#!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!IM SO MAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[vinxenityy]

infinite baths

vv + dumb bonus

[oliverr-gardenn]

im actually so mad these two barely interacted. lancer needs a fourth father figure smh

+ bonus doodles

[cheftsunoda]

hi honey, i’m baaacckkk!

my love for susie wolff has been reignited, so here i am! susie wolff x reader x toto wolff. it’s me of course so there’s a twist…………………………………….

ferrari team principal reader, yep she stole lewis from toto! i’ll let you decide if they’re already a couple or if they’re falling in love. and for the sake of my little ferrari loving heart, let’s be delusional and pretend ferrari is doing much better than they actually are

love you lots! i can’t wait to see what you do with this, and i can’t wait for a couple of hours to pass before i think of another request for you

finders keepers — toto wolff + susie wolff

toto wolff x !ferrari tp reader x susie wolff

smau + blurbs

when you were announced as ferrari’s new team principal, the motorsport world lost its mind. young, unapologetic, and brilliant — you weren’t just there to shake the table. you were flipping it over. then came the real shock- lewis hamilton signing with ferrari under your leadership, leaving behind a furious toto wolff and a suddenly intrigued susie. they called it sabotage. you called it strategy. "Finders keepers," you whispered into Toto’s ear at the F1 75 event, your hand brushing Susie’s as you walked past. the war was on. and so was the chemistry.

fc : irina shayk

(a/n) : MY WIFEEEEEY. my honey sugar baby loveeeee! you know as soon as you request something, i drop everything and make sure it happens. i love you soooooo much. such a good idea. i had so much fun!!

—

scuderiaferrari

liked by yn_ln, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc and 7,525,002 others

scuderiaferrari : Breaking tradition, making history. Joining us this season is YN LN as our new Team Principal — and with her, she brings none other than 7 time World Champion Lewis Hamilton to the Scuderia. The future is bold. The future is red. 🔴

—

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lewishamilton : So honored to work beside YN. Let's make history together, Boss! Forza Ferrari. ❤️🔥

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and scuderiaferrari

↳yn_ln : boss makes me feel old...even though i am younger than you;) happy to have you champ! let's do this.

liked by charles_leclerc and yn_ln

↳ username000 : how old is she??

↳ username00 : 35

charles_leclerc : Welcome, boss. Don’t scare the engineers too much 😅They are already terrified.

liked by yn_ln, lewishamilton and scuderiaferrari

↳ yn_ln : aw i like to think im a little bit nicer than old man fred :(

liked by lewishamilton and charles_leclerc

sebastianvettel : This is the kind of chaos I would’ve stayed for. Welcome.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and scuderiaferrari

↳ yn_ln : miss your smiling face. come by sometime this season?

liked by sebastianvettel

↳ sebastianvettel : I’ll be there boss.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username1 : omg if seb loves her. we are GOLDEN.

yn_ln : thank you everybody for the love and warm welcome. i can say with confidence for once that this really is our season. forza ferrari ❤️

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and scuderiaferrari

↳ username5 : omg i love her already.

carlossainz55 : im not hurt. just a little upset. but this is so iconic i can’t be mad.

liked by charles_leclerc, lando, lewishamilton and yn_ln

↳ yn_ln : you are always welcome, carlos. you are family forever.

liked by carlossainz55

username7 : toto wolff punching the air right now 😭😭

liked by yn_ln

↳ yn_ln : finders keepers 🤷🏻‍♀️

liked by username7 and lewishamilton

↳ username11 : fuck. i really wanted to hate her but i can’t.

username15 : No hate but what’s her actual experience? Or did she just charm her way to the top?

↳ lewishamilton : You think I would just make this decision for anybody? You clearly haven’t done your homework. YN is one of the most intelligent, driven, and strategic minds I’ve worked with — male or female. She earned this. Every bit of it. Put some respect on her name.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and scuderiaferrari

username17 : Ferrari hiring a woman for the attention is insane. This is Formula 1, I seriously don’t think she can take it. I give her 5 races before ferrari collapses again.

↳ susie_wolff : This is Formula 1 — which means it’s about intelligence, strategy, and resilience. All of which YN has in abundance. If you think she was hired for attention, you’re clearly not paying attention. And for the record? I’d bet on her over half the grid.

liked by yn_ln and lewishamilton

↳ yn_ln : thank you for the kind words, susie. you’re a doll.

liked by susie_wolff and lewishamilton

—

flashback

You arrive at the private meeting room in Maranello five minutes early. Of course you do. You don’t become Ferrari’s team principal—the first woman in history to do it—by being late. Especially not when you’re about to attempt the boldest power play of the decade— poaching Lewis Hamilton from Mercedes.

The room is quiet, floor to ceiling glass looking out over a polished test track drenched in winter sun. The espresso in front of you is untouched, more for optics than anything else. You’ve rehearsed every line, every scenario. But nothing quite prepares you for the quiet shift in atmosphere when he finally walks in. Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion. The very embodiment of calm power. He’s dressed in head to toe black, subtle jewelry catching the light as he sits across from you. No entourage, no assistant. Just him. That in itself feels like a test. He studies you. Not in the patronizing way most men in this industry do—but like he’s reading your pressure points, your intent, your truth.

“Ferrari,” he says slowly, eyes flicking across the Prancing Horse logo on the leather folder you’ve laid between you. “Didn’t expect this.”

“I know,” you say evenly. “But you didn’t get to seven titles by playing it safe. And I didn’t come to Ferrari to follow tradition.”

He lets out the faintest breath of a laugh. It’s not unkind. It’s curious.

“You’re young,” he says, not as a judgment, more as a fact.

You nod. “And you’re still winning. That’s why we’re both dangerous.”

That earns you a pause. Then a flicker of something sharper—respect, maybe—passes through his gaze.

“I’m not leaving Mercedes lightly,” he says.

“I’m not asking you to,” you reply. “I’m asking you to finish what you started—with someone who won’t waste your last peak years babysitting board politics.”

He leans back in the chair, arms crossed now. “You think you can run Ferrari better than everyone before you?”

“I don’t think,” you say quietly. “I know.”

The silence after that is thick. You can feel the weight of it pressing down on your spine, but you don’t flinch. You want him to see that. You want him to look across this table and realize that for the first time in a long time, someone isn’t just offering him a car—they’re offering him control. A legacy. He glances down at the folder. Doesn’t open it yet.

“You know Toto’s going to hate this,” he says.

You smile, slow and deliberate. “I know.”

And for a moment, Lewis just stares at you. Measuring. Calculating. And then—smiling.

It’s a real one, this time.

“Alright then,” he says softly. “Impress me.”

—

You watch as Lewis slowly signs the contract, the pen lingering just a moment longer than necessary—not for show, but because he’s savoring the moment. Your name sits at the top— YN LN. Ferrari’s new team principal. The one who just convinced him to leave behind everything he built with Toto Wolff. When he finally sets the pen down, you don’t move. You hold his gaze, calm and steady, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips—like you’ve been expecting this all along.

He looks up, eyes searching yours. “You didn’t even flinch.”

You tilt your head, cool and collected. “Was I supposed to?”

Lewis shrugs and closes the folder between you. “I thought you’d be either overcompensating or underprepared. But you’re neither. You walk in here like you’ve already won.”

You smile, subtle but real. “Because I don’t make offers I can’t back up.”

There’s a quiet confidence about you, not loud or flashy, but magnetic. The kind of power that commands respect without demanding it. It’s a presence he hasn’t seen in a long time, maybe ever.

You stand, extending your hand for a formal shake, but when his fingers curl around yours, the grip is steady, controlled.

“I’ll make this worth it,” you say softly, your voice low but certain. “Not just for Ferrari—for you.”

For the first time in years, Lewis feels something new—a spark, a steady pulse of belief. He meets your eyes, honest and unguarded. “I’m not used to being impressed. But you managed it.”

You nod once, silent but clear—Good. As you turn and leave the room, the sharp click of your heels echoes behind you, and Lewis watches the red of your blazer fade through the door. This is no longer just about a contract, a car, or a team. This is about something bigger. You are something bigger. And everyone on the grid better be ready.

—

f1gossipgirls

1,188,009 likes

f1gossipgirls : The Ferrari team has officially arrived at the F175 Event— all looking insanely gorgeous btw— and let’s just say… they did not come to play. New Team Principal YN LN made her red carpet debut flanked by both of her drivers— Charles Leclerc and Lewis Hamilton. Charles looked the happiest we’ve seen him in years, smiling ear to ear as he helped YN down the steps like a man completely at peace with his life choices. Lewis spent time catching up with the Mercedes team — but the real moment? YN coming face to face with the Wolffs for the first time since the signing bombshell. Tension with Toto? Absolutely. But YN held her ground with that signature smug, steel spined composure she’s already becoming known for.

—

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username000 : the way susie smiled at her though… baby the tension is not just between her and toto ���

username00 : i was a doubter at first but if she delivers on track the way she just delivered on that carpet… i’m ready to repent.

username0 : she is so hot. i am fucking GAYYYYY

username1 : smh ferrari only hired her because she is hot.

username5 : someone said she looked like the villain who wins in the end and now I can’t unsee it

username7 : watching the YN haters slowly become obsessed with her is my favorite subplot tbh

username10 : FERRARI GOT THE SEXIEST TEAM ON EARTH NOW. like sorry. no one else is competing in looks or leadership.

username11 : leclerc in love. hamilton intrigued. wolff enraged. this is the perfect Italian opera.

—

The cameras start flashing before your heels even hit the carpet. You step out of the car into the bright light, black mesh pooling at your ankles like liquid confidence. One side of you is anchored by Charles Leclerc — smiling like a maniac, offering his arm with the ease of someone who’d follow you anywhere. The other, Lewis Hamilton — sharp, composed, and unreadable, but close enough that your fingers occasionally graze. The crowd murmurs the second they see you. Not just because you’re Ferrari’s first female team principal — that story’s been printed and reposted a thousand times already — but because you’ve arrived like you own the entire grid. And maybe you do. Two of the fastest men in the world walk beside you like they’re yours. Like they chose you. And they did.

Charles leans in slightly as the press surges. “You’re making history, you know.”

“I’m making headlines,” you reply coolly. “History comes later.”

He laughs, and you don’t miss how his hand lingers at your lower back, grounding you as the cameras flash. Lewis remains quiet, but his gaze scans the crowd with intention — observant, protective, almost amused by the chaos in your wake. And then you see them. Toto and Susie.

He’s as composed as ever, arms crossed, his eyes following you like a storm cloud with a purpose. Susie stands beside him, impossibly elegant in a satin dress that shimmers like moonlight, her hand resting loosely on his arm. She’s not smiling. Not yet. You could walk past them. Pretend you didn’t see them. But that’s not who you are anymore. So you stop. Charles stills beside you. Lewis glances between the three of you but says nothing — though you feel the shift in his posture, protective and silent.

You take a step forward, heels sharp against the stone, and raise your chin.

“Toto,” you say calmly.

He doesn’t flinch. “YN.”

The way he says your name—like it’s both a challenge and a caution—only makes you straighten further.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says after a beat, voice clipped. “Though I must say, I didn’t expect you to come for Lewis.”

You smile. “You should’ve. I was taught to never waste potential.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes at that. Maybe pride. Maybe regret. You can’t tell.

“And now?” he asks. “What happens when it all falls apart?”

You lean in, just slightly, just enough that only he and Susie can hear you.

“If it does,” you murmur, “at least it’s mine to rebuild. But I wouldn’t count on it.” Then, softly, with a wicked glint—“Finders keepers, Toto.”

His jaw clenches. You know that look — he only ever makes it when he’s trying not to lose his temper in public. Beside him, Susie exhales a quiet breath, her voice cutting through the tension like silk.

“She always did have a gift for knowing where things truly belong,” she says, eyes still on you.

You meet her gaze, and something passes between you. Not quite forgiveness. Not quite approval. Something heavier. Older. Intimate.

“Good luck,” she says at last.

You smile at her—not smug, not victorious, just steady.

“I won’t need it. May the best team win, Mr. Wolff.”

Then you turn, Charles instinctively stepping closer, Lewis falling into stride beside you. The flashes resume, brighter than before. The cameras can’t get enough. They all saw it. They saw everything. And you don’t look back. Because you don’t need to.

—

The lights shift to crimson as the music swells, pulsing through the speakers like a heartbeat synced to your own. You’re standing center stage, flanked by two of the sport’s most iconic drivers — Charles on your left, Lewis on your right — as the red silk slips away and the new Ferrari is revealed beneath the lights. It’s a monster. Sleek, sculpted, angry in all the right places. A promise made of carbon fiber and blood. Your signature — small, subtle — is engraved inside the cockpit, right beside the driver’s seat. A mark that says—This is mine. I built this. I chose this.

The applause is deafening. Flashbulbs explode. And still, you feel them. Watching. You don’t even have to look to know where they’re sitting — front row, slightly left of center. Toto in a dark suit, arms crossed, jaw locked. Susie beside him, calm, unreadable. But their attention is unmistakable. Fixed. They haven’t taken their eyes off you.

Charles leans in slightly, offering you the mic. “Your moment,” he murmurs.

You take a breath. Smooth your palms over your blazer. And step forward.

“Thank you all for the warm welcome,” you begin, your voice steady and sharp, echoing through the speakers. “This car isn’t just a machine. It’s a statement. Of intent. Of belief. Of red rising again.”

The crowd erupts into applause, but you continue — heart pounding, every word calculated.

“When I joined this team, I wasn’t interested in tradition for tradition’s sake. I came here to win. Not just races, but trust. Respect. And with these two men beside me, we’ve already started.”

You glance to your left. Charles beams at you like you hung the moon. Then to your right — and Lewis is looking at you with something quieter, deeper. Like he sees all the invisible wars you’ve had to win to stand on this stage.

“I believe in this team,” you finish. “And I believe we’re going to remind the world why Ferrari doesn’t follow stories. We write them.”

The audience roars. Charles is the first to speak. “When YN joined Ferrari, I’ll admit — I didn’t know what to expect. But now I do. She’s not here to participate. She’s here to lead. And I’ve never felt more ready to fight for this team.”

Then Lewis, mic low in his hand. He’s always more restrained, but when he speaks, the room listens.

“I came to Ferrari for a lot of reasons. But staying? That’s all because of her.” He nods toward you. “She doesn’t just make people believe. She makes us better.”

You hear it again — the roar of the press, the popping of cameras — but under it all, there’s a silence you feel inside your chest. And in that silence, you feel them. Toto’s stare is piercing, unreadable. Rage? Regret? You can’t tell. But it’s Susie who locks eyes with you. And there’s something else there entirely. Longing. Maybe even pride. Something that twists just below your ribcage and settles deep.

You don’t smile. You don’t flinch. You simply stand tall, two legends at your sides, your car behind you, and your name now etched into the Ferrari legacy. Let them watch. Let them feel what you already know. This is just the beginning.

—

3rd pov

The event had long since ended, but the tension lingered like static in the back of Toto’s jaw. The suite was dim, the windows overlooking London now dark and still. The sound of the crowd had faded, replaced by silence and the occasional clink of glass as Toto poured himself a drink with a hand far tenser than he’d admit. He stood there, unmoving, scotch untouched, staring at the empty crystal like it might offer answers. Behind him, Susie sank into the velvet armchair, heels kicked off, her posture relaxed in the way only someone deeply unsettled could fake. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

“It wasn’t just the car,” Toto said finally. Voice low, quiet. “It was her.”

Susie didn’t respond at first. She just watched him, brow drawn slightly, mouth pulled in that unreadable line she wore whenever she didn’t want to give herself away too quickly.

He turned to face her. “You saw it too.”

She nodded slowly. “Of course I did.”

Toto exhaled, sharp and short. “She looked right through me. Like I was… just another executive in a suit.”

“You were,” Susie said, not unkindly.

There was no bite in her voice. Only truth. Toto’s jaw flexed. “She stole Lewis.”

“She didn’t steal him,” Susie said softly. “She earned him.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to take it back. She didn’t.

“She’s smart,” she continued. “Controlled. Fearless. I haven’t seen that kind of presence in a paddock in years.” A pause. “Not since you.”

He turned away again, as if her words physically struck him.

“I thought you hated her.”

“I never said that.”

“But you should,” he snapped. “After what she did. What she’s doing.”

Susie looked down at her hands, twisting the edge of her bracelet, eyes distant.

“That’s just it,” she murmured. “I can’t.”

He stilled. Slowly turned.

Susie’s voice was quiet, but steady. “I should hate her. For the politics. For the power plays. For what it’s doing to you. But I don’t.”

She looked up then, eyes meeting his, and something in her face cracked open — just enough to let the truth out.

“I’m enamored with her,” she said. “And I can’t help it.”

Toto stared, frozen. There was no fury. No jealousy. Just the weight of knowing he wasn’t alone in what he felt — and that terrified him more than anything.

“She walked onto that stage like she belonged to the sport before it even knew her name,” Susie continued. “And now she’s the one everyone’s watching. Even us.”

Toto looked away, jaw tight, heart somewhere between admiration and ache.

“She’s dangerous,” he said.

“Yes,” Susie agreed, leaning back in her chair, eyes still on the window where the echoes of red silk and spotlight still lived in her memory. “But I’ve never wanted to be closer to danger.”

And neither of them said the rest — That it wasn’t just about racing anymore. Not even close.

—

2nd pov

You weren’t expecting her. The knock at your hotel door is sharp, deliberate — not press or staff. You’re still in your post gala clothes—dress unzipped, heels abandoned somewhere by the minibar, red lipstick half faded. You think about ignoring it. But something tells you not to. When you open the door, Susie’s already halfway through a breath. She’s in a long black coat over silver satin, hair pinned with effortless precision. Her eyes sweep over you, just once, and then she steps inside without waiting for permission. She always had that presence — like permission was implied, or unnecessary.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again tonight,” you say, voice quiet.

She turns, calm and unreadable. “I didn’t think I’d come.”

You shut the door behind her and lean against it, arms folded loosely across your chest. “So what changed?”

She looks at you for a long time, and for a second you think she might say something easy. Professional. Strategic. But then she exhales through her nose and walks past you, slowly, deliberately — toward the wide window overlooking the street lights.

“You didn’t just convince Lewis to leave,” she says, not turning around. “You understood him. That’s what I came to ask you.”

You blink. “You came to ask me how I won him over?”

Susie nods, still facing the city. “Because he doesn’t move for politics. He moves for people. And somehow, you made him believe in you.”

You step away from the door, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t win him over. I listened. I didn’t ask him to change. I gave him a space to be who he already was.”

Finally, she turns to face you. And when she does, it’s slower. Heavier. There’s something in her expression that you can’t place — not anger, not admiration. It’s too soft to be jealousy, too raw to be curiosity.

“I used to think I knew him better than anyone,” she murmurs. “But then I watched the way he looked at you tonight.”

You shift. “Susie…”

“And the way you looked at him,” she adds, but her voice falters slightly — just for a breath. “It wasn’t about victory. It wasn’t about revenge.”

“No,” you say. “It wasn’t.”

She steps closer. Just one, then another. The lights behind her outline her figure in soft amber and shadow. You don’t move.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about you,” she says, and the words land like a stone in the center of the room.

Your breath catches.

“After everything,” she whispers, eyes locked on yours, “after all the tension, all the rumors, all the silence between us… I still watch you like I’m trying to figure out what you’re really made of.”

You swallow hard, the air suddenly thick.

“And what have you decided?” you manage.

Her lips twitch into something that’s not quite a smile. “That I can’t decide. That I don’t want to. That maybe I just want to feel it instead.”

She’s closer now — so close you can smell her perfume, something expensive and subtle and maddeningly familiar. The space between you isn’t wide enough to breathe properly, not with her eyes on your mouth the way they are.

“Susie,” you say again, softer this time, and it sounds more like a warning than a plea.

She reaches up — slowly, like testing gravity — and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers linger there, just a second too long.

“I don’t know if I hate you,” she says quietly. “Or if I want you.”

Your throat tightens. “I think maybe it’s both.”

And in the silence that follows, the only sound is the dull roar of your pulse in your ears and the faint hum of the city below. She doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. She doesn’t have to. The want is already humming between you — unspoken, unanswered, inevitable. You don’t move. You just let her look at you like she already knows how this ends. And for the first time since the season began, you don’t feel like the one in control.

—

several weeks into the season…

f1gossipgirls

liked by yn_ln, lewishamilton and 4,010,005 others.

f1gossipgirls : We interrupt your regularly scheduled chaos to celebrate the era we’re living in… Ferrari’s absolute domination — and more specifically, Team Principal YN LN’s reign of excellence and couture. Eight races in. Eight podiums. Ferrari leads the Constructors. Lewis Hamilton leads the WDC. And through it all? YN has served strategy, silence, and looks that could end empires. Swipe for some of her most iconic paddock outfits of the season so far — from the red silk in Bahrain to the chunky black boots in Australia (yes, the ones made her taller than both Charles and Lewis). This woman is running the most powerful team on the grid and turning pit lane into a runway every Sunday.

—

view 875,010 other comments.

username000 : mother is not just mothering. she is mother. matriarch. monarch. menace.

username00 : can’t believe she’s the same woman who stared and chased down toto in miami in six inch heels and a backless dress. a god.

username0 : i’ve never seen lewis this relaxed since 2015. she’s giving him peace and pace. we support.

username1 : i fear ferrari is winning on vibes, vision, and violently hot leadership

username5 : when she wore the red suit in bahrain i started apologizing for things i haven’t even done

georgerussell63 : i need her to drop the skin care routine and her strategy notes

liked by yn_ln and lewishamilton

—

Race morning. The hotel room is quiet, golden sunlight slanting through the open balcony doors, casting long, warm streaks across the hardwood floor. You’re halfway through fastening your watch, hair still damp from the shower, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar — relaxed, but humming with the low voltage that always sparks beneath your skin before lights out. Your red blazer hangs from the back of a chair like a flag. You haven’t put it on yet. It feels like a ritual now — wait until the last possible second. Let it mean something. You’re calm. Or at least, you’ve gotten very good at pretending you are.

Eight races. Eight podiums. Lewis leading the championship. Ferrari standing tall, loud, and undeniable at the top of the standings. You should be satisfied. Elated, even. But there’s something else tangled beneath the pride. A tension that hasn’t eased since your ascent began. Since that first event. Since they started looking at you like something more than just competition.

You think about Susie more often than you should — the quiet conversations, the moments where her fingers lingered a second too long, her gaze always knowing, always searching. There’s something unsaid between you, coiled and waiting. And then there’s Toto. You’ve known ambition before. But you’ve never known it with charm wrapped around it like silk. He’s relentless in a way that’s almost beautiful — steady and sharp, every glance a challenge, every word carefully placed to get under your skin.

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t work sometimes. You’re still half-buttoning your shirt when there’s a knock at your door. Three firm taps. You pause. No one’s supposed to be here. When you open it, it’s him. Of course it is. Toto Wolff stands in the hallway like he owns it, dark sunglasses perched in his hand, dressed in Mercedes black but smiling like he’s the devil dressed for church.

“Well,” he says lightly, eyes scanning you — shirt undone, sleeves rolled. “Am I early? Or did Ferrari move to a more casual dress code?”

You arch a brow. “This what you do now? Show up at rival hotel rooms to psych out team principals?”

“Psych out?” he echoes, stepping inside without waiting. “Don’t flatter yourself, Liebling. I’m simply visiting an old… colleague.”

You snort. “Colleagues don’t usually flirt like that.”

He tilts his head. “Neither do enemies.”

The air shifts. He stands a little too close. You don’t step back.

“I saw the numbers,” he murmurs. “Another front row. Charles second. Lewis on pole.”

You shrug, slow. “What can I say? We’re good at our jobs.”

“Dangerously good,” he replies. “Almost boring, if it weren’t so… dramatic.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is that what this is, then? You losing so you’re trying to play games before the lights go out?”

Toto smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just wanted to see if the ice queen cracks before the race or after it.”

You match his stare, steady. “She never cracks. You taught her that.”

The words hang between you like smoke. And for a moment, neither of you moves. His eyes flicker to your mouth, just once. You almost let him. But instead, you straighten. Button the last few buttons. Slip the blazer from the chair and slide it on with slow, deliberate precision.

“Nice try,” you say softly, smoothing the lapel. “But I don’t get shaken. I win.”

You turn toward the door. “I’ll see you on the pit wall, Torger.”

And when you glance back, he’s still standing there — watching you the way one studies fire…with awe, with fear, and with the terrible, aching desire to touch it anyway.

—

You’ve stopped trying to describe the feeling. The podium lights. The anthem playing. The scarlet sea of Ferrari mechanics swarming the pit wall. The smell of champagne in your hair and the taste of victory still sharp in your mouth. Another 1-2.

Lewis P1. Charles P2. And you? Standing just below the podium, hands still trembling slightly from the final twenty laps, sunglasses smudged, blazer soaked in champagne and sweat and euphoria. Charles finds you first — he always does — leaping down from the podium and wrapping you in a hug so tight your feet lift off the ground. He’s grinning so hard it makes your chest ache.

“You did that,” he says into your ear. “You made this team do that.”

You laugh breathlessly. “I just gave you the car.”

He shakes his head, stepping back just as Lewis swoops in, equally breathless but more composed. His hands settle on your shoulders, grounding, proud.

“That’s not what I saw out there,” Lewis says, voice low. “What I saw was strategy perfection. Cold blooded timing. And a principal who’s rewriting this sport in red ink.”

You blink once, caught off guard. “You’re being unusually sentimental.”

“I just won a race,” he says, smirking. “Let me have this moment.”

You smile — and for a second, the chaos fades. The screaming fans, the shuttering cameras, the thrum of the grid behind you. You are, in this brief pause, happy. And then, slowly, the celebration begins to shift. Mechanics retreat. Media floods the garage. The adrenaline thins. Drivers disappear for debriefs and obligations. You’re walking down the hallway alone, red heels echoing against the concrete, when you hear your name.

“YN.”

You freeze. That voice is unmistakable — smooth, poised, accented like an invitation and a warning all at once. You turn.

Susie stands there in soft white linen,   tan, hair swept up, calm even in the fluorescent light of the paddock tunnels. Her badge is still clipped to her belt, though she doesn’t look like part of the circus. She never does.

“Congratulations,” she says simply.

You nod, unsure how close to stand. Unsure what this is. “Thank you.”

She steps forward. Not close enough to touch, but closer than she should. You can smell her perfume — something light and expensive and maddening.

“I’ve been meaning to say something,” she says. “But you’ve been busy. Winning.”

You tilt your head. “Is that what this is? A truce?”

She doesn’t smile. Not exactly. “It’s an invitation.”

You blink.

“When we’re all back in Monaco… come to dinner,” Susie says. “Our place. Just us.”

Your heart thuds once, heavy and sudden. “Why?”

She exhales slowly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back again. “Because I think it’s time you and I talk somewhere that isn’t full of engines and politics.”

“And Toto?”

“He’ll be there,” she says. Then, softly. “But it’s you I’m inviting.”

The silence between you stretches — taut, humming. You swallow. “I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do,” Susie murmurs, then leans in slightly, her voice lower now, warm as silk. “You look good in red, by the way. But I think you’d look even better if you were ours.”

And then she’s gone, walking down the hall like she didn’t just set your pulse on fire. You don’t move. You just stare at the empty space she left behind, wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into — and why every part of you wants to say yes.

—

yn_ln

liked by lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, susie_wolff and 7,770,113 others.

yn_ln : solid last few weeks. so proud of my boys ❤️

tagged : charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, roscoelovescoco and susie_wolff

—

view 425,770 other comments.

charles_leclerc : hope you know we’re just trying to keep up with you. ❤️ grazie, boss 

liked by yn_ln

lewishamilton : So grateful to be a part of this team and for your leadership. Let’s keep pushing ❤️

liked by yn_ln

username00 : susie??? yn in her stealing arc to the MAXXXXX

susie_wolff : Always a lovely time with you. Congratulations on the season so far, YN.

liked by yn_ln

scuderiaferrari : BOSSSSS LADYYYYYY WE LOVE YOUUU

liked by yn_ln

lando : yn do you forgive me for barking at you yet? idk what happened my primal instincts just kicked in

liked by yn_ln and oscarpiastri

↳ yn_ln : haven’t decided yet. next time get on your knees and do it. ill be a lot more forgiving.

liked by lando

—

The Wolff home  is as elegant as you’d expect — minimal in design, warm in lighting, perched above the harbor with a view that would silence anyone less comfortable with luxury. But you are. You’re not nervous. Or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. You’re dressed carefully — not too polished, not too casual. A thin black dress, red lips, your hair pinned back but soft. You don’t want to give anything away. Not yet. Susie greets you at the door.

She’s in cream silk, barefoot, a glass of wine in one hand. The kind of effortless grace that makes people underestimate how sharp she is. Her smile is warm, but there’s tension beneath it. It lives in her shoulders. In the pause between her words.

“Right on time,” she says. “We weren’t sure you’d show.”

“I wasn’t too sure myself,” you reply honestly.

She steps back to let you in. Toto is already at the table, rolling up his sleeves, uncorking a bottle of wine with far too much precision. The muscles in his forearms flex. You shouldn’t notice, but you do.

“YN,” he says with that slight smirk, like he knows exactly how much space he takes up and exactly what he does to people.

“Torger.”

He pours you a glass, his fingers brushing yours as he hands it to you. Just a second too long. Just enough to make your breath catch — but only slightly. You all sit. The food is simple — pasta, fresh bread, roasted vegetables. Monaco casual. The kind of meal made by people who don’t need to prove they’re rich. But the conversation is… careful. At first, it’s just surface level. Racing. Constructors’ standings. Quiet jabs and dry smiles. A dance you’ve all done before.

“You’ve built something ruthless at Ferrari,” Toto says over his glass. “I can admit that now.”

You arch a brow. “Only now?”

His lips twitch. “You’re very hard to ignore.”

Susie laughs softly. “That might be the understatement of the year.”

The table falls into a short silence. The kind that prickles with everything not being said. Eventually, Susie rises to clear a few plates, and you follow her into the kitchen. The room glows warm, a soft golden spill from pendant lights.

You place your glass down. “I can leave, if this was a mistake.”

She turns, slowly.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t invite you here by accident.”

You swallow. “Then why?”

Her eyes meet yours. Steady. Unflinching. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night.”

You feel it before you can react — the breath caught, the chill under your skin.

“And I’m tired of pretending it’s only tension,” she says, softer now. “It’s not just rivalry. It’s not just power. It’s you.”

Behind you, Toto’s voice cuts gently through the moment.

“She’s not wrong.”

You turn. He’s leaned against the doorframe, wine glass in hand, watching the two of you like he’s studied the angles a thousand times.

“You walked into the paddock like it belonged to you,” he says, eyes on yours. “And then you took it. Quietly. Without begging for respect. Without softening to make people more comfortable.”

You’re frozen in place. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Susie’s hand brushes against yours. A whisper of contact, but it feels like lightning.

“We didn’t plan this,” she says. “And we don’t want to scare you off.”

“But we’re drawn to you,” Toto finishes.

You blink. “Both of you.”

“Yes,” they say — at the same time. And somehow, that’s what makes your knees almost buckle.

You look between them — the ruthless man who once mentored you like a weapon, and the brilliant woman who’s been in your peripheral vision like a shadow and a mirror all season long. And here they are. Laid bare. Not asking for a decision. Just telling you the truth.

You whisper, “Why now?”

Toto tilts his head. “Because we finally admitted it to ourselves.”

Susie steps closer. “And because you’re winning. And we want to be near you… not just on track.”

There’s no kiss. No touch beyond that single brush of fingers. But the energy in the room is breathless.

“I need time,” you manage.

“We know,” Susie says gently.

Toto adds, “We’re not asking for anything tonight.”

He pauses, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“Except maybe one thing.”

You raise a brow. “What?”

He smiles. “Don’t make us regret inviting you.”

You smile back — slowly, deliberately. “You won’t.”

And deep down, you already know it’s too late to walk away. Not really. Because you’re not just sitting at their table. You’re already part of the fire.

—

You don’t hear from them the next day. Or the day after. But the silence doesn’t last. On the third morning, a delivery man shows up at your penthouse just past nine. You’re still in silk shorts and a robe, coffee in hand, hair pulled into something half presentable when the concierge buzzes in.

The first box is small. Velvet. Inside is a vintage Cartier lighter you’ve mentioned in exactly one interview three years ago. Attached is a note in unmistakably elegant handwriting—

For when you light the world on fire — just thought you should have something beautiful to do it with. —S

You stare at the card for a long time before setting it gently on your counter. By noon, another package arrives.

This one is heavier — a bottle of red wine from a vineyard you only ever drink from after wins. The tag is embossed with a single word—

Deserved. —T

You smile — helplessly. By sunset, the penthouse is beginning to look like the aftermath of a very luxurious heist— fresh flowers on the marble island, a dozen handwritten notes, and a cashmere scarf in Mercedes black. By the fourth gift, you’re done pretending you’re not utterly charmed. You text them. One message. Simple. Deliberate.

Tonight. 9. Come over.

The doorbell rings at 8:57. You open it without hesitation. Toto is in a black linen shirt, sleeves rolled, watch glinting at his wrist. Susie is behind him in cream silk again — always silk — her hair down, her eyes trained on you like she already knows what happens next. They don’t speak right away. You step aside, letting them in. The penthouse smells like fig and bergamot candles. You’ve made sure of it. A bottle of champagne sits uncorked on the counter, glasses already poured. No one mentions the gifts. No one needs to. Toto takes in the view, the subtle lighting, the thin black dress you’re wearing like it’s a threat.

“You meant it then,” he murmurs. “The invitation.”

“I am not one to do anything half-assed.,” you say, voice low.

Susie smiles faintly. “We’ve noticed.”

You hand them each a glass.They clink. They drink. And then the silence returns — not heavy, not awkward. Charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.

You speak first. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the dinner.”

Susie tilts her head. “Neither have we.”

Toto sets his glass down. “You’ve been in my head for months.”

“I’m not interested in a game,” you say softly.

“Neither are we,” Susie answers, stepping closer.

She reaches out — slow, deliberate — and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your skin. It’s so gentle it makes you dizzy.

“I want this,” she murmurs. “You.”

Toto moves behind you, his voice warm against your spine. “We both do. Entirely.”

You exhale, and it sounds like surrender. You turn, facing them both.  No more politics. No more tension pretending to be rivalry. Just want. And when you lean in to kiss Susie — soft, sure, tasting of champagne and longing — Toto’s hand slips to your hip like he belongs there. It’s quiet. Intimate. The kind of kiss that says finally. When you pull back, Susie’s lips are slightly parted, her eyes searching yours.

“I thought this would scare me,” you whisper.

“It still might,” Toto says.

“But not enough to stop,” Susie finishes.

You look at them — the two people you were never supposed to fall into orbit with. And yet here you are. The most dangerous thing in racing… is no longer the cars. It’s this. And you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything. 

—

The first thing you register is warmth. Not just the soft sheets tangled around your legs or the filtered Monaco sunlight spilling through the windows — but bodies. Breath. The quiet rhythm of two people asleep beside you. You blink your eyes open slowly. Toto is to your left, arm still wrapped loosely around your waist, his bare chest rising and falling beneath the rumpled edge of the duvet. He’s impossibly serene like this — the usually guarded steel in his expression replaced by something soft, almost boyish.

On your right, Susie sleeps facing you. One hand curled beneath her cheek, the other resting where your arm meets your shoulder. Her hair has fallen loose. There’s the faintest smudge of red at the corner of her mouth, a reminder of last night. You breathe in, long and slow.

You haven’t known quiet like this in weeks — months, maybe. Not since the season began. Not since the wins started piling up. Not since the world started watching you like a hawk, waiting for the cracks to show. But here, in this bed, there are no cracks. Just closeness. A calm you didn’t know you’d been starving for.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake them — but Susie’s eyes flutter open the moment your fingers move beneath the sheets. She blinks once. Then again. And then she smiles. It’s small, real, private.

“Good morning,” she whispers, voice like velvet.

“Morning,” you murmur.

Her fingers trace your arm absentmindedly, slow and affectionate. “You didn’t leave.” 

You smile faintly. “Was tempted to. Just to be dramatic…but then I realized this is my house. ”

Toto stirs beside you, groaning softly, dragging a hand through his hair before cracking one eye open.

“If you left,” he says, voice still thick with sleep, “you’d be back by lunch. We both know that.”

You chuckle. “Arrogant.”

“Experienced,” he corrects, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

You let your head fall back onto the pillow. It’s dangerous, how natural this feels. You should be thinking about the team. The media. The optics. About what it means for you — for Ferrari. For everything you’ve built. But all you can think about is how good it feels to let yourself be here. With them. No audience. No paddock. No performance. Just this.

Susie props herself up on one elbow. “How are you feeling?”

You glance between them, then answer honestly.

“Like I don’t want to leave this room for a very long time.”

Toto laughs quietly, low in his throat. “Then don’t.” 

And you don’t. Not for a while. Because for once, you’re not chasing something. You’ve already arrived.

—

He wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You’d planned on easing Charles into the reality of your new… entanglement. Maybe over a glass of wine. Or during a quiet post-race dinner. Something calm. Controlled. Definitely not in your kitchen at 9:14 in the morning.

And definitely not while Susie Wolff has you backed up against the marble island, her lips pressed to yours, one hand tangled in your hair, the other splayed against your waist like she owns you. You’re too far gone to notice the door opening at first. Too distracted by the heat of her mouth, the hum beneath your skin, the way you’re smiling into the kiss like someone with no regard for consequences.

“Mon dieu.”

You both freeze. There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“NO. Nope. Nope nope nope. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

You wrench away from Susie, both of you snapping toward the doorway.

Charles stands there, coffee in one hand, wearing an oversized hoodie and horror in his eyes. He looks like he just walked in on his parents doing something irreversible.

“I—this is—I CANNOT UNSEE THIS,” he shouts, physically turning around and pressing a hand to his temple like he’s trying to reboot his brain.

You clear your throat, trying and failing to sound composed. “Charles—”

“No. Don’t speak. Don’t say words. I’m already unwell.”

Susie, ever composed, takes a small step back, wiping the corner of her lipstick-smudged mouth with the pad of her thumb. “Good morning, Charles.”

“Don’t say good morning to me like we’re in a normal family household,” he cries. “You’re literally making out with my boss in her kitchen.”

“My penthouse,” you correct, deadpan.

“IT DOES NOT MATTER,” he wails, pacing toward the living room, hands in his hair. “I was coming over for pancakes and therapy and instead I get psychological warfare.”

You follow him slowly, while Susie suppresses a smile behind you.

“Charles, I was going to tell you—”

“When? After I walked you down the aisle? During a strategy meeting? In the middle of the Monza debrief?!” he gasps, eyes wide and fully wounded. “What next? Are you secretly with to Toto too?”

There’s a beat. Your silence says more than anything else could. Charles stares at you. Then at Susie. Then lets out a strangled sound so pitiful you almost feel bad for him.

“I need to lie down.”

He collapses dramatically onto the couch, flopping like a fainting Victorian woman, muttering into a cushion. “I can’t do this. This is above my pay grade. I am a race car driver. I don’t know how to process this level of emotional betrayal.”

You sit beside him, gently patting his back. Susie leans against the doorway, arms folded, watching with far too much amusement.

“I still love you,” you tell him softly.

“I DON’T BELIEVE IN LOVE ANYMORE,” he snaps into the pillow.

You laugh. You can’t help it. Susie walks over and places a glass of orange juice on the coffee table in front of him like he’s a patient recovering from a great trauma. Charles peeks out from behind the pillow.

“I swear to God,” he mutters. “If I ever walk in on Toto, I’m moving to Redbull.”

—

[ridingreeves]

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈➤𝟤

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾－𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌－𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝖭－𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗑 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾，𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋

A/N- im not good at part two's so i hope you enjoy it 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽❤︎︎

Smoke’s name lit up your phone just after 11 p.m.

You were already turned away from the light, arm tucked under your pillow, trying to pretend the day didn’t shake you. But that name on your screen?

It flipped your whole body heat like a switch.

You groaned and answered anyway. “What, Elijah?”

Smoke chuckled, low and gravelly like he’d been waiting for you to cave. “Damn. Full government? You mad or tryna be professional?”

“I’m tryna go to sleep.”

“Yeah? Thought maybe you was waitin’ on him to get home. But that nigga probably still somewhere drinkin’ kombucha and talkin’ about tax brackets.”

You sighed, loud. “What do you want?”

“You doin’ somethin’ Saturday?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said—Saturday. You busy?”

You sat up a little. “Why?”

“Family cookout,” he said like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just turned your whole emotional equilibrium inside out hours earlier. “Stack throwin’ some ribs on the grill, aunties bringin’ plates, kids gon’ be in the yard actin’ up… you know the drill.”

Your voice flattened. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

Smoke hesitated, just for a second. Then came the truth.

“Wanna see you there.”

You nearly laughed. “Why would I come to your family cookout?”

“Because you family,” he said, voice low and firm. “Still my son’s mama. Still got my last name. And ‘cause you already know my people been askin’ about you.”

“Oh, have they?” you said, sarcastically.

“Yup,” he said. “Aunt Dee talkin’ ‘bout how you used to bring them red velvet cupcakes, askin’ if you finally left that boy who look like he drive a Prius and listen to meditation playlists.”

You sighed. “Smoke…”

“Look, I’m not askin’ you to come over here and confess your love. I’m sayin’… I'm taking lil man. Come eat. Chill. Be around folks who know you.”

“And him?” you asked.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Smoke scoffed. “Man, he not invited. Hell, if he pull up in them tight-ass pants talkin’ about chakras, Stack gon’ put him on the grill next to the sausages.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

“C’mon,” Smoke said, quieter now. “You ain’t gotta stay long. Just come through. Our boy gon be running around with his cousins. Let your hair down.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let me make it easy,” he said, voice slick now, confident. “If you don’t pull up Saturday, Stack gon’ post that baby picture of you at our gender reveal. The one where you fell asleep holdin’ that blue onesie with cupcake on your face.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“I already sent it to his phone.”

“Smoke!”

He laughed. Like deep, belly-rolling, “I got her” laughed.

“That’s dirty.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it’s family business, right?”

You were quiet for a long moment. The idea of seeing them all again—his people, your people once upon a time—was dangerous. You knew that. Knew it’d be stepping back into something you worked too hard to walk away from.

But also?

You missed them.

You missed you—the version of you who laughed too loud on plastic lawn chairs with a cup full of spiked sweet tea. The you who wore crop tops and hoop earrings without worrying about what her new man would think.

“…What time?”

Smoke didn’t say “I knew you’d come,” but you could hear it in the way he exhaled through a grin.

“Three. Bring some of that pasta salad they always beg you for.”

You sighed again, but softer this time. “You better not start with me when I get there.”

“I won’t,” he said, voice low. “I’ma just be happy to see you. And maybe… remind you what you walked away from.”

You shook your head. “You never stop, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you? Nah.”

You didn’t say goodbye. You just hung up and stared at the ceiling in the dark, heart pounding louder than it should’ve been.

SATURDAY

The music hit you before you even turned onto the street—classic Frankie Beverly & Maze, the anthem of every Black barbecue across the country. You rolled down the window a little and smiled despite yourself.

You hadn’t even parked before your son ran to your car.

“They got the bouncy house again.”

“Do they,” you said, trying to keep it cool.

He lit up like a firecracker anyway. “YESSS!”

You parked down the block. Far enough away to feel like you could slip out if things got weird. Close enough to be seen.

And oh, you were seen.

Stack spotted you first, posted by the grill with a white towel over his shoulder and a pair of tongs in one hand.

“Look what the wind blew in!” he yelled, grinning. “Look at her—comin’ through with the thighs out like she ain’t been missed!”

 “So where yo’ boyfriend at? He don’t do sun, or he just allergic to bein’ useful?”

You rolled your eyes. “He had to work.”

Stack laughed like that was the funniest lie he’d ever heard. “Of course he did. Probably somewhere tryna sell somebody an extended warranty.”

“Stack—”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your sunglasses. “Don’t start.”

Stack came over to you, watching your boy run back with his cousins, then winked at you. “Your man let you out the house wearin’ that, huh? He brave.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked behind your boy toward the backyard where all the noise was coming from—kids hollering, grown folks talking over each other, people playing cards.

And then you saw him.

Smoke.

In a black tee, chain glinting in the sunlight, red Solo cup in one hand, leaning back in a lawn chair like he didn’t start half the drama in your life—and dare you to hold it against him.

He stood up when he saw you, smile slow, easy. Dangerous.

“Look who decided to bless the function,” he said, eyes sliding down your body.

“Relax,” you muttered. “I’m just here for my son.”

“Mmhm,” he said, stepping in close enough that only you could hear. “But you brought that sundress and them hoops like you knew I was gon’ be lookin’. That for me, mama?”

You pushed past him.

But the heat in your chest betrayed you.

⸻

The afternoon rolled on in that chaotic, beautiful way only family cookouts can. Kids in the sprinkler. Aunt Dee yelling at folks not to touch her potato salad. Stack on the grill talking ‘bout “I do this,” while burning the hot dogs anyway.

You sat on the folding chair under the tent, trying to stay cool and low-key, sipping sweet tea and avoiding all the side-eyes and slick comments from Smoke’s nosy-ass cousins.

You hadn’t been around in a while, but they remembered.

“Ohhh, she came back,” one of them whispered, not quiet enough.

“Lookin’ like she ain’t missed a beat,” another said, fanning herself.

Smoke was everywhere—tossing his son over his shoulder into the bounce house, cracking jokes with Stack, throwing shade with charm. But every time you glanced up, his eyes were already on you.

Like he never stopped watchin’.

Like he never would.

⸻

Later, when the sun was low…

You were sitting alone now, your son passed out under one of the tents with a plate next to him, cheeks sticky and hair wild.

You leaned back, trying to breathe. Trying to remember why you said you’d come.

Then, of course, Smoke appeared.

He sat down beside you, close but not touching. Just enough for the air between you to get thick.

“Appreciate you comin’,” he said.

You nodded.

He nudged your knee with his.

“You remember last summer’s cookout?” he asked. “Before everything fell apart?”

You looked at him. “Yeah. I remember.”

“You was dancin’ to that Fantasia song like you ain’t had no worries. I remember thinkin’, ‘Damn. That’s mine. Ain’t no way she ever leavin’.’”

Your chest ached. Because you remembered too. How good it had been before it wasn’t.

He turned toward you, full now. Honest. Dangerous in a new way.

“Everybody out here keep sayin’ we done,” he murmured. “But they don’t know how we built this. What we survived together. What we still feel. You think you can run from that, mama? But you always end up back here.”

“Back here don’t mean I’m stayin’.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Then why you still got that ring in your jewelry box?”

You looked at him, stunned.

He smirked. “Yeah. Ej told me. Said you wear it sometimes when you think nobody lookin’. Said you said it was ‘just a memory.’ But you don’t keep memories in velvet cases, do you?”

You stood fast, heart in your throat.

“I gotta go.”

Smoke stood too, but slower. Measured.

“You sure?” he asked. “’Cause you ain’t even tasted Stack’s ribs yet. Or had your second plate. Let me walk you to the car like I used to.”

You didn’t answer.

You just walked to your sleeping son, lifted him gently, kissed his sticky forehead.

Smoke followed behind you all the way to your car.

You laid your baby in the back seat, adjusted the belt, then turned around—and there he was. That same damn look on his face. Like he knew.

“Thanks for today,” you said, voice soft.

“You gon’ thank me better later?” he teased, but there was an ache in it. Something deeper.

You looked at him for a long second. Then whispered

“Smoke… don’t make me come back if you not gon’ keep me this time.”

His jaw clenched.

He stepped forward, hand brushing your wrist.

“I ain’t never stopped wantin’ to.”

You didn’t kiss him. Didn’t let him kiss you.

But the promise hung in the air.

And when you drove off that time, hands still trembling slightly on the wheel?

You weren’t scared like before.

You were curious.

Because you knew now—

That door?

Wasn’t as closed as you told yourself it was.

[qursidae]

Summer vacation is here, have some amelliana for the occasion

[Carrd 🃏]

[reachartwork]

a porn website bans hypnosis, weed, and uh... furries? wrestling? come on, dude.

[sillytigergrimlin]

This is how I learn that tumblr is basically it's own language that is amazing-

I LOVE LANGUAGE SO MUCH. Whenever adults are confused about texting, I always feel like it's a whole nother form of language

It has its own rule that I don't even know how to begin to summerize-

Like, I always start with, "you don't put a period at the end of a sentence unless you're mad"

But there's exceptions to every rule, including that one, and I am NOT a language teacher-

TONE IS SO IMPORTANT.

I'm prettyyy sure yall are reading this as if I'm a person talking, not like some sort of essay- I took a letter writing class recently, and even that has its own structure. We build TONE into our writing with a lack of structure, like a conversation, but there are still general language rules

It's not like a casual letter to someone that starts with a greeting, has a subject, potentially response, question for the other person to answer, and sign off- it's like you randomly bumped into someone and you like their hair and OH MY GOSH THEY ALSO LIKE YOUR HAIR AND NOW YALL GUSH ABOUT POKEMON OR SOMETHING

But you can do it wrong, depending on your group, and like speaking language you pick up little mannerisms in how you communicate

You might even codeswitch in different group chats, for example the use of tone tags or not

TONE TAGS. THATS ANOTHER THING I LOVE. They are made to indicate your tone directly, because even with this being it's own language, there people who struggle with tone in any format- AND YOU CAN JUST PUT AN INDICATION AT THE END? EXCUSE ME?/POS (positive)

Just flat up tell people what you're feeling? I am in a lot of Fandom spaces with nuroudivergent people, heck, IM NUROUDIVERGENT. While tone tags ain't as common place as I personally feel like they should be, the basic ones are so easy to memorize, it's an accommodation that verbal language can't even really have.

I mean sometimes it can me and my friends say /j (joking) out loud sometimes just to be sure

ANOTHER THING, IT CHANGING VERBAL LANGUAGE? I think that's been a thing for a while, fr, brb, ASAP ans so forth, but its still so facianting,

Language just changes so much faster when you introduce quick and easy communication between tons of people all over the place, and I love it

Love that I ran into this post, thanks tumblr

when did tumblr collectively decide not to use punctuation like when did this happen why is this a thing

[charles-leclerizz]

wrong room

on the runway : lando norris x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : Smut !!! (male receiving!oral sex, (un??) protected p in v sex , light dominance, Lando being a little possessive, mutual pining, soft dom!Lando energy, swearing, teasing, light voyeuristic vibes (friends nearby), mild praise kink, overstimulation), and lots of suggestive jokes.

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : What starts as a summer getaway at a friend’s villa turns into something a lot hotter when Lando walks into the wrong room - and finds you in his old hoodie, watching F1 replays. You’ve always been friendly, never close. But maybe the hoodie wasn’t the only thing you’ve been holding onto.

designer notes : well, hopefully it was worth the wait <33 . would ya'll be mad at me if I told you I haven't started chapter 3 yet? nah, cause I'm feeding you guys so well?? ok anyway, remember to wear your seatbelts. love you

The villa is carved into the hills of Côte d'Azur like a dream - terracotta tiles, arched windows, the sea glittering just beyond a blur of lemon trees and white parasols. It smells like salt, sunscreen, and freshly crushed mint. Laughter carries from somewhere deeper inside the house, floating up and over the vines crawling across the exterior walls. 

You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder and knock on the already - slightly - open door. It creaks as it swings wider. 

“Hello?” 

No answer - just music thumping softly from an unseen speaker, and the echo of distant conversation. 

You step inside. 

The marble beneath your sandals is cool. Someone’s kicked off flip - flops by the stairs. There’s a bikini drying over the back of a chair. You already know this isn’t going to be some luxury hotel - style getaway. It’s a shared house. A friend - of - a - friend kind of trip. Half of you doesn’t even remember who invited you - just that you needed the break, and this was close enough to what you craved so you said yes 

“Hey! You made it!” 

A voice - familiar - cuts through the quiet. You turn just in time to see your friend Luca come down the stairs in a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses pushed back into his curls. 

“Finally,” he grins. “You’re the last one here. Thought you bailed.” 

“I almost did.” You lift your bag with a huff. “Traffic was disgusting.” 

He helps you with your things, leads you into the living room where it smells like watermelon and something vaguely alcoholic. A few people are sprawled out on couches or clustered around the pool deck visible through the wide - open French doors. 

And then - of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

He’s leaning back in one of the lounge chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, legs stretched out in lazy confidence. Tan lines on his thighs, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, jaw still sharp even in the golden hour haze. He looks over when he hears your name. 

You haven’t seen him in maybe six months. You’ve never really been friends, but you’ve always hovered in the same social circle. Occasionally at the same parties, invited to the same post - race get - togethers, orbiting each other without ever really connecting. 

But now he’s looking at you like he recognizes something new. 

He nods, subtle. Gives you a half - smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.” 

You shrug. “Didn’t know you were either.” 

“Good surprise, then.” 

You’re not sure how to respond to that - so you just smile, polite, and follow Luca further inside. 

Your room’s upstairs, small but bright. There’s a ceiling fan and a tiny ensuite and just enough room to dump your suitcase across the bed without tripping over it. You unpack slowly, letting the noise of everyone else filter up through the open window. Somewhere below, Lando laughs - low and lazy - and you feel it like a fingertip dragged down your spine. 

You should be immune to him by now. He’s Lando Norris. A walking thirst trap with dimples and the most unserious sense of humour known to man. But there’s something about here - the off - duty version, the sun - drenched version, the one who isn’t surrounded by engineers or cameras - that makes it feel… different. 

Less like a boy on posters, more like a man below your window, dipping his feet into the pool. 

You shake your head and change into something breezy: cotton shorts, a crop top. When you finally go back downstairs, the sun’s just beginning to dip below the treeline, casting long shadows across the pool deck. 

People are already drinking. Someone’s pulled the Bluetooth speaker out again. There are half a dozen towels draped across every surface. 

Lando’s still by the pool. This time, he’s in the water, arms resting on the ledge, talking to someone. His wet hair curls a little at the ends. His back is freckled from the sun. You shouldn’t be looking. You are. 

He glances up just as you sit down. 

You pretend not to notice. 

Later, when you’re carrying two Aperol's back to your lounge chair, someone bumps your arm on purpose - gently, just enough to make the glasses slosh. 

“Careful.” 

You turn. 

Lando again. 

He takes one of the drinks from you before you can say anything. 

“That was for me,” you lie. 

“Too slow,” he grins, and sips. 

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this annoying, or is it just the heat?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” He takes another sip, gaze drifting over your legs where you’re standing in the late - day sun. 

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of how the top you're wearing hugs tighter now that it’s clung to your sun - warmed skin. 

“Is this your game? Steal drinks and flirt with every girl who makes eye contact?” 

“Only the ones who used to ignore me at parties.” 

You blink. 

“I didn’t ignore you.” 

“You never said more than two words to me.” 

“I didn’t know you,” you protest weakly. 

He smirks. “You still don’t.” 

There’s something in the way he says it - open - ended, inviting. Like he’s offering a chance. 

You roll your eyes and sit down, forcing the tension in your jaw to loosen. “You’re trouble.” 

“I try.” 

He settles into the lounge chair next to yours, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he tilts his head back to the sun again. 

The rest of the evening blurs into the kind of contented, alcohol - soft haze you only get on the second night of a trip like this - just enough comfort to start relaxing, not yet enough routine to feel bored. 

Dinner’s grilled and eaten outside. Someone plays bartender and makes the drinks far too strong. You laugh more than you expect. Lando doesn’t hover, but every time you glance over, he’s already looking. 

You should go to bed early. 

You don’t. 

You stay long enough to watch him light sparklers with a lighter he shouldn’t have, teeth catching on the cap of another beer. Stay long enough to feel the way his laugh drags across your skin from halfway across the patio. Stay long enough to admit - to yourself, at least - that maybe this time, you do want to know him. 

By the time you’re back in your room, showered and curled up on the bed with your phone in one hand and your sleep playlist in the other, you’re warm from more than just the heat. 

The last thing you see before you shut your eyes is the faint blue light of a replay clip of Lando’s onboard from Monaco. You didn’t even mean to open it. But your vague connection the world of driving means that you, just like the drivers, are addicted to watching race replays like a lullaby. You let it loop anyway - quiet, steady - as you fall asleep in a hoodie you stole from a driver party two years ago. 

You barely remember that it’s his hoodie. 

It’s hotter the next day. The kind of heat that makes everything feel heavy - time, clothes, thoughts. 

You wake up in the late afternoon, the bed tangled with your sheets and limbs, your skin still warm from the residual heat of the day before. The villa is quieter now. Most people must already be outside, and when you crack your window open, you catch the sound of a speaker playing something bassy and upbeat, mixed with the distant splash of pool water and a few hollered laughs. 

You take your time getting ready, pulling on the only clean swimsuit you packed without thinking. It’s cute, functional enough - but maybe a little revealing. Maybe not what you’d wear if you didn’t know who else would be outside. Maybe it’s stupid how long you spend in front of the mirror tugging the straps into place. 

When you finally head downstairs, the sun hits you like a wall - too much too fast, and all of it golden. The pool glimmers. Someone’s set out snacks, there’s a melting bowl of fruit beside a stack of half - read paperback books, and a cooler full of drinks wedged under the shade. 

And of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

Lying on a towel just at the edge of the pool. Board shorts low on his hips, eyes squinting up from behind his sunglasses. He’s propped up on one arm, lazily sipping something bright orange through a paper straw. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying off to the side, curls stuck to his forehead, skin flushed just enough to tell you he’s been out here a while. 

You try not to look. You fail. 

He notices. Doesn’t say anything - just tips his chin up in a sort of wordless greeting. 

You set your towel down two chairs away. Not beside him. Not directly across. Just… within view. 

“Someone’s late to the pool party,” he calls after a moment, voice lazy from the heat. 

“I needed sleep.” 

“You needed to make a dramatic entrance, you mean.” 

You roll your eyes but smile. “You think everything’s about you.” 

“Everything is about me,” he says, deadpan. 

You stretch out on your towel, trying not to notice the way his eyes drift down your legs, then flick quickly away again when you catch him. The air feels thicker than before - or maybe it’s just your skin, suddenly too aware of every inch of exposed surface. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re already sweating. The sun beats down mercilessly, and you sit up, digging through your bag for your sunscreen. You squirt some into your palm and reach for your shoulder - and that’s when his shadow falls across you. 

“You’ll never reach your back,” he says casually. 

One minute Lily and Kika where beside you, the next they weren’t.  

You blink up at him, “Thanks for the concern.” 

He holds out a hand. “Give it here.” 

You hesitate. Then place the bottle in his hand, trying not to think about how broad his shoulders look from this angle. He kneels behind you on the towel, the lotion cools against your overheated skin. 

His touch is… careful. Gentle at first. He smooths the sunscreen between your shoulder blades with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs brushing the curve of your spine before dragging back up again, just before the thin tie of your bottoms. His hands are warm and wide, fingers pressing slightly harder with each pass, until you're leaning into the sensation without even realising. 

“This, okay?” he asks, voice low - not teasing anymore, just… close. 

You nod, barely trusting your voice. 

He doesn’t stop. Works the lotion into your shoulders, your neck, fingertips grazing the strap of your swimsuit before pulling back just shy of scandal. You feel your whole - body hum, strung tight like a wire. 

And then - just as suddenly - it’s over. 

“All good,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. 

You exhale. Try to swallow. 

“Thanks.” 

He shrugs, tossing the bottle back toward your bag. “Don’t want your burning. Would ruin your dramatic entrances.” 

You laugh, light but shaky. “Wouldn’t want that.” 

You stay in the shade for most of the afternoon, half - reading a book you can’t focus on. Every time Lando walks past - dripping wet from a dive, towel slung around his shoulders, alcohol bottle in one hand - your eyes follow him before you can stop them. 

You don’t talk again. Not properly. But there’s something shifting now. You feel it in the way he looks at you longer than he should. In the way your fingers brushed his wrist earlier when he handed you a strong cocktail and didn’t pull away. In the way you can still feel his hands on your skin, hours later. 

Something’s changed. 

And you’re not sure which one of you is going to do something about it first. 

You can’t sleep. 

The villa’s quiet now - except for the creak of floorboards, the occasional pipe knocking in the wall, and the soft echo of wind sliding through open windows. Everyone else is either passed out drunk or tangled up in someone else’s sheets. The hallways feel like a lull, soaked in summer and moonlight. 

You’re curled up in bed, too warm to get under the covers, wearing nothing but the old, oversized hoodie and a faint sunburn still blooming across your thighs. You didn’t mean to put this one on - it was just at the top of your bag. Familiar, soft, slightly too big. 

Lando’s hoodie. 

You don’t even think he knows you kept it. One of those late - night party things - he tossed it to you on a balcony and never asked for it back. 

You’re not planning to see him tonight. Not thinking about the way he touched your back earlier. Not thinking about how he looked at you like he wanted to touch more. 

Your phone’s propped up on a pillow, volume low, screen lit with one of his old Silverstone onboard replays. There’s something soothing about it. The smooth rhythm of the track, the flick of the steering wheel in his gloved hands. He’s in control. Sharp. Focused.  You wonder what it’s like to make him lose that focus. 

The door creaks open. 

You sit up fast, yanking your blanket over the bottom hem of your hoodie. “What the - ” 

“Shit - ” a familiar voice mutters. “Sorry. Fuck.” 

Lando. 

He’s shirtless, in just sweats, hair a little damp like he showered but didn’t bother to dry it. His eyes are slightly wide as he sees you, as if his brain’s still catching up with what he just walked into. 

“I thought this was - ” He looks over his shoulder. “That’s not - yeah, this is definitely not my room.” 

You should say something - ask why he’s even trying to come in when most people are already knocked out for the night. 

But his eyes are stuck on your hoodie.  His hoodie.  You’re half - curled up, one leg bare up to the thigh, the hem bunched at the top of them, collar slipped low enough to show your collarbones and just a hint of skin underneath. 

“You wear that often?” he asks, voice a little hoarse. 

Your heart kicks up, fast. 

“You gave it to me.” 

“Didn’t think you kept it.” 

You shrug, hoping your face doesn’t give too much away. “Didn’t think you wanted it back.” 

He steps further into the room - slow, quiet - until he’s leaning against the inside of your door and shutting it softly behind him. 

You look at him.  He looks at you. 

Then, finally, he speaks - quiet, but direct. 

“You’re not telling me to leave.” 

You swallow. 

“Do you want me to?” you ask. 

His voice is lower now. “No.” 

You shift on the bed, pulse starting to hammer in your ears. “Then don’t.” 

He stands there for a second longer, like he’s giving you a moment to change your mind. And then he’s walking forward. 

He stands at the edge of the bed, eyes dark in the low light. One hand lift - slow, deliberate - and pulls at the blanket until he brushes your knee from where it peeks from under the hoodie. 

“You look good in that,” Lando says, voice soft, hoarse. 

You smile, lips parted. “Thought you said it wasn’t yours.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Was trying to stay sane.” 

“Why?” 

He leans in, fingers tracing up your thigh, grazing higher until your breath catches. “Because if I thought about you in this hoodie too long, I’d do something stupid.” 

Your hands fist into the sheets. “Like what?” 

“Like this.” 

He kisses you hard - not rushed, but urgent. Like he’s been waiting, wanting, and now that he has you, he’s not wasting a second. You meet him halfway, fingers threading through his damp curls, hoodie riding up over your hips as he shifts between your knees and deepens the kiss. 

His hands slide up your bare thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs dragging soft circles. You gasp into his mouth when one hand cups the back of your thigh, spreading you further apart so he can settle between them. 

“Still not telling me to leave,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw. 

“I’d kick your ass if you tried.” 

The room is barely lit by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows drape the corners, but the air is thick with heat - your heat, his heat - heavy enough to make every breath feel sticky and urgent. 

Lando’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling slowly, muscles tense as he watches you. The oversized hoodie you’re wearing - his hoodie - hangs loosely, but every inch of skin you show feels like a dare. 

You flip over his lap to kneel in front of him, heart hammering hard against your ribs. His cock is already hard, proud and aching beneath the loose sweats he’s left hanging low on his hips. His breath catches when you reach out, your fingers warm as they close around him over the fabric. 

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low and rough, eyes dark and hooded with want. 

You smile, cheeks flushed and lean in closer, tugging down his waistband, “You’re the one who walked into the wrong room.” 

His hands find your hair before you can even move - gentle but insistent, threading through your curls as you lean forward, mouth parting to tease the tip of him. He groans softly, air escaping through his clenched teeth, and you know this is going to be slow, deliberate. 

You take him into your mouth, starting light - teasing with your tongue, lips barely brushing the sensitive head. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails grazing your scalp, holding you in place even as you pull back, just enough to make him desperate. 

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he rasps, his hips pressing forward instinctively. 

You hum around him, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, sucking just enough to pull a deep moan from his throat. His hands tighten, gripping the sheets as you bob your head slowly, tasting him, swallowing every hitch of breath he makes. 

When you take him deeper, your throat tightens, the stretch delicious and thrilling. He gasps, hips jerking up just a little, and you feel it - the pulse of his arousal, steady and strong. You slow down, using your tongue to circle the head, flicking the underside with precision that sends shivers through him. 

“God, you’re so good,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

His free hand slips to your waist, pulling you up close, and you wrap your arms around his thighs, holding him steady. You want to hear everything - every ragged breath, every curse falling from his lips. 

The way his hips start to grind forward against your mouth, desperate for more. 

His fingers dig into your hair, tugging lightly, and you take it as permission to go deeper - slow, steady, careful. You feel his body tense, muscles flexing as he rides the wave you’re building, his breath hitching in ragged bursts. 

When his hips jerk sharply and he releases a low growl, you swallow him down fully, holding him there as long as you can. He curses your name, gripping your hair harder, and when he pulls away, his lips are swollen, breathless. 

You look up, cheeks flushed, and meet his eyes - glazed, heavy with want and need. 

Without a word, he reaches out and pulls you to your feet, hands on your waist firm and sure. His mouth is back on yours instantly, a kiss that’s both desperate and possessive, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you backward onto the bed. 

His hands roam your body with purpose, sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie, fingers finding bare skin with reverent curiosity. You arch into his touch, heart pounding as he trails kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, whispering soft promises between each press of his lips. 

He moves with slow, sure confidence, pushing the hoodie up over your head and tossing it aside like it’s been burning him all night. 

“You’re all mine,” he breathes, voice thick. 

You shiver, overwhelmed by the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating off his body as he trails down your stomach, palms flat and sure. His fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, hesitating just a second before sliding beneath. 

Every nerve ending in your body sings as he removes your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, exposing you completely. 

He kisses the inside of your thigh, lips soft and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles around your hip bones. 

When he finally parts your legs, his eyes darken, focused, hungry. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your clit, teasing with his tongue in long, slow flicks that make you bite back a moan. 

His mouth wraps around you, warm and wet and demanding, and you clutch his hair, hips rocking forward into him without thinking. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against you, voice low and serious. “Gotta keep it down.” 

You bite your lip, nodding, desperate to keep quiet but drowning in the sensation of his tongue and mouth working magic. He hums, flicks his tongue faster, and you feel the coil tightening deep inside you. 

His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing your entrance, brushing just the tip before pulling back to focus on your clit again. 

You’re trembling, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, hands grasping at his shoulders as he pulls you closer. 

When you come, it’s a shattered, stifled cry buried in his neck, fingers digging into his scalp as your body clenches around his mouth. 

He holds you through it, slow and steady, until you’re shuddering and soft again. 

Then, gently, he pulls back and grins up at you - wild, messy, utterly undone. 

“You taste like everything I want.” 

You laugh breathlessly and push him down, straddling him as his hands settle on your hips. 

You take your time, rolling your hips, sinking down slowly, savouring every inch. 

His hands grip your waist tight as you ride him - slow, deep, unrelenting. 

The only sounds in the room are your gasps, his moans, and skin sliding against skin. 

You lean down, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you move together - a perfect, messy rhythm. 

When he’s close, you bite his shoulder, smile against his skin, and whisper, “Not so quiet now, huh?” 

He laughs low and growls, “I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

You pick up the pace, bouncing harder, nails gripping his chest as he buries his face in your neck, fingers clutching your hips. 

And when he comes, it’s explosive - deep, guttural, his body trembling beneath you as he spills inside you. 

You ride out the waves together, panting and slick, limbs tangled. 

When it’s over, he pulls you close, pressing kisses along your jaw and whispering, “That was worth walking into the wrong room.”

The morning spills into the room like warm honey. 

Golden light streaks across the sheets, catching on dust suspended in the still air. Outside the window, someone’s already put music on too loud - something distant and summery and muffled by the thick villa walls. But in here, it’s all quiet. 

You shift under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore, skin warm from where Lando’s body presses into yours. He’s still half - asleep, one arm flung over your stomach, curls mussed against the pillow. You breathe him in sunscreen and sweat, salt and something softer. Like linen and heat. 

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip bone. It’s the kind of touch that says he's still here, even in his sleep. 

You turn toward him, nose brushing his jaw. 

“Lando,” you whisper, low and quiet, just to see if he’s awake. 

Lando hums sleepily as you kiss his chin. “Mmm, you’re up early.” 

“Not really,” you mumble. “I think it’s nearly noon.” 

He groans. “We should hide. Stay in here all day.” 

You smile. “You drooled on my pillow.” 

He growls softly, burying his face in your neck. “Could be worse. Could’ve been your chest.” 

You laugh, legs tangling with his. “You’re disgusting.” 

“Last night you said I was talented.” 

“I said you were decent.” 

He grins sleepily against your skin, voice still thick. “You came twice. At least give me ‘skilled.’” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too hard - but you’re glowing, skin flushed from more than just the heat. 

His hand slips lower, resting over the swell of your ass, fingers tracing lazy shapes again. You’re not doing anything, not going anywhere. It’s rare - to feel like this. Not just satisfied but settled. 

Until -  

“OH MY GOD.” 

The door slams open, and you flinch, instinctively yanking the blanket up to your chin. 

Lando groans so loudly it’s borderline feral. “No. Nope. Out.” 

Oscar is standing in the doorway, already in swim trunks and a bucket hat, holding a protein shake in one hand like a fucking trophy. Squinting into the light like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“I KNEW IT,” he yells, pointing at you both. “Fifty bucks, bitches!” 

You blink, dazed. “What - ?” 

“I told Lily it would happen before the weekend was over,” Oscar continues, stepping just one inch further into the room like he’s inspecting evidence. “She said you’d pussy out. Guess who was right.” 

You blink. “Wait, you two - bet on us?” 

Oscar shrugs. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And then you started wearing that hoodie again. It was obvious.” 

Lando rolls over and shoves a pillow over his head. “Oscar I swear to God - ” 

“Hey, don’t blame me, you could’ve been subtle. But noooo, you had to be all hoodie and eye fucking by the pool.” 

You groan. “How long were people watching us?” 

Oscar snorts. “We have eyes.“ 

“Congrats, by the way,” he says, like he’s handing out a wedding gift. It’s when he sips at his gym bottle and hisses, you realise there’s probably tequila in there, “Try not to traumatize the maid staff.” 

And then he’s gone. 

The door clicks shut again. 

Silence. 

You both stare at the ceiling for a second before bursting into laughter. 

Lando turns toward you, dragging you under him again, smirking like an idiot. “We are never living this down” 

“I kinda don’t care” 

He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You gonna wear that hoodie again?” 

You grin. “Only if I want everyone to know what I let you do to me last night.” 

He pauses. Smirks. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m not wearing it next.” 

You shove him lightly, laughing, as he tackles you back into the sheets, messy and warm and unbothered - a little wrecked, a little teased, and a whole lot in trouble. 

But somehow, it feels kind of perfect. 

meet the models after the show ( epilogue ) :

It’s the last morning at the villa. 

People are packing. Doors opening, zippers skimming across tile. Half - melted iced coffees line the kitchen counter, and someone’s already yelling about who stole their charger. 

You’re still in Lando’s bed. 

Still in his hoodie. 

Still not ready to move. 

He walks back into the room with two mugs in hand - both his. One is basic ceramic with your initials scratched in red nail polish. The other says World’s Fastest Slut in hideous bubble font. 

He doesn’t even flinch when he hands you that one. 

“You’re really still wearing that thing?” he says, nodding to the hoodie swallowing your frame. 

You raise an eyebrow and sip your coffee. “You say that like you weren’t staring every time I wore it.” 

He shrugs, dropping onto the bed beside you. “Just surprised you never took it off.” 

You smirk. “Why would I? It’s comfy. Smells good. Annoys Oscar.” 

“Ah,” he nods, mock serious. “You stayed in my hoodie out of spite.” 

You hum. “Mostly. Partially because it makes my legs look good.” 

His gaze drags down. “Can confirm.” 

You blink. “You gonna tell Oscar that ?” 

“Absolutely not. He’s been insufferable since he ‘won’ a bet that didn’t exist.” 

You laugh, and he leans forward, catching your chin gently with his fingers. You try not to smile, but he leans forward and nudges your knee with his. 

“You’re still coming back to mine after this, right?” he asks, casual, but his tone softens halfway through. 

You blink. “Did I say I was?” 

He gives you that look - head tilted, lashes low, mouth twitching like he’s holding back something cocky. “You didn’t have to.” 

You take another slow sip of coffee. “Hmm. That so?” 

He leans in closer, fingers brushing the hem of the hoodie as he murmurs, “Only condition is… if you keep stealing my clothes, I get to start stealing your time.” 

You snort. “That was corny as hell.” 

“Did it work?” 

You meet his eyes, and yeah - it did. 

You set the mug down and pull him toward you, letting him kiss you slow, like the world isn’t about to start moving again. His hand curls over your thigh, his smile warm against your lips. 

When he pulls back, you sigh into his shoulder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come back with you.” 

“Knew it,” he says smugly. 

“On one condition,” you add. 

He raises a brow. 

“I keep the hoodie.” 

Lando grins, eyes half - lidded. “Deal.” 

You settle back into the bed, sun rising behind you, the sound of car engines and goodbyes faint in the background. But here, it’s just him. You. And the hoodie you’re never giving back. 

[heartscrypt]

thinking abt jamil and kalim today. i don't like when ppl say kalim's life isn't really that great in a way jamil doesn't see and if only jamil could understand that then he wouldn't be so resentful of kalim's privilege. like my opinion is that No that's exactly Why jamil's resentful actually. jamil Sees the ways that kalim's life sucks. but he just does not have a lot of sympathy for kalim because he goes through those situations with kalim, and he sees the difference that comes with the level of privilege kalim wields. and to him that makes those struggles kind of laughable in comparison to his own.

like yeah kalim has had attempts on his life and still sits and eats at the same table as people who try to poison him . and nobody is denying that having people you know trying to assassinate you isn't traumatic. but also like canonically who do you think is most at risk of consuming that poison. Kalim??? or his POISON TESTER. jamils eating at that exact same table And he sure as fuck is not forgiving that assassin the same way kalim is able to because He has to make sure kalim's stupid forgiving nature doesn't open up the perfect avenue for this guy to try murder Again. kalim has the privilege to forgive this guy and be gracious JAMIL DOES NOT!!!!

another great example is the reason behind why kalim doesn't like to eat curry. poisoned curry sent jamil into a coma and kalim got distressed about it. Obviously this is traumatic for kalim . but you know . Who else . It would affect...... THE GUY IN THE FUCKING COMA....? kalim has the privilege to say "I never want to eat curry again because it sent Jamil into a coma" and it's just Done because he's the boss. jamil Does Not have the privilege to say "I don't want to poison test kalim's food again because it sent Me into a coma" because he has to serve kalim. and it doesn't matter what jamils personal feelings are on curry even though he was the one who GOT POISONED BY IT. do you get it now. is it clicking

[esstxys]

𝓗 𝓐 𝓝 𝓙 𝓘 𝓢 𝓤 𝓝 𝓖 - impatient.

warnings : sub!jisung, begging, whiny + needy jisung, masturbation, boners, caught in the act, slight perv!jisung.

summary : when your morning activities are interrupted by an emergency situation, your boyfriend can't help but pleasure himself at the thought of how delicious you looked while you innocently cooked him breakfast.

- ; 9:05 am

your eyes were still glued shut with sleep as you rolled over in bed, throwing your arm to the right which hit your boyfriend in the stomach, of course.

han shot awake, clutching his stomach instantaneously. after a few seconds of sputtering out soft swear words under his breath the said, "new way to wake me up, hm?"

you groaned in response, much too tired to give him a proper answer. the only thing on your mind was going back to sleep, but your boyfriend poking you in your side made that task pretty difficult.

"hannie, stop." you said curtly, grabbing his hand.

"you're the one who woke me up, shouldn't i be mad?" he turned you over so you were facing him. your eyes were closed yet he still took a moment to look at all of your delicate features.

"i can feel you staring at me." you spoke before opening your eyes. he was already staring into them. fuck. you wanted to be mad at him for not letting you sleep, but you couldn't.

he laughed before sliding his hand under your head, separating you and your soft pillow. you leaned closer to him and let out a hum at the plush feeling of your lips meeting his.

he pulled away for a moment and you smiled

"come here." you said grabbing his face and bringing it to yours, smashing your lips together once again, this time with more passion.

you bit his upper lip and he licked your lower, and soon after his tongue pried your lips apart. he sat you up against the headboard, not separating his lips from yours for a second. he unclasped your bra, taking a tit in his hand.

every second that passed just made the kiss more heated.

your hands slid up and down his body as his tongue explored your mouth. just as your hands made it to his waistband you received a call, to which you ignored.

and then another call came.

and finally a text.

he pulled away, recognizing whoever was trying to reach you probably really needed you, considering the number of times your phone had made that god forsaken ding! sound in the last thirty seconds.

han got off of you, letting you recollect and grab your phone.

"fuck." you mumbled

"what?" he looked up at you from the bed like a lost puppy, swearing to himself that he was going to come after whoever just created that cockblock of the century.

"its my best friend. her dog ran away. she wants me to come over and grieve with her. probably lay in her bed for three hours? i don't know.." you rambled on, shocked at the messages you had just received.

"oh shit. you gotta get going then?" he yawned. handing you the bra which he has just pried off moments before.

"i guess so." you slipped the bra over your head. "want breakfast before i leave?" you asked him, grabbing a pair of his pajama pants off of the floor and swiftly putting them on.

"i mean, why not?" he got out of the bed slowly before ruffling his hair and standing up.

you watched his muscles flex as he stretched. did your friends dog really have to run away today?

you walked over to him, giving him a peck on the lips before walking out of the room "meet you downstairs yeah?"

"yeah." he paused, "your not putting a shirt on?" he said loudly, knowing you were far down the hallway by now.

"i mean its just us at home, right?!" you called back.

hearing that he smiled to himself. rushing out of the room and following you down the steps.

- ; 9:32 am

"ji, im gonna burn the fuckin' eggs if you keep staring at me like that." you shuffled the eggs around in the pan once more before turning around to look at him, leaning your hands into the counter.

"what? am i distracting you?"

"just let me cook your eggs in peace." you smiled.

saying that, you turned around. you knew han wouldn't let you do that.

you felt his gaze burning into you as you walked over to the fridge to grab orange juice which you set on the counter next to you.

why not take advantage of this?

you opened the freezer and bent down to grab the mini pancakes you knew your han loved.

you arched your back as you stood up and turned around, "you want some of these, babe?" you held up the box of pancakes, waving them in the air.

your boyfriend traced your curves with his eyes. how his pants hung low on your hips, how your bra held your perfect tits.he was getting harder by the second.

who the fuck gave you permission to do these things to him?

and then, looked up from the floor where he was pretending to stare, blinking and shaking his head before speaking "oh shit- sorry babe what'd ya say?"

"hm." you crossed your arms and leaned against the counter once again, sighing this time. "what am I distracting you now?"

"i gotta use the bathroom, be right back." he said coldly.

you pursed your lips and then shook your head. "you want the pancakes or not?!"

"yeah!" his voice cracked as he ran to the bathroom.

you giggled and turned off the stove, and part of you wished you didn't know what he was about to do.

han bee-lined for the bed and threw himself on it, tossing most of the pillows to the floor and stuffing the remaining behind his back, before yanking his sweatpants down to his knees.

there was no need to drag this out.

he had enough foreplay just watching you downstairs, and not to mention the interrupted scene that morning that had been playing through his head for the rest of the time after that.

he grasped his cock firmly from the spot on his stomach where it had lay hard and wet-tipped.

he gasped at the contact and let his head fall back, his mouth parting slightly as he squeezed himself, before letting his cock fall with a slap against his heated skin.

with a flat hand, he pulled the moisture from his reddening tip, smearing it down his length, before curling his fingers over his balls, just grazing his fingertips below them.

han ran his tongue over his dry lips, picturing you in the kitchen, remembering how you'd looked with your pajama pants hanging so low that just the slightest tug would pull them off.

he groaned and brought his hand around his dick again, tugging jerkily, frantically, and bent his knees, planting his feet on the bed.

he could see you between his legs, one hand on his thigh, the other pleasuring yourself right along with him.

han screwed his eyes closed and clamped his other hand over his own thigh, breathing hard and fast and stroking even faster.

he imagined fucking you over the counter. both of you whimpering as he thrusted roughly into you.

one hand gripping your hips roughly, leaving small marks.

his other roped around to the front of your body, rubbing your clit.

the muscles in hans arms began to burn as he stroked himself, but that barely registered; the only thing he could think of, the only thing he could see, was you beneath him.

him plunging into you and hearing your pretty noises.

your face as it twisted with pleasure.

he stroked himself long and hard, inside and out, his breath ragged and heavy, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his release.

he moaned loudly, picturing you against the counter once again. this tipped him right over the edge.

with a loud cry of your name, his knees hit his shoulders as his belly strained and his hips thrust up onto his plunging fingers, his body pulsing around them.

quick lines of milky liquid squirted over his hand and the quivering skin of his stomach.

you opened the bedroom door and hans head snapped at the creaking sound it had made.

"huh. well this sure isnt the bathroom." you teased, making your way towards the bed.

[iatrophilosophos]

Hmm well my thoughts are as follows

I am an anarchist and thus not invested in how we build systems of knowlege that effectively interface with the legal system because i do not believe we should have a legal system, generally speaking, so none of my responses here are actually going to answer that for you.

The dichotomy of "science vs vibes" is both incredibly funny and incredibly annoying to me, and a complete failure of imagination or grace on behalf of all who propose it.

This is of course what thr academy dose and why I hate it. It's the cornerstone of maintaining the western progress narrative: academic ideas are good and order, all others are chaos and vibes.

Science is a tool. It is also a religion rivaling Christianity in scale, scope and obsessive-yet-liturgically-uneducated believers. I am interested in science as a tool; I am fully disinterested in fundemental faith assumption of science (that the universe is governed by consistent and knowable laws). Science as religion pleads an optimism about how its *supposed* to work and discards objects of criticism as heretical. I refuse to engage with this perspective. The purpose of a system is what it does. However, i am going to endeavor to talk about the fundemental flaws of science that would still be present without capitalism and specifically bad-faith (academic def; do not earnestly believe what they have said to be true) actors. I am doing this because I DO think this critique is essential to understanding the limitations of science and how we utilize it + other systems to our best advantage.

Science is a toolset for generating a predicitive model, because humans love predicitive models. They're very useful! They help us make choices like how to care for plants and the land, what foods to eat, what medicine to take. There are actually many other tools for generating predicitive models, and I will speak to one shortly. Science accomplishes this by identifying an observation, hypothesis and variables, running scenarios in different configurations to see what may happen, and concluding something either about the experiment itself or the nature of the world. We accomplish those conclusions these days through the application of statistics, which can do some really nasty shit--not just making results seem more promising than they are!

Science is optimized for big answers on a fast timescale. It is a really useful tool in a lot of applications. In the medical field, I can say wholeheartedly that im a big fan of the scientific model as applied to communicable pathogens. I like cultures and i like testing novel antibiotics to see if they do what we want them to do. The situation of a mass outbreak is one where we want a big fast answer.

However, this tool has a lot of limits that I dont think are adequately described by just talking about the replication crisis or specific scientific atrocities. I want to push back on the idea that its "throwing spaghetti at the wall"; cuz i think we both know thats not actually true. Its testing hypotheses based on observations.

Observations are cultural. I firmly believe that one of the problems with psychiatry is that the perceptions, the "common knowlege" as is being derided here, of what Madness is and how it works predate science significantly, and they're ugly. The lobotomy is not throwing ugly evil shit at the wall and seeing what it does. The lobotomy is the "observation" that a certain kind of mad person is the way they are because they are over-active, too much, want stuff too badly, are plagued with an urge to sin so great that it must be excised before they can be saved by willpower and prayer (therapy). The hypothesis then follows: if we have "observed" that Mad people are "too much", we cut part of them away. If we have "observed" that Mad people desire incorrectly, we inhibit their ability to desire. In this way, the logic of the lobotomy is still active in the world and still being used to generate atrocities that I firmly believe we will look back on as a horrific stain on the history of official medicine in 10, 20, 50 years.

Psychiatry and psychology are easy to poke holes in, but this issue is at play in other areas of medical science as well. I am less well versed, but my associates in cardiology will very-unhappily tell you that a similar caliber of "observations" into the nature of human beings, specifically Black people, plague their field and cause deaths they themselves have witnessed firsthand.

The other foundational problem with science is statistics. This is why science as a legal basis actually sucks shit, though as I said im not really interested in constructing more legally-appriopriate knowledge sets. Statistical analysis as the bar for evaluating experimental results can tell us what works most of the time in most cases; especially in those high-quality mass-scale studies. There will be a number of cases where something doesnt work that works most of the rest of the time, and a number of cases where something works that doesnt most other times. I fucking care about statistical outliers. I am one. People i love live in this space. Land i love lives in this space. I believe there is value in high-reward low-risk low-likelihood interventions being widely available. I fully and completely reject the cultural value that most people is good enough, let alone the bar to strive for.

So, alternatives? There isnt one alternative because I dont subscribe to science as religion and thus I do not require it to be an all-encompassing world view or thrown on the trash heap; and i feel this way about other predicitive modeling tools. I believe in doing things that get the results i want for myself, my loved ones and social relations, and the land we participate in; without exploiting others in the process and in a way that hopefully supports others in achieving the same. Many tools fit in that box. I will however take this moment to soapbox about what im gonna term "conversational knolwege" because I think its an interesting model that kind of precursors our modern understanding of citations but retains a lot more nuance.

One benefit of science, and i think WHY it lends itself to systems such as legality, mass medicine, and so on: it endeavors to replace interpersonal trust and deep individual basis of knowledge. Who this benefits is a hell of a question: on the day to day scale, we can say it benefits the average person. It's nice not to have to trust your doctor, a person you probably dont actually know, who has financial and social interests that might diverge from your own, to have your best interests at heart: let alone agree with you on what your best interests actually ARE or have the knowlege and decision making skills to help you get there. Its nice to believe that everything will be okay, that there is an answer, and that you arent personally responsible for making hard decisions in the world. On the mass scale, this way of living doesnt benefit us, it benefits power. Medical codification as a stage of empire is an entirely different can of worms i could talk about forever but suffice to say: medicine is a constant cultural practice present among all people. States get big. In the same way they endeavor to retain power over people by preventing them from feeding themselves etc; they outlaw, burn, and replace the common medical culture with a system more conducive to control. Prescientific medical models have also been used in this way; as are the state-backed nonscientific medical models traditional Chinese medicine and Ayurveda (medical nationalism is another can of worms we can talk about with all three, western industrial, tcm, ans Ayurveda, but especially tcm...its rlly fucking interesting. Don't even get me started on the medical models of colonized countries that fall somewhere between these three powers. Aaaa! I love this shit. Anyway).

Point being: this benefit is damage control for a society that perpetuates itself via deskilling the population. What does generation and transference of knowlege look like in populations with high individual skills?

One answer is conversation. It goes like this:

Person A spends their life engaging with an area that they are passionate about and have a high aptitude for. Maybe its a field of medicine, drug production etc, maybe its a field of engagement with the land like food production or having trails that dont erode to shit or building structures that work well for the beings using them. They come to an understanding of the world based on what they personally see happen (notably, not "vibes", watching something over years is NOT the same as reading half of three news articles and adopting a worldview based on it, I think we can all agree that the latter is an unhelpful way to engage with information). They collect students who learn those worldviews. Maybe they write a book or in oral traditions, pen a folktale with something important to say about the world. Person B is one of their students just starting out in the world. They compare this worldview to what they experience. They travel, sometimes hundreds or thousands of miles, to meet a person with the same role as person A in a different community. Person B learns different things and, by transporting what person A knows into a new context, finds problems with it, and finds where it succeeds. Person B teaches. Person C, a student of person B, has a both what person A and person B thinks, and continues the process adding their own voice to the conversation. Person C carries these three perspectives and communicates them to person D, by saying who told them what they have to repeat and in what context. This "citation" is then allowed to carry elements of personality, reputation, and nuance in trust. This happens over and over again for thousands of years. Every lifetime makes it better.

The problem with this engagement of knolwege is that it is slow. It leads to understandings of the world that are not as good at adapting to the chaotic and rapidly changing conditions of our modern world and its documented to be not as good at responding to drastic shifts (e.g. natural disasters) in history. It requires every individual to participate to at least some degree in the stewardship of knolwege. It requires willingness to break from dead ends and acknowledge we were wrong. Ugly things have happened when we fail to do this and especially when social configurations make it harder: for example, societies that abuse their children are responsible for some of the gnarlier and more shocking historical medical practices, because doing something to someone when they are a child is an easy way to make humans keep doing stuff that sucks (sumn we're otherwise fairly good at avoiding).

What it is very good at is creating skillsets that are nuanced and treat situations as individual; it is good at making knowledge systems that account for statistical outliers. In part, it is because its a system that DEMANDS an answer to *why* something is known: even moreso than science, because a citation doesnt suffice, we are forced to interrogate to trust.

Maybe, especially to folks who are already fully bought in to the logic of the academy, this system cannot shine a candle to the imagined benefits of a perfect science. As I said, I refuse to engage with the imagined benefits of a perfect science, because we might as well start talking about what we should do if the moon is made of cheese. And what the real world right now has to say is that a large swath of interventions generated in these traditional modes WORK, when trialed in good faith; with limitations for drastic shifts in climate, bodies etc occurring over the last few hundred years, +/- the severing of many of these traditions and thus their ability to grow and change approximately concurrent with industrialization and the acceleration of *gestures* All This Shit. (For example, many plant-based drugs that were exceptionally low risk 100, 200 years ago now carry much higher risk or unknown risk profiles in an age of pharmacuetical prescriptions and way more possible drug interactions).

So, that is a way of answering "how do you know?" That is neither a scientific citation nor "vibes". I am personally most interested in hybrid strategies and novel study models because of my aforementioned investment in working with statistical outliers AND the rapid shifts in the world that are occurring in our lifetimes. I think it is imperative to reject science as religion and the comforting position that we'll solve all problems by following the right rules. I also think that its a mistake to resign ourselves to "the best we have", because the best we have doesnt fucking cut it, definitely not for me or people I care about.

So idk if thats the weigh-in you wanted but its what I got. Im not gonna put hella cites in a fucking Tumblr post i wrote before breakfast for one friend, and anyway most of this info is the synthesis of rlly diffuse inputs across historical texts, medical anthropology, conversations with mentors across the spectrum of academy to licensed practice to traditionally educated practitioners to wingnuts like myself, and a ton of dives into random questions about topics across the above spectrum. I can provide my standard entry reading list upon request and as always my #1 reccomendation for people who are new to medical anthropology is The Expressiveness of the Body by Shigehisa Kuriyama. Peace ✌️

"these researchers published a paper on something that literally any of us could have told you 🙄" ok well my supervisors wont let me write something in my thesis unless I can back it up with a citation so maybe it's a good thing that they're amplifying your voice to the scientific community in a way that prevents people from writing off your experiences as annecdotal evidence

[stoopkidlisteningtocsh]

Some objectums in the tag: damn date everything sucks even though literally from the start it was pretty clear the objects would turn humanoid. As seen by. The every single advertisement for it. But i need to be upset!

People into date everything in the tag: uh hey so what does it mean if the object dating games makes me blush looking at the ac vent? Like the real one? Is this what its like??

[starboye]

masterlist

⌂ return to home

toji fushiguro-

mm mm you can take it

fuck you mean you wanna break up

devious dirty fucker

dont be suspicious

hard day means a needy fuck

alexander "konig" kilgore

maybe he likes you a little to much

how did he bag a hottie like this

need that want that must have that

oh my god im dating a baddie

stranger to lover

such a good friend... right

jayce talis-

for sure a praise kink

vinnie hacker-

shower with me

desperate fucker

fuck that ex

double trouble

look so fucking good

just the tip

anywhere and anytime

chris sturniolo-

i need you

rapper!chris x popstar!reader

look at you so good for me

im still listening

what the fuck are you reading

why you all shy

better than pepsi

cock warming at its best

fuck that stupid plushie

jealousy is a bitch

what, you want it

thigh burns

nervous bottom

simon riley-

lover of ass and thighs

pretty little house hubby

he may be a fucker but he's a considerate fucker

i think he likes you now or something

forgive them of their sins

please he just wants to cum

slow but rough

the night after

nosy boys

you have a what

better way to study

work from home

whatever you want baby

dont get caught

avoid eye contact

you're okay si

you're all i need

marking you up

ruthless in bed

desperate drunk

longer hair reader

sit on my fucking face

dad simon

teasing him

teaching you how to ride him

johnny mactavish-

lover of ass and thighs

pretty little house hubby

forgive them of their sins

nosy boys

nanami kento-

showing his appreciation

bruce wayne-

bf!bruce wayne headcanons

john price-

in love with his babysitter

good cock warmer

so hard for you

boss!price with a handsome little assistant

work out at work

messy eater

overtime and overfilling

johnny cage-

a star for a pornstar

matt sturniolo-

what if someone catches us

thank you for that

such a good dad

hand job

fuck me mad

my boy

wade wilson-

horny slut

chase davenport-

stay quiet

rafe cameron-

a devious headlock

calm me down

jordan powell-

double trouble

venom-

nice to fuck you i mean fuck you i mean meet you

soldier boy-

nsfw headcanons

tom holland-

good boy take that dick

possessive

nick nelson-

date night

santa claus-

hoe hoe hoe

jacob elordi-

eat that ass

possessive

carmy berzatto-

new employee

duke dennis-

threesome

nicholas chavez-

highschool crush

bucky barnes-

my good slut

steve harrington-

my secret admirer

pedro pascal-

fuck me please

dick grayson-

my ex fucks me good

sukuna-

its too big my lord

hugh jackman-

his morning coffee

[dooblebugss]

I'll be back around the 6th!

[bacchuschucklefuck]

modes of flight

[dramagodesss]

tbh im kinda fucking mad at the pogues for not giving a fuck abt jj's mental health or physical health like my man got stabbed, was runnin around morrocco pressing his wound BC IT HURTED and NO ONE did shit like...? (or anything related to him in general) during s4 + the writters making jj say / do shit he would never actually do (like telling john b he was gonna be a shitty father + trusting groff like..? s1 jj woulda shot that ugly hoe minute 1 lmao) and now everyone is wearing his stuff like grl he aint a souvenir shop that's your DECEASED bf / bff...