easy either.”

The air between you felt electric. Every movement of his was deliberate: a step, a touch of his hands, the tip of his dreads brushing your face, the sensation of his body so close. You tried to step back, but he held your hands, pulling you slowly, almost in slow motion.

— “Stop fighting it, Y/N.” — He said, voice low, almost a whisper. — “You want… you know you want it.”

You swallowed hard, trying to resist, but every word, every touch, every look chipped away at your defenses. Finally, you let out a breath and leaned a little closer, giving in.

He smiled, that slow, victorious grin, without rushing. He placed one hand on the back of your neck, bringing his face closer.
— “Ready?” — he murmured, warm breath brushing your skin.

You nodded slightly, your heart racing.

Then his lips met yours for the first time without teasing or games. The kiss was intense, unhurried — full of care and desire. One hand pressed lightly on your waist, while the other caressed your neck. His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.

You responded, giving yourself to the touch, to the heat radiating from him. The tension built over days, weeks, dissolved with every movement, every shared sigh.

— “I waited for you to give in… but it was worth every second,” he murmured between kisses, making you laugh softly, caught between surprise and pleasure.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes sparkling with intensity.
— “Now you’re mine,” he said firmly, but with that softness only Hobie knew how to put in his words.

You laughed, hands on his shoulders, pulling him back into another kiss, this one deeper, more certain, more yours.
— “Maybe…” — you started, but he interrupted with another kiss, a quiet laugh against your lips.

The rest of the world disappeared. There were no rules, no distance, only the two of you — the goody-two-shoes girl finally surrendered to the irresistible chaos of Hobie Brown, the Spider-Punk you didn’t yet fully know, but who already had a piece of your heart.

The library, quiet and filled with old books, seemed like the last place you expected to find Hobie. Between tall shelves, the smell of paper and polished wood surrounding you, you were trying to focus on studying, but the familiar sound of boots softly hitting the floor caught your attention.

— “Hey there, goody-two-shoes?” — his voice whispered behind you.

You nearly choked on surprise. You slowly turned and there he was, leaning against a shelf, dreads falling over his shoulders, studded leather jacket, that crooked smile that made your heart race.

— “What are you doing here?” — you asked, trying to stay calm.

— “The same as you: studying.” — He replied, running his fingers over the nearby books and then resting his arm on the shelf just enough to corner you. — “But looks like you need a little distraction.”

You sighed, trying to move away, but he leaned slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. The warmth of his body contrasted with the cool library air, keeping every muscle alert.

As you tried to return to your reading, Hobie began to tease you subtly. One arm draped over the back of your chair, his knee lightly brushing yours, fingers resting gently on the table when picking up a book. He murmured near your ear about trivia from the books, mixing teasing with compliments.

— “You really think you can focus here?” — he asked, leaning in until his nose nearly touched your neck. — “Because I’ve already lost this battle… and you haven’t even noticed.”

You tried to retreat, but every step seemed followed by him, shrinking the distance almost deliberately. Deep down, you felt yourself giving in — just not wanting to admit it.

At one point, Hobie leaned even closer, resting his hands on the table on each side of your body, cornering you gently but impossible to ignore.
— “I can distract you in many ways…” — he murmured, low and husky. — “But I promise none of them will be boring.”

You breathed deeply, trying to stay composed, but the racing heart and his warmth were too much. Before you could protest, he leaned in, lips brushing yours, first as a casual touch, then more intensely when he noticed you weren’t pulling away.

Your arms found his waist automatically, pulling him closer. The kiss was slow, teasing, full of tension and promise, yet tender, as if he knew exactly how far he could go.

— “See?” — he whispered against your lips, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. — “You can’t escape me.”

You laughed softly, feeling his arms wrap around your body from behind, fingers intertwining with yours, finally letting yourself relax. He was chaos, provocation, and safety all at once — impossible to resist.

The rest of the time in the library passed between whispers, stolen kisses, and tight embraces, as you both balanced between tension and playfulness. Hobie was determined to claim every little piece of you, and for the first time, you stopped fighting, surrendering to the small gestures and his presence.

The outside world could wait; in that space of books and silence broken by laughter and shared breaths, it was just the two of you.

When you finally left the library, the sun was already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The walk to the nearby park seemed simple, but for you, it was impossible to ignore Hobie’s presence at your side. Every step measured distance, every light touch made your heart race without being intrusive.

— “So… studying hard, huh?” — he said, leaning his shoulder casually against yours. — “Or just trying to focus while thinking about me?”

You tried to laugh, looking away.
— “I… I’m just studying, Hobie.”

— “Sure…” — he murmured, smiling mischievously. — “But I know when you’re lying.”

Before you could answer, he leaned slightly, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, a small gesture loaded with intention. You regretted not being prepared for it, but couldn’t resist the warmth spreading through your body.

In the park, he pulled you onto a secluded bench, away from prying eyes. Sitting side by side, every movement he made seemed to brush you closer: his arm grazing yours, fingers lightly touching yours, his body leaning nearer under the pretense of pointing something out in the books you brought.

— “You know…” — he began, low and husky — “I could stay here all day just looking at you.”

You nearly choked, trying to remain composed, but he laughed softly, pulling your arm into a side hug. The warmth of his body enveloped you, your heart racing with every touch.

— “Hobie…” — you started, but he interrupted with a quick, almost stolen kiss on your lips.
— “Just testing,” — he murmured, pulling back just slightly. — “But seems like you like it more than you want to admit.”

You smiled, unable to deny it, responding with another kiss, longer, more confident, matching his intensity. He held your face in his hands, fitting his lips to yours, exploring every touch, every sigh. The embrace tightened, bodies molding together as the evening breeze played with his dreads and your hair.

Even after parting briefly, Hobie stayed close, his fingers intertwining with yours, eyes sparkling with mischief and care.
— “I told you, you can’t escape me.” — he murmured, forehead resting against yours.

— “Maybe I don’t want to escape anymore…” — you replied, smiling.

He laughed, low and husky, and before you could speak, pulled you into another tight hug, stealing another kiss, deeper, intense, yet still tender.

You stayed that way for a while, between laughter, whispers, and stolen kisses. The park was now lit by soft artificial lights. The world seemed to shrink around you, leaving only warmth, touch, and each other’s presence.

— “This…” — he said, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, eyes gleaming — “is only the beginning.”

You smiled, feeling the implicit promise in every word, every touch, every kiss. You knew there was still resistance, inner rules, but with Hobie Brown, the beautiful chaos he brought was impossible to ignore.

And there, on that bench, hands intertwined and bodies close, you realized you were happy to lose yourself in him — at least for now.

[soupsosa08]

wemby is so cute omggggg i cant

[soupsosa08]

Lew with Grillz <3

[soupsosa08]

Hey you :)

I loved the length of my last request and I have a new idea for Lewis :)

She (28) is friends with Max and they meet at a party. Although Max and Lewis have a history, Max sees the way they look at eachother and decide to play matchmaker, because he wants the reader happy and knows Lewis is a good man.

The whole grid gets in on it and ship them, so they make a cute plan to get them together :)

This would be lovely :)

Have a nice day :)

Behind the Grid — Lewis Hamilton X Reader

Synopsis: After a Monaco GP win, the rooftop afterparty sets the stage for something unexpected. Under the watchful (and mischievous) eyes of the F1 grid, you find yourself drawn into a quiet game of coincidences involving Lewis Hamilton — the glances, the slow dances, the late-night conversations by the marina. What begins as harmless matchmaking turns into something neither of you can brush off. In the glow of city lights and whispered confessions, you realize some races are worth running slowly.

Warnings: Flirtation and light physical intimacy (kissing, touching); meddling friends dynamic; Alcohol-free drinks and party setting; Implied mature themes (no smut)

Note: Heyyy, I hope you enjoy this one! I think it t urned out even longer than the last chapter lol.

Masterlist!!!!

The post-GP party was held on the rooftop of an elegant building in Monaco, with a panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea illuminated by the city lights reflecting off the dark surface of the water. The cool air carried the gentle scent of the salty breeze mixed with the aroma of white flowers that decorated the space delicately. Hanging amber-toned lights created an intimate atmosphere, perfect for half-lit conversations and laughter.

You were there, 28 years old, wearing a deep wine-colored dress with flowing fabric that played with your movements, your hair down in natural waves. Lounge music filled the air, blending soft beats with the light energy of guests chatting, toasting, and enjoying the night.

Max Verstappen was by your side — as always, that friend who seemed to understand you in a way very few did. He looked relaxed, in a plain black t-shirt and dark jeans, with an easy smile and a curious gaze that didn’t stop scanning the room.

“See that corner over there?” Max nodded discreetly toward where Lewis Hamilton was talking to a small group. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised, and glanced toward the spot he’d indicated. Lewis looked sharp — white shirt, black trousers, calm and imposing posture, with that signature demeanor of someone who seemed to have everything under control yet hid a quiet intensity in his gaze.

“Is it just me, or is he avoiding direct eye contact?” you replied with a small, shy smile, swirling the sparkling water in your glass.

Max chuckled. “Just you? Not at all. Honestly, I don’t think it’s just shyness. More like… respect. Maybe even admiration. But, I mean, you know the history. That 2021 rivalry left its marks.”

You both went on talking about the race, strategies, and the latest grid updates, but Max’s eyes always drifted back toward Lewis — and the way he kept stealing glances at you.

More drivers trickled in throughout the night, laughter and greetings weaving into the party’s rhythm. Charles, Lando, George, and Alex passed by, and Max took every opportunity to quietly introduce you, almost as if he were presenting someone very special.

“You should get to know Charles better,” Max whispered. “He’s a great guy and knows a ton about sustainability — your thing.”

You smiled, appreciating the thought, but noticed a particular sparkle in Max’s eyes — a silent will to make something happen.

Lewis stayed discreet but attentive. At one point, he stood near the bar, and Max approached him with the calm of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

“Mate, let’s make tonight memorable for you two,” Max murmured, glancing toward you as you laughed with friends.

Lewis nodded, a faint but restrained smile curling on his lips.

You didn’t yet realize the grid had begun a lighthearted conspiracy — creating moments for you and Lewis to be close, talk, and break the ice. A quiet plan built on knowing glances, casual invitations, and playful nudges between drivers.

The clock neared midnight, the rooftop buzzing with a more relaxed energy. Conversations loosened, the music shifted to a groovy beat, and the moonlight shimmered over the sea. You stood by a snack table with Lando, laughing at a ridiculous training story, when Max appeared in the background, signaling to Lando: it was time.

“Hey, Y/N,” Lando said suddenly, pointing to the bar. “Have you tried the fruit mocktail they’re serving? Total Lewis vibe — no alcohol, all healthy ingredients. He even asked for the recipe.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “No, but now I want to.”

“Perfect,” Lando grinned, waving to Lewis.

George, catching the signal, stepped back so Lewis could turn and see you. After a brief pause, Lewis set his drink down and walked toward the bar.

“Hi,” he said in a calm, low voice, almost shy. “Lando said you wanted to try the drink. It’s simple but… good.”

He ordered two glasses, standing beside you as the colorful mix was prepared. The sweet scent of passion fruit and mint drifted up between you.

“It’s different,” he said, handing you a glass. “No alcohol, but flavorful enough not to taste like plain juice.”

You took a sip, the freshness bursting on your tongue. “Wow… you’ve got good taste.”

His lips curved in a faint smile. For a moment, you stood in quiet comfort, watching the party together.

From across the room, Charles and Max exchanged smirks. “They even match in posture,” Charles teased.

“Patience,” Max replied. “First the drink, then the dance.”

Soon after, a slower song began, and George’s voice cut through: “Lewis, do you dance?” Loud enough for you to hear.

Lewis hesitated. “I usually don’t…”

“Come on,” George grinned. “Y/N probably dances better than you. Learn something.”

Lewis looked at you, almost asking permission. You laughed. “I’m no pro, but I can teach you a few steps.”

He took your hand. On the dance floor, under the hanging lights and soft breeze, your movements were small, but close enough to feel his warmth.

From there, the night unraveled in little orchestrated moments — a silly word game that forced you to sit close, shared drinks Max “forgot” to bring duplicates of, and a group photo where you and Lewis just happened to be in the middle.

By the time the party thinned out, Max lured you down a quieter corridor “to show you something.” You turned the corner to find Lewis by the window, the city lights reflecting off the marina.

Max patted your shoulder, grinning. “You two know each other — I’ll leave you to it.”

The view was breathtaking — and so was the quiet. Shoulder to shoulder, you spoke softly about how places like this felt like a breath of fresh air. There was no rush, no heavy flirting, just the kind of quiet intensity that doesn’t need explanation.

When your eyes met, the weight of it was undeniable.

“Maybe tonight was worth it,” Lewis murmured.

Later, back in the main area, Max spun you lightly into Lewis’s arms under the pretense of a dance. This time, the closeness deepened. His hand at your waist, your fingers brushing his neck, the faint scent of his cologne — it all blurred the room around you

“They’re still watching,” he said.

“And if I don’t care?” you replied.

His hand slid to your nape, pulling you into a slow, deliberate kiss. Not hurried — but enough to say nothing would be the same afterward.

Hours later, in the quiet of your hotel room, the conversation lingered between teasing and confession. Lewis admitted, “I want to know you more than I should.”

The kiss that followed was deeper, more urgent, but still controlled — as if savoring the inevitability.

By the time you finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, you both knew: you’d just ruined whatever plan the others had for you.

And neither of you minded.

[soupsosa08]

A Night to Remember — MICHAEL B JORDAN X READER

Synopsis: What was supposed to be a quiet evening at home turns into a whirlwind of laughter, tension, and soft touches when you and Michael B. Jordan get caught in the middle of an unexpected power outage. As the darkness settles in, the two of you discover that sometimes the most memorable moments happen when the world forces you to slow down.

Warnings: Fluff with a hint of spice, domestic setting, playful banter, physical affection, slow-burn tension, mentions of intimacy (no smut)

Note: I’m so hungry, I could eat Michael B. Jordan

masterlist!

The rain had been falling all afternoon, and by the time the evening came, the steady drumming against the windows had become almost hypnotic. You were curled up on the couch with a blanket over your legs, the faint smell of the lasagna you had baked earlier still lingering in the air.

Michael walked in from the kitchen with two glasses of red wine, wearing a fitted black t-shirt that clung just right to his shoulders and chest. “For my favorite girl,” he said, handing you the glass with that lopsided smile that always made your heart skip a beat.

“Your only girl,” you teased, taking a sip.

He smirked, sitting next to you and slipping an arm behind your shoulders. “Still my favorite.”

The two of you talked about your days, about his upcoming filming schedule, and about how you were both overdue for a proper vacation. Every so often, his fingers would absentmindedly trace small patterns on your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine.

Just when you leaned in to kiss him, the lights flickered — and then went out completely.

You laughed softly in the darkness. “Great. Romantic mood lighting courtesy of the city.”

Michael chuckled, already standing up. “Don’t move, I’ll get some candles.” You could hear him rummaging through the kitchen drawers until he returned, lighting one after another. The warm, golden glow filled the room, making the shadows dance on his face.

“You know,” he said, settling back down beside you, “I’m not mad at this. Just you, me, the rain, and no distractions.”

You smiled, pulling the blanket over both of you. “Feels like the universe is telling us to slow down.”

The conversation melted into comfortable silence as you leaned your head on his shoulder. He rested his cheek against your hair, his hand finding yours under the blanket. The occasional clap of thunder seemed to draw you closer together.

Then, out of nowhere, he whispered, “I’ve been thinking about how lucky I am lately.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, his face half-lit by the candlelight. “Lucky how?”

“Lucky that you’re here. That after all the noise, all the chaos… I get to come home to this.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and deliberate

Your breath caught — not because it was unexpected, but because he meant it. You could see it in the way he looked at you, as though you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

He leaned in then, pressing his forehead to yours. The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed or urgent. It was deep, warm, and laced with the kind of affection that only came from knowing someone’s heart inside and out.

When you finally pulled away, the candles had burned lower, and the rain outside had softened to a drizzle. You rested against him again, his arm pulling you close.

“Promise me,” you murmured sleepily, “that even when the lights are on… we’ll still have nights like this.”

Michael kissed the top of your head. “Promise.”

And just like that, in the quiet warmth of the candlelight, you realized this was the kind of love you’d never let go of.

[soupsosa08]

The Midnight Painter — Lewis Hamilton X Reader

Synopsis: In the quiet hours of the night, Y/N, a passionate painter, wakes up overwhelmed by inspiration and can’t resist capturing it on canvas. Unbeknownst to her, Lewis Hamilton is awake too, quietly watching her creative flow. When he finds her, he gently carries her back to bed, reminding her that some moments — and rest — are just as important as art. A tender, intimate glimpse into the beautiful balance between love and passion.

Warnings: Fluff; Light romantic tension; Intimate but sweet moments

Note: writing this late at night because insomnia hit me, and I remembered an interview where Madonna said Basquiat used to wake up to paint in the middle of the night while she just wanted to sleep lol (miss him sooo muuch)

masterlist!!!!

It was well past midnight when the first flicker of inspiration struck.

You opened your eyes in the dim silence of your apartment, the moonlight spilling in through the open curtains. The rest of the world was asleep, but your mind was humming, restless. There was a painting inside you, clawing to get out, and you knew if you didn’t pick up your brush now, it would be gone by morning.

Quietly, you slipped out from under the sheets, careful not to wake Lewis. His breathing was slow, peaceful — the kind of deep, even rhythm that came only after long days of training and media obligations. You smiled softly at the sight of him, his curls a little messy against the pillow, before tiptoeing into your studio.

The scent of turpentine and linseed oil wrapped around you like an old friend. You lit the small desk lamp in the corner, dim enough not to spill into the bedroom, and pulled out a fresh canvas. Your hands moved on instinct — sweeping strokes of cobalt blue, a splash of ochre, the lightest hint of white where the moon would hit.

What you didn’t know was that Lewis wasn’t as deeply asleep as you thought. Years of racing had trained him to wake at the slightest shift in energy. When he reached out in the dark and felt the empty space beside him, he opened his eyes, listening. The faint sound of bristles scratching across canvas reached his ears.

He rubbed his face, smiling to himself. Of course you were painting.

Barefoot and still warm from bed, he padded across the apartment, leaning against the studio doorway. He didn’t say anything at first — just watched you. Your hair was falling loose over your shoulders, a faint crease still visible on your cheek from the pillow. There was an intensity in your eyes that made his chest tighten — you, completely lost in your art, unaware of anything else.

“Y/N…” his voice was a low murmur.

You froze mid-stroke, glancing over your shoulder. “Lewis, I didn’t mean to wake you—”

He shook his head, stepping into the room. “You didn’t. But you’re supposed to be sleeping, love.”

“I just had this idea,” you whispered, almost apologetic. “I didn’t want to lose it.”

He moved closer until he was right behind you, his hands brushing over your arms. “The idea will still be there in the morning,” he said, voice soft but firm. Then, with a mischievous smirk, he added, “But you won’t be if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Before you could protest, Lewis bent slightly, slipping one arm under your knees and the other around your back. In one smooth motion, he lifted you off the stool.

“Lewis! Put me down—” you giggled, your brush still clutched in one hand.

“Nope,” he said, the word drawn out with playful stubbornness. “Midnight painters get carried back to bed. That’s the rule.”

You rolled your eyes but melted into his chest, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. He carried you effortlessly through the apartment, the warmth of him seeping into your skin.

Back in the bedroom, he set you down gently on the bed, tucking the blanket around you as if you were something fragile. Then he climbed in beside you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist.

“Finish it tomorrow,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll be your first critic in the morning.”

You smiled, already sinking back into sleep, thinking that maybe the painting could wait — but moments like this couldn’t.

[soupsosa08]

THE INSANE FACECARD OMG HI HELLO 😭😭😭😭😩😩😩😩😩

[soupsosa08]

Between Desire and Devotion — Damson Idris X Reader

Synopsis: After a long day in London, Y/N finally arrives at Damson Idris's apartment, where passion, tenderness, and a deep connection await her. Known for his charm and intensity both on and off screen, Damson isn't just a boyfriend — he's a lover who knows exactly how to balance love and desire. In a night full of teasing touches, whispered promises, and raw intimacy, Y/N discovers just how deep their bond goes — beyond the surface, between desire and devotion.

Warnings: Mature content (A little bit explicit scenes); Adult themes; Consensual intimacy

Note: Writing about Damson for the first time — and wow, he’s absolutely stunning. Like, seriously, how is someone this gorgeous? Can’t get over his vibe and presence. Totally obsessed already.

masterlist!!!

The rain was softly tapping against the windows as you finally stepped into Damson’s apartment, exhausted from a long, hectic day. As the door closed behind you, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee mixed with his cologne filled the air — a combination that immediately made you relax. Damson stood in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, showing off his bronzed skin and that mischievous grin that always melted you.

“Look who’s back,” he said, pulling you into a tight embrace. “I’ve been missing this face all day.”

You returned the hug, resting your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“I missed you too,” you whispered. “Today was crazy.”

He held you tighter, and when he pulled back to look at you, his eyes shifted from soft to something more intense, almost predatory, and that playful smile appeared.

“Then I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?”

Before you could respond, he pulled you closer by the waist, pressing his body against yours and kissing you deeply. The kiss started slow and exploratory but quickly became urgent, as if all the built-up longing was being released at once.

Damson slid his hands over your body, removing your jacket with one hand while the other tangled gently in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your neck. He planted a trail of kisses there, making you close your eyes and sigh.

“You know I go crazy when you let your hair down like this, right?” he murmured near your ear, his voice husky.

“I do,” you replied, barely catching your breath. “And I love when you get like this around me.”

He laughed — a low, delicious sound — and pulled you to the sofa, sitting down with you in his lap. His hands explored your body slowly but with clear intent — gliding over your waist, up your back — while his eyes never left your face.

“Tonight, I wanna do it differently,” he said, voice low and sure. “I want every touch to be a promise. Every kiss to tell a story.”

You smiled, feeling your body heat up, and whispered, “Then tell me that story, Damson.”

He answered with a wicked grin, licking his lower lip before pulling you into a deep, intense kiss.

The next few minutes were a perfect mix of caresses and teasing, until he lifted you in his arms and carried you to the bedroom. There, he laid you down gently as if you were the most precious thing in the world, yet his eyes sparkled with uncontrollable desire.

He slowly began to remove your blouse, pausing to kiss every inch of exposed skin, tracing a heated line from your shoulder down to your chest. You felt every touch like electricity, every kiss a promise.

“Do you have any idea how much I want you, Y/N?” he whispered.

“I think I do,” you answered, biting your lip.

“But I wanna show you,” he said, sliding his hands down to your jeans, unbuttoning them slowly, taking his time.

When your jeans were off, you were already trembling with anticipation. Damson kissed you again, this time more urgently, his hands confidently exploring your body.

He loved making you lose control — not just physically but mentally, with his teasing. The way he whispered your name between breaths, how he held your face like he wanted to memorize every detail.

“You look so beautiful when you give in like this,” he said between kisses. “I could spend all night just making you feel this way.”

You let out a low moan as his hands gripped your hips firmly.

“I want you to tell me what you want. Everything. No holding back.”

“I want you,” you said without hesitation.

“Good. Then let me show you.”

And that night was made of intense touches, breathy kisses, and a connection far deeper than physical. Damson knew exactly how to balance fire and tenderness — when to push and when to hold back — leaving you whole, alive, and surrendered.

Hours later, exhausted, you tangled together in bed, your breaths matching.

He pulled you closer, kissing your hair.

“I don’t want anyone else, Y/N. Only you.”

You smiled, completely satisfied.

“Only me.”

And in that moment, between silence and the heat of your bodies, you knew you’d found something rare — a love with desire, respect, and that delicious hint of naughty that only he could give.

[soupsosa08]

i love this picture of lewis omg 😩😩

[soupsosa08]

Sunset Laps & Heartbeats — Lando Norris X Reader

Synopsis: Life with Lando Norris isn’t all about the adrenaline of Formula 1 races — sometimes, it’s about the quiet, intimate moments that happen far away from the roar of the track. After a whirlwind few weeks on the F1 calendar, Lando finally gets a rare day off to spend with you on the coast. Between playful teasing, sunset drives, and the warmth of his arms, you’re reminded why every moment with him feels like a win.

Warnings: Fluff, light romance, playful banter, established relationship, mild suggestiveness.

Note: Writing this in the middle of the night because I can’t sleep, btw — hope you guys like it.

masterlist

The sound of the waves crashed softly against the rocky shore, the salty breeze tangling your hair. Lando was leaning against his McLaren road car, arms crossed, that mischievous smile tugging at his lips as he watched you try — and fail — to skip stones.

“You’re hopeless,” he laughed, walking toward you and slipping his hand into yours. His palm was warm, thumb brushing the back of your hand absentmindedly. “Here, let me show you how it’s done.”

He bent down, picked a flat stone, and with one smooth flick, sent it bouncing across the water. You rolled your eyes, impressed despite yourself.

“Show-off,” you muttered, but your grin gave you away.

He smirked, stepping behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. “I’ll teach you. But,” he lowered his voice playfully near your ear, “there’s a fee.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, pretending to be annoyed but already knowing where this was going.

“A kiss.”

You chuckled, turning your head just enough to catch his smug expression. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but you love me for it.”

The sun dipped lower, turning the water into liquid gold. Lando’s hair caught the light, making him look like something out of a summer dream. He leaned in, kissing you softly, his hand finding the side of your neck as if to anchor the moment.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “Days like this… I wish they’d never end.”

“They don’t have to,” you whispered. “We just make more of them.”

He smiled, brushing his nose against yours before pulling you toward the car. “C’mon, let’s take the long way home. Roof down, music up, just us.”

And with that, you were off — the ocean in your rearview, the wind in your hair, and Lando’s laughter carrying you into the night.

[soupsosa08]

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 — George Russell X Reader; Fluff

Synopsis: Life in the fast lane isn’t always about podiums and trophies — sometimes, it’s about quiet mornings, shared coffee, and the kind of love that grows stronger with every race weekend. George and you have been together for a while, and between his busy Mercedes schedule and your own commitments, the little moments you share become even more precious. But when a particularly stressful race week leaves George drained, you’re determined to remind him that he’s more than just a driver — he’s yours.

Warnings: Fluff; established relationship; mentions of F1 schedule stress; light intimacy; cozy domestic moments; supportive partne.

Note: Never wrote anything about George before, but he’s such a sweetheart! Hope you guys enjoy this one

Masterlist!!!!

The weather was typical for England—cloudy skies, a cutting wind, and the faint scent of damp grass drifting in from the outskirts of the circuit. Even though you were already used to accompanying George to races, Silverstone had a different feel. It was his home race, the track where he grew up dreaming of competing, and you knew just how much it meant to him to have a good weekend there.

You were sitting in the Mercedes hospitality, on one of the sofas near the window, watching the movement outside. Team members rushed past with laptops, drivers from other teams walked down the hallway, and fans shouted names from behind the fence. You were scrolling through your phone, answering a few messages, when you heard a familiar voice call out:

— “There’s my lucky charm!”

Looking up, you saw George coming in with that easy smile, his Mercedes race suit still half unzipped and his hair slightly messy from the helmet. He leaned down to give you a quick kiss, earning a few knowing looks from nearby mechanics.

— “Lucky charm?” you raised an eyebrow, pretending to be skeptical. “So if something goes wrong on track, it’s going to be my fault?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, babe… but you know I drive better when I know you’re watching.” His tone was that mix of serious-but-not-serious, and he punctuated it with a cheeky wink.

George sat down next to you, pulling over the nearest chair to prop up his legs. He looked calm, but you knew him well enough to catch the focused glint in his eyes. Taking a sip of water, he commented about the car:

— “The setup feels good today, but the wind’s a bit tricky in Sector 2.” He paused, glancing at you. “You’ll be in the garage later?”

— “Of course,” you replied without hesitation. “I want to see it up close.”

Before the conversation could go further, his engineer appeared at the door, calling him back to the garage. George stood, but not before taking your hand and leaning in to whisper:

— “After the session, dinner’s on me. Just us.”

You watched him walk away—tall, confident—until he disappeared into the garage.

The session flew by. George finished in the top 3, and when he returned to hospitality after the media interviews, he found you at the same table, now with a jacket draped over your shoulders. He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your shoulder.

— “Told you. Lucky charm,” he murmured, making you laugh.

Later that night, back at the hotel, he kept his promise. He ordered your favorite dish from room service, turned on only the bedside lamp to make the space feel warm, and the two of you had dinner sitting on the bed, stealing bites from each other’s plates and laughing over old stories.

— “You know…” George began, looking from his plate to you, “I don’t get many nights like this. No cameras, no rush, no pressure… just you.”

You felt the sincerity in his tone and rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body through his T-shirt.

— “That’s why we enjoy it when we can,” you said softly.

He smiled, running his fingers gently through your hair.

— “I know life can get crazy with this job, but moments like this… they make everything worth it.”

You closed your eyes, listening to his steady breathing. Outside, there might still have been engines roaring and fans waiting, but in that hotel room, the world felt like it belonged to just the two of you.