#*blinks in sus*

[bergoozter]

[starry-bi-sky]

Okay so this is almost a direct copy-paste of my earlier reblog but only the Xin Yuan parts, because its long enough to be its own post and i want to share it! It deserves it's own post <3 typical starry stuff to write a 2k word long reblog, unfortunately.

I say almost because I went through to proof read and ended up adding more stuff.

I've been cooking on this idea for the last two days since I saw the Xin Mo!Shen Yuan post but??? I can't find anything on Xin Mo's backstory or how it came to be -- which means that's free fucking plot right there baby. That's a sandbox and im making LIFE SIZED CASTLES. I'm so excited.

The idea of Shen Yuan transmigrating centuries before the events of PIDW as Xin Mo -- but when he wakes up, he's not the sword. He wakes up in the body of a young boy named Xin Yuan. Now it makes sense for this boy to be a demon, but the drama, the intrigue, the spice of Xin Yuan being a human child.

SY wakes up as a boy below the age of ten, and the System tells him where he is, and SY is excited to meet his favorite protagonist -- only to gradually realize that he's like, a thousand years or so before the events of the novel. The rant he gives the system is legendary.

Bc what's the point of getting dropped into PIDW if he's never going to meet his favorite character??? This is a scam! BUT he settles into his new life, he's like, some orphan street rat or some other tragic airplane-esq backstory.

The system gives Shen Yuan his first mandatory quest: become a righteous cultivator. Which was like, kinda his plan/hopes anyways, except! There's like?? No official cultivator sects anywhere? The Cang Qiong Mountain Sect hasn't even been established yet, and there are pockets of cultivators running around, maybe some groups or schools popping up and then sinking back down, but nothing's really taken root!

If he asks someone how to become a cultivator, there's no straight answer. No "oh you can go to X to do that". He's pissed! How can he become a cultivator if there aren't any schools around to teach him? Deus ex machina, that's how.

Out of sheer luck, SY manages to help save a rogue cultivator, and promptly gets adopted by said rogue cultivator, who gives SY the name 'Xin Yuan'. He is ecstatic. And you know what? It's actually pretty fun!

He's getting to travel the world of PIDW in its early stages, and gets to see the building blocks for the eventual main story. He's discovering all this local flora and fauna that are foreign to his old world and unmentioned in the book, and he's learning cultivation! Granted, its unsafe, newly(ish) discovered cultivation, but it counts!

Wistfully, he thinks about perhaps he'll do something grand and get his name carved into legend. Something that would eventually help the protagonist later down the line in his quest for revenge.

The system remains silent to his thoughts.

But Xin Yuan doesn't take much stock in that daydream anyways. It's nothing more than fantasy to him; wish-fulfillment. He does discover however, that he is positively brimming with spiritual energy. Overwhelmingly so.

It's both a blessing and a curse, as it puts a strain on his meridians if he's not careful, and leaves him prone to qi deviations for the exact same reasons. He already has a heart demon or two from a few traumatic experiences in the past.

(bc hey! angst a day keeps the writer sadism at bay, and all that)

I'll say he's about... eight when he gets picked up by the rogue cultivator, who I'm calling Lin Kai bc he deserves a name. They travel around PIDW up until Xin Yuan is twelve, where he goes through a traumatic experience that results in a heart demon.

It's after that that Lin Kai decides to put a stop to his wandering, and find a place to settle down to raise Xin Yuan in. Coincidentally! They settle down in a nice mountain region that's thriving with spiritual energy. The mountains at the time were called something different, but they will be eventually known as the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect

Coincidentally, the mountain Lin Kai and Xin Yuan end up on is Qing Jing Peak. XY does not realize that the mountain he's on is Qing Jing. The System does not tell him. But he likes it there, more than he was expecting. And as much as he's traveled around, he really does enjoy being in one place.

He has a tendency to go down the mountain and help the village setting up down there, and when he's a teenager he starts venturing out more and more.

Xin Yuan forgets sometimes that he's in a novel, especially after settling down on Qing Jing peak. The system becomes remarkably quiet since there's no quests for him to do and not a ton of opportunities to get B-Points. He cultivates with Lin Kai, helps tend to the garden they're growing, goes down to the village to play with the other kids.

There's one boy he's best friends with, a boy whose not all that good with words, named Liu Zhihao. He's got potential for cultivation though, so Xin Yuan drags him up the mountain when he can so that Liu Zhihao can sit in on lessons with Lin Kai. He drags him all over the forest at the foot of the mountain to go look at bugs and animals.

(One time, when they're fourteen and Liu Zhihao has been learning cultivation for a few years now, Xin Yuan drags him out of bed late one night to go look at the stars. Xin Yuan tells Liu Zhihao about ascension -- something that still feels like a far off dream to many in this time -- that night, while they're sitting on the wet grass.)

("We should ascend together." Xin Yuan tells Liu Zhihao, jade eyes gleaming. Never let it be said that Xin Yuan doesn't love deeply, no matter what kind of love it is. He was always so lonely as Shen Yuan, Liu Zhihao is his best friend. "We'll become immortals, and then we won't ascend until the other is able to.")

(Liu Zhihao stares at him silently, his face unreadable. Then, quietly, he asks; "Promise?")

("Promise.")

When he starts adventuring outwards, further away from the mountain and the village, Liu Zhihao sticks to him like rice. Not that Xin Yuan's complaining, that's his best friend after all, and Liu Zhihao has become a formidable cultivator. He deserves to show off his skills.

He starts making something of a name for himself by the time he's, like, 18 -- although that name is in its baby steps, along with Liu Zhihao. They're slowly growing renown.

Perhaps XY uses his knowledge of PIDW and cultivation in general to help make advancements in the cultivation field. Although the system prevents him from sharing too much, it doesn't mean he can't practice it himself. Perhaps he's one of the first cultivators to develop a golden core. One of the first known immortal cultivators. One of the first to have a spirit sword.

(Although I don't know the logistics of any of this since my knowledge on xanxia/cultivation stuff in general is all still pretty new and google wasn't all that helpful lol.)

Either way, its my excuse to eventually make Xin Yuan come across as ethereal to other people. Peerless beauty SY for the win. Hs wifebeam is too strong, Xin Yuan has a line of suitors following after him and he's completely unaware of it. The rest of history is not.

Demon realm stuff has been stirring up since Xin Yuan was a kid, but at the time it was rare and in the beginning stages. Its been steadily ramping up and the system is sending him on more and more treacherous quests -- some of them mandatory, some optional. SY doesn't often take the optional ones unless it comes with a sufficient B-point reward.

for all intents and purposes though, he's a wandering rogue cultivator with Liu Zhihao, going from place to place to either help a town or village, or to discover more creatures or artifacts (although there aren't that many). Just all around living his life. He participates in a few major quest lines that are sure to get him mentioned in legend, even if it's a background character way.

(Unbeknownst to him, rather than being a side character in these legends, he's named directly. You can't become one of the first immortal cultivators and NOT get name dropped for clout.)

He has a spirit sword named Shā Mó, (杀 shā - to kill/weaken/counteract/reduce) (魔 mó - evil spirit, demon, possession). He routinely goes back to QJP to see Lin Kai, or to rest when traveling has worn down on him and he wants nothing more than to sleep somewhere he knows he'll be safe in. It becomes more frequent as Xin Yuan becomes more famous. Liu Zhihao often comes with him.

it all comes to a head though when the rifts between the demonic realm and the human realm become too great, and the balance between both realms becomes unstable. A demonic emperor's influence, wanting to merge the two realms so he could conquer both to satiate his own greed.

Typical evil king stuff. This comes to a climatic head in a great battle between every cultivator available and the demon emperor's army. Xin Yuan was one of the many who helped lead the charge.

In the end, it was Xin Yuan who ends up defeating the demonic emperor, but the rift that the emperor used to cross between worlds is destabilizing as well. Except instead of trying to close, it's getting bigger and bigger, threatening to swallow the heavens and earth and demonic realm whole.

You know how Yue Qingyuan's soul is bonded to his sword due to a qi deviation? Let's take it a step further >:)

Xin Yuan uses himself and Shā Mó to close the rift. However, it takes all of his spiritual energy to do so, as well as him filtering the demonic qi into his body to redirect it back to the demon realm.

In the end, Xin Yuan and his beloved sword Shā Mó fuse. Xin Yuan's soul becomes trapped in the sword. His physical body is unable to handle the immense amount of power it takes to close the rift, and is destroyed. He is immortalized in legend by his grieving cultivators.

(Liu Zhihao ends up ascending alone. He ascends with the hope that one day he'll see Xin Yuan again, even if it's in the face of someone else. Lin Kai does not ascend, too weighed down by the grief of losing his son.)

Xin Yuan, now Xin Mo, falls into a stasis. He's very confused and disorientated when he regains 'consciousness'. The system has been silent for most of his life, only popping up to give him mandatory quests, hints, points, or to answer any questions.

But once he wakes up, it cheerfully pops up again, congratulating him on completing the origin story of Xin Mo. SY freaks the fuck out. he'd shake the system screen if he could, but he doesn't have arms. or legs. or eyes for that matter.

He can sense his surroundings, but its all like imprints to him. He can sense the energies, but he can't see anything. It's all very disorientating and horrifying after years of being human. Like a sensory deprivation chamber.

The closing of the rift and the cycling demonic qi tainted both Sha Mo and Xin Yuan irreparably, and it did some kind of damage that resulted in SY needing to feed in order to use the spiritual powers. Kinda like how Xuan Su uses YQY's life force for it's spiritual energy, but instead of feeding on his own lifeforce, Xin Mo feeds on others.

The rest is history. Xin Mo is originally tied to the story of Xin Yuan -- believed to be all that remained of the man after he sacrificed himself to keep the realms separate. It's believed that the force of the realms closing permanently infused Sha Mo with demonic energy, turning it into Xin Mo.

But, like many stories do when faced against the tide of time, things get lost; chipped off; changed. Xin Mo is steadily separated from Xin Yuan, especially once it becomes clear how parasitic the sword really is, until they are all but separate entities themselves and the origin of Xin Mo's creation all but forgotten.

The years blur together when Xin Mo is not being wielded, and at first Xin Yuan was agonized by the fact that he stole the lives of all his wielders. He knows it's only a novel, but his decades spent in this life have softened him, and he's grown attached to the world around him.

But time erodes the mind like water erodes stone, and he becomes numb to it, then eventually anticipating of it. He forces himself to remember what he knows of PIDW's plot, and kinda fixates back on his old obsession on Luo Binghe. But while PIDW stays in his mind, his memories as Xin Yuan fall to the wayside.

Not forgotten, per se, but... tucked away. The system prevents him from forgetting fully.

Xin Mo isn't fully a demonic sword either i think, but instead harbors an ugly cocktail of both spiritual and demonic qi. Special circumstances and all that. Everyone just assumes he's a fully demonic sword because that's usually at the forefront, his spiritual qi weakened from the initial fusion and from years of not being fed spiritual qi. It's part of the reason his wielders always end up destroyed by him, other than the whole, yk, 'overwhelming qi' thing.

Nobody would recognize Xin Mo's human form as Xin Yuan other than some truly ancient demons. Of which Meng Mo might. But even that's iffy because there's a lack of surviving paintings of Xin Yuan, but also because of XM's demonic appearance and supposed lack of connection to XY.

Xin Mo has never spoken to his wielders before, not in the same way he does Luo Binghe. He tells Luo Binghe this, and he also tells Luo Binghe down the line that he is both spiritual and demonic -- something he also never told his wielders because there was no point to it.

okay okay i've got to end it here because its already gotten ridiculously long -- of which im both apologetic and unapologetic for -- but i DO think the Shang Qinghua and Shen Yuan meeting (and reveal) would be fucking hilarious. Especially if SY has learned how to pop between sword form and human form by then -- although i guess it doesnt matter either way because SQH's reaction is still the same.

And that reaction is internally screaming and going "hey what the FUCK?? WHY DOES XIN MO HAVE A HUMAN FORM??? WHAT IS THIS??? SYSTEM??? EXPLAIN???"

meanwhile from his place on the sword hilt xin mo is squinting at Shang Qinghua in bewilderment and going "aren't you supposed to be dead" but doesn't pay too much mind to it because its not like its going to change anything.

...up until he catches shang qinghua going "WTF" silently from his little corner while all eyes are off him. One moment SQH is standing beside his king, and the next he's been tackled to the ground by one wild-eyed, human-shaped Xin Mo.

everyone, including SQH, thinks Xin Mo is going to kill him. It is a surprise to everyone when he does not, and instead dissolves into deranged, uncontrollable laughter after spitting out some phrase in some ancient tongue and watching SQH's eyes grow wide in recognition.

[mewguca]

Eternal Enigma doodle but he's that fuckass twink from Alien Stage

EE belongs to @ideavian

[onlyzhuyilong]

Shen Wei’s micro-expressions when he’s lying.

[cybershock24601]

Playing through Bloodbath again and I just know Rook and Neve were exchanging side glances at that cut off amatus when Zara saw Illario like “are you going to tell him?” and then just deciding to keep their mouths shut because they’re not about to tell the guy possessed by Spite that his cousin was fucking the woman who’s been torturing them both for a year and was also the one to sell Lucanis out in the first place. They’re both a little too smart to put themselves in the firing line to tell the guy with a demon in him who just lost his grandma that his only remaining family member fucked him over because Illario’s a jealous bitch.

[bleue-flora]

new chapter? over a year later?... that's right bb :]

[end-of-the-water]

People keep saying I have the same posture as my dad and I think that's fine whatever this is my fav fit atm

[hollaback--girl]

my cd collection of my favorite albums of all time continues to grow, let's fucking go

and here it is also, (for who may be interested) my complete CD collection

[moldsporr]

What, an animal for you to drink the pee of? wierdo? Horses then, force fem yourself, from us at the johnathanial uranusbert company.

NO. I'm doing oc thangs. Also this feels like a big homestuck reference. "John"... "bert"... "forcefem"... "horses"....

[swagging-back-to]

i hate that there was so much opportunity to touch on how all those bubbled and corrupted crystal gems would feel knowing rose was pink diamond. it caused so much turmoil even among their tiny group, now times that by a hundred.

Also, all the gems who were corrupted but NOT crystal gems. sure, we see jasper and we see a clip of the nephrites (centi) but there must've been even more homeworld gems uncorrupted all at once. spinel showed more hatred and devastation about it than any of those corrupted gems.

and yes, they probably didnt do anything because all 4 diamonds were there, but afterward? once it's just them on their own? how could that not cause a bunch of chaos?

[pier-carlo-universe]

Prime Video. Blink Twice - L'isola dei segreti e delle illusioni

Un thriller psicologico tra lusso, inganni e pericoli nascosti

Un thriller psicologico tra lusso, inganni e pericoli nascosti “Blink Twice” è un thriller psicologico avvincente che trascina lo spettatore in un vortice di lusso, seduzione e pericoli inaspettati. La storia ruota attorno a Slater King, un magnate della tecnologia dal carisma magnetico, che invita la cameriera Frida in vacanza su un’esclusiva isola tropicale insieme a un gruppo di amici potenti…

[screampied]

𝜗𝜚 P*$$Y FAIRY ?!

☆ sum. when you said you wanted to ‘milk him’ for all that he’s worth, he didn’t think you meant actually! toji, nanami, sukuna, choso, geto, gojo.

warnings. fem! reader, unprotected, LOTSSS of cum and balls and more… cum, milkin’ them dry, cowboy! toji, camboy! choso, condom breaks, sukuna lactates, nipplę play, slight usage of "mommy", cowgirl / reverse, bręeding, overstim, whiny whipped men, pregnancy mentions, praise, implied multiple rounds.

SUKUNA ★ RYOMEN.

“h- hah, got.. some nerve,” sukuna growls, a good portion of his face burning with crimsoned embarrassment. sukuna’s securely strapped to his throne—and to top it all off, you had him wrapped in pink ribbons. sukuna’s brawny frame underneath you grew stiff, and he let out a shallow groan once you lecherously wind your hips back ‘round in a circle. he felt sooo full - his base was just pleading to be dumped, dumped inside of you for the third time.

not only were you milking him - you were also milking his pride too.

“brat, you’re gettin’ off on this arentcha?” sukuna grumbles with a pout, hearing each popping plap slap from between your dripping wet thighs. from to the very plump bottom, his cock’s already still a bit foamy from earlier. you lean into his bare chest, smugly snickering against his neck. “mmm- ffuuuck, don’t . . don’t stop though. that’s an orde-”

and right as he’s grunting mid-sentence, sukuna pauses. carmine eyes flicker at a sudden head that’s leisurely lowering against his pecs. it’s you, and as you’re still bouncing on his lap, he feels your wet, hot tongue slide a path across his sensitive nipple. “ngh-” sukuna’s nostrils flare, and it’s taking almost everything within him to not whine.

until he does.

your hips roll roll roooolls around in swift, addictive circles as you cup your lips around his pec. “mmh,” you hummed, feeling his big body writhe underneath you as your hips slowed their tempo. you could hear his cute growls as he couldn’t do anything but sit right — the pink, pretty ribbons were straight-up mockery.

sukuna could have honestly just torn them apart - besides, they weren’t even properly tied around his limbs (which he secretly found cute) but he decided to play along with your little fantasy.

but just a few seconds passed and it happened.

you feel a treacly, sweet taste in your mouth— and it pours pour pours, tickling down on your tastebuds entirely. blinking rapidly, your hips pause before you swipe the pad of your thumb across your lips that are dripping with the creamy, white droplet.

“ ‘kuna, did you just . . lactate?”

“tch. die,” he mumbles, and his face looks so lewd.

sukuna’s pink brows were parted and his mouth was pried wide open. he’s panting - heaving, raspy breath after breath leaves from his drooling lips before his fangs get caught with his tongue.

“and don’t- don’t call it that, woman. just- keep going. ‘m close. soso fuckin’ close.”

gliding the tip of your balmy, tepid tongue over toward his other neglected nipple—sukuna shudders. you couldn’t lie, him being wrapped in nothing but pink ribbons like a present while sitting on his notorious throne was a sight you honestly wouldn’t mind getting used to.

“mmm, not with that attitude,” and he moans, feeling you starting to suck against his hardened pecs. “ask nicely,” and you give him a cheeky smile, reaching a hand down to stroke a few sloppy pumps against his cock. it was such a mess - streams ‘n streams of foamy slick everywhere, drizzling down between the cracks of your legs and sticking onto sukuna’s beefy toned thighs. “m’lord.”

“you’re tryin’ me. how dare you defy m- ngh- i’m sensitive.. thereee,” and sukuna shivers beneath you, feeling your tongue glide across his nipples for another time. even still, he’s leaking as you rode him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. sukuna’s lids were getting heavy - drooping lowly as he hears the wet plaps of your pussy milking him dry.

he’s about to shoot blanks again, and sukuna’s mind actually turns blank once he feels the edges of your teeth nip against his pec. “mmngh-”

“mhm, c’mon ‘kuna. inside,” you whisper, both thighs sloppily sticking together like glue. your cunt’s just so eager, swallowing all of his barbaric hungry pumps until his tip swiiiipes its way near your throbbing clit thrice. spit dribbles from your lips as you speak and he watches, grunting each time his cock twitches inside of you.

you’re making sure to roll your hips - sway after sway, and right as you pinch his other leaking nipple you hear him whine.

sukuna prowls gruffly against your ear, wrapping strong, bulky arms around your waist as your body ruts into his.

his dick’s pouring yet another spumy load of cum and that’s when you started to come to a slow. he’s melting like putty - inside you especially, and sukuna starts to pant as he feels your tongue lick up the last bittersweet-tasting remnants that spill from his chest.

“ugh- such a nasty, ‘lil thing,” he holds the back of your head, darting half-lidded ruddy eyes at you. a thumb glissades over your wet lips and he groans as he sees you giving the tip of his tongue a playful nibble. “wipe that grin off your lips, girl.”

“or what? you gonna lactate again for me?” you tease, stilling your hips as his cock that’s now flaccidly soft, oozes its last final spurts of cum. right away, sukuna shoots you a glowering glare, but it’s more of a pout because he’s already missing your lips wrapped around his swollen, reddened nipples.

only you know his two weakness.

you, and his overly sensitive nipples.

“s- shut up,” he tsks, letting off a hoarse, raspy breath once peeks down and sees the buttery, white ring bubbling around his base. sukuna’s been entirely milked, and judging from him seeping his fangs lightly into your neck to suppress his faint whimpers, he only wanted more. “keep.. just keep . . doin’ that,” and sukuna swallows, gently tracing circles around your thighs with his whetted nails.

“keep suckin’ here,” he gingerly guides your head near the bottom of his pecs - it’s far redder now, glossed with dewdrops of your saliva while it’s still drizzling from the puffed centers. it wasn’t even like sukuna was telling you anymore, he was desperately asking.

“please..”

SUGURU ★ GETO.

“milk me, yeah?” geto raises a ravened brow, his voice almost taunting you. his tone - it’s always as smooth as silk, the type of tone to make your thighs squeeze together in anticipation. it had the perfect amount of rasp with a pinch of slyness too.

as you gave him a smug smile—he’s inhaling, preparing for a deep, heavy breath as he sees you sinking back down on his cock.

it’s pulsing, fluttering around your insides as it disappears between your dripping folds, earning a low scratchy hum from him. “do.. hhah- your worst then,” he raises his head, sweat already tearing from every corner of his sleek forehead.

and oh, you do.

one moment, you’re slamming up and down on his fat cock, the next—you’re riding him in reverse. but not only that. all because of the never-ending rolls of your frenetic hips, you milked geto for hours.

his muscles prominently bulged through all the weighty sides of his cock, and he’s sweating profusely, keeping hooded, darkened eyes fixated on you the entire time.

“ugh-” he’d groan, hiccuping at each popping squelch of your cunt. it sounds so pretty in a way.

between your legs - you were forever vocal, letting off occasional sloshing sounds as you slammed up and down against his cock. geto was just downright big ‘n thick, and every single time, he stretched your orifices open like it was nothing. you’re moaning with him, facing directly in front of him while wispy, hot breaths collide against both open mouths.

“ ‘m not sure if i have enough for you this time, princess,” he jibes, tears of sweat racing down the thin edges of his arched brows. “y- you milked me so good.. mmgh- this new stamina of yours though, ‘m lovin’ it.”

“sugu-” you moan against his mouth, bringing sultry kiss after kiss toward all corners and sides of his twitching, rose-colored lips. speaking of lips, they were dripping with strings of his spit, softly sucking against his quivering lower lip as your ass continued to sway around in a circle.

you’re riding him like you were riding a boat, rocking back and forth with your cunt nearly drowning him from how unapologetically wet you were. “ ‘m close, ‘m so close, suguru.” the frantic, unsteady beats of your heart were starting to pick up and it was so loud that it sounded nearly identical to broken, defeaning speakers.

the bed was much louder than you both, screaming out groans of mercy as its creaks nearly drowned out all lustful moans and grunts that sang through the fogged, steamy air..

“yeaah, yeah- gonna cum on me, pretty girl?” geto groans, cupping a hand around one of your bouncy breasts. you whimpered at his gentle touch, your thighs merely sticking against each other from the remnants of pasty cum. geto’s girth of his dick widely expands inside of your clamping walls, and he could feel your legs trying desperately to not squeeze shut.

leaning his head to level up with your chest— he slides his tongue across ‘n around your sensitive nipples - giving it a nice, proper lick. with a loud ‘pop’ that echo from his lips—geto’s half-open eyes look at you while he’s talking with his mouth stuffed full of one of your tits. “mngh- my horny messy girl wants me to get really fuckin’ milked, hm? ‘s that why she’s bein’ so greedy today?”

as he’s still filling you up with his veiny, big inches, you can feel your tongue starting to salivate from the inside with impatience. “ ‘m cummin’ - hahh, cum with me, sugu pleaseplease,” you’re whining, the curling of your thrusting hips accelerating faster.

your arduous speed had the bed groaning louder, and geto’s grunting in your ear once his base’s feeling fuller than ever. with hot pounds of skin against skin roughly slapping against each other after each second, the two of you felt the same pangs of pleasure and fervent dizziness. “inside, in-fuckin’-siiiide.”

“ay,” he pops his lips away from your tit before giving it its final loving suck, squeezing your cheeks together. “pretty girl, ‘m gonna getcha full again but you better watch that mouth,” geto eyes you, sneaking a wet, hot kiss against your trembling lips. your body’s just drenched with sweat, and his cock’s searching through your insides while locating all the exact spots perfectly.

clit - check! g-spot - check! a-spot - check!

geto’s swollen crown of his cock was wiiiide, and it made sure to give each erogenous spot inside of your pussy its deserved kisses.

big, grabby hands hold onto your jerking waist and he’s winding your hips against his lap while your mind’s turning into straight mush. it’s all thanks to geto bouncing you up ‘n down on his dick that you could barely think straight. the only thing that was thinking in your mind was that you wanted him to fill you up over and fuckin’ over . .

the incoming high was inevitable - heavenly even, and it’s like a rush that never stops overwhelming through your bloodstream. deeply, the sticky prints of his thumbs pierce into your flesh, and you could see his adam’s apple bobbing once he finally cums. at the same time, you finished too and the feeling was simply orgasmic - literally.

another load bubbles into your cunt as your rotating ass comes to a sudden freeze. shared, breathy breaths fall against each pair of lips as your forehead lies against his. “mngh- suguruuu,” you’d moan, shivering once you felt two of his fingers smack against your leaking pussy. you were filled to the very brim, and despite how he’s still inches deep, he wanted to fill you up just a bit more.

you had him primal now, and geto’s smearing his cum all over the opening of your stuffed cunt before stuffing it back inside. “more, d- don’t stop.”

“wasn’t.. going to,” geto grumbles, letting off a soft prowl once he feels the adhesive-like stick of your pussy keeps its hold on him. you’re addicting, and you’re moaning once he suddenly lifts you from his cream-leaking shaft.

with a spurting ‘pop’ sound, he lies you flat on your back, rubbing his achingly cherry-colored tip over your dripping slit. “fuuuck,” he licks his lips, admiring the filthy sight before gathering a wad of spit in his mouth before with a wet ‘ptou’, geto spits riiight on the outer part of your creamy pussy. “nasty ‘till the end, huh,” he clicks his tongue, inching his head down.

“sugu-”

“ah- not a word from you right now, gorgeous. she’s gotta get a few words in too, hm?” and you whined, hearing the brief ‘slap!’ of his palm make direct contact against your pussy. “now spread these pretty legs for me. ‘m kinda.. hah- starved.”

NANAMI ★ KENTO.

“oh, h- hoooney,” nanami hiccups, muscly soft arms wrapping around your rickety torso. he’s holding you close, giving you a secure bear hug as your cunt’s just wetly slapping up and down against his twitching cock. you’re so close up to his chest that you feel two things—nanami’s soft, rounded belly, and the dozens of scattered blond chest hair that painted the entirety of his abdomen like a canvas.

the two of you had been at it for hours, and he was practically sticking against your body. sheets and sheets of sweat glue against both rutted bodies as each of you continued to rock rock rock in unsteady sync. he’s been milked stupidly by you, and a viscous trail of cum continued to stick against your thighs as you moved.

“mng- ‘ken,” you’d breathe thickly, hearing each clashing slap! of your pretty hips slam against his thighs each second. his mind’s empty, tied in knots — and speaking of, nanami was preparing to surprise your stuffed pussy with another big knot of his own..

“t- that’s it, don’t stooop,” and as your voice shakes, you’re arching slightly once his tip massages a loooong pattern through your insides. you’re clamping down hard - swerving your hips around in random directions continuously while gripping his ruffled, checkered tie.

“fuck, f- fuuuck,” and nanami’s starting to trail slender, callused fingers toward the edges of your ass.

you’re bouncy - twisting all round ‘n round while focusing your weight on your knees. as you kept moving—you leaned in, shyly biting into his neck. “hah- kentoooo,” you whimper, cutely dragging out his name. his tip thrashing against your g-spot’s got you sounding more dramatic than usual. sneaking four torrid, wet kisses against his slick-spit lips. “c.. can you gimme one more?”

“at this rate, ‘m gonna get you pregnant again too,” he gutturally whispers in response, a hand gently pressing onto your tummy. nanami’s just inside you sooo deep — sooo nice ‘n snug that his thumb swirls across the very center of your stomach before feeling a familiar bulge.

browned, warm eyes look into your eyes before he sighs. “feel that, honey? that’s.. me,” he grunts, talking over your sweet, repetitive wantons of whines. as nanami grabs a nice handful of your ass with his free hand, he nibbles against your earlobe. “but- if my wife wants me to.. fill her up once more, i won’t mind.”

you gasped once nanami suddenly lifted you with care — careful not to hurt you, treating you like a porcelain doll. his roughly-textured hands place you on the flat of the mattress before he’s already aligning his cream-covered tip against your slobbering cunt.

“mhh- how many are we gonna try to make t- this time, sweetheart?” he stammers lowly, smacking his angry vermillion-colored crown against your pussy. he’s met with wet squelch sounds in response from below, and nanami licks his lips before delving his way back inside your compressing entrance. “o.. one? two.. threeee?”

with a pout, your legs were already violently shaking — struggling pathetically, hopelessly trying to stay open but to no avail.

once nanami’s making love to you again. he’s pinning both of your knees up to your chest. “just.. just don’t miss, ‘ken.” you whimper, your voice cracking with each bumpy syllable that slips from your lips. he’s puncturing you deeply with each thrust as if he had some kind of purpose.

deep, deep thrusts..

nanami’s using all vigor of hips - pounding into your precious pussy, dragging out moan after moan from your raw, straining larynx. it was starting to sound a bit hoarse—and each time you swallowed, nanami’s thrusts were more precise.

“b.. baby, you’re really.. hah- gonna.. milk me,” he groans, feeling the back of his thighs starting to gradually tighten. his face buries between your chest, lolling his tongue out before getting a subtle taste of your bouncy tits. “hngh- ‘m gonna get this pretty belly so round, gonna make you a pretty wife again and an even prettier mama.” and as he continues to speak, nanami’s feeling your nails pierce into the ridden flesh of his skin.

“f- fuuuck me, kento. pleasepleaseee, gimme another baby,” you’d whimper, your voice shifting from normal to shaky as his hips start to strike into your very core. he’s fucking you stupid, and he’s also getting dumb himself all thanks to your pussy taking the fatal, wet blows.

it was just something about your warmth. your cunt - it always hugged him, gifting him with a slick hotness he could never put into actual words..

you’re clinging onto nanami tightly - showing your body just how ‘bestial’ his hips could be as he continues to drill into your sobbing pussy. it’s so wet, and he hears it all too. the sweet ‘lil cries that were sounding more like pathetic squelches of mercy, and your chants of his name forming in inaudible babbles were just the icing on the cake.

“mngh- upsie-daisy, honey,” nanami groans, gently pushing your legs over your head. now, he’s got a straight view of your face that’s just covered with glistening sweat. the more nanami’s pupils dilate at the pure sight of you — his beloved wife, he sees how you’re just effortlessly kissed by the sun’s rays that shined near the bedroom window. pangs of pleasure coarse through your veins and his, and nanami’s just about at his very limit.

once he cums for the nth time - it’s even thicker than before. his rounded belly laid flat against your chest with his blond happy trail tickling against your tummy. you’re whimpering, covering his back with scratches before he pops a velvety, hot knot deep inside of your greedy cunt.

“mhm,” you’d coo out in satisfied surprise, hearing nanami’s breath hitch against the lobe of your ear. a lot of it dribbles out of you, pouring down to your hole and staining into the sage-colored bedsheets. nanami’s hips pause, and he’s just allowing you to milk him dry, filling you gallon after gallon with cum.

“a- again,” you’d mewl airily with a pouted puckered out lip, bringing a leg to wrap around his waist. nanami’s got a timid smile, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead. of course you wanted more.

nanami wriggles his hips ever so slightly, making sure he had all of his load stuffed inside of your dripping pussy before caressing your right cheek with his thumb lovingly.

“my, and i thought my breeding kink was bad during this time of year,” and as he’s still inside of you, you moaned, feeling nanami’s cock pop its way out between your puffy-drooled slit before sliding its way back in. those loud sloshing sounds of your slippery pussy was so carnal - and he could just listen to it all day.

you couldn’t help but gasp again, feeling nanami lift your legs behind your head before giving you a long, fervent-tasting kiss. “but fine, one - hah, more.. load for the pretty wife comin’ right up..”

SATORU ★ GOJO.

“h- hoooly.. fuckin’ shiiiit, baby,” satoru hisses, drawing in drafty breath after breath as he watches the fat of your ass slam back against his sticky, meaty thighs for the zillionth time.

constantly, you’re placing all your weight down into your knees as your hips rocked and rocked. satoru leans back, holding back sultry-sounding moans as his leaking tip sloppily swipes a wet stripe up ‘n down the opening hood of your clit.

he’s in so deep, and he’s still trying to get over his most recent release. “look at her - so fuckin’ sloppy,” satoru puckers his lips, letting off a teasing low ‘ooooh’ once he ogles down at the translucently white ring that wraps around his cock. it coats all nth-inches of his shaft as he’s still weakly thrusting his hips up against your pussy that’s thrusting riiiight back down.

he hears the rubber streeetch at each pumping thrust and it’s just so loud. with a loud ‘snap!’ it ends up breaking mid-thrust.

polished, peach-colored lips of his tremble at the electrifying friction of striking skin and he grunts throatily once his cum-covered tip swerves its way past your clit be for jackhammering a single thrust near your g-spot. “mmngh- ‘toru, fuck,” you’d whine out a gargled sob, wobbling your lurching ass back into his bare lap. as you bring a hand toward the back of your rear, you spread the left cheek apart before arching a bit more forward. “s.. satoru- might..hhaah- as well.. take it off before you cum.”

it didn’t take much for him to realize the ‘it’ you wanted to be taken off — was the broken rubber. by now, it’s probably stuffed with satoru’s cum from previous rounds, but you only imagined how much better he’d feel raw..

“heeeh- and you call me the nasty one in the relationship,” he grunts, brushing a thumb down your dripping pussy. your rhythm was as slow as ever, and his sapphire-shaded irises just couldn’t depart from your body. not for a single second. you still had your panties on too—but the grey string was pulled to the side, all thanks to satoru.

you moaned at the touch of his wiry, padded thumb gliding a straight line down your sopping-wet pussy. with a single hand, satoru snatches the clear, sticky condom off his cock - hearing the subtle ‘riiiip’ noise occur from his current action.

“f.. fuuuck,” satoru groans, raising your hips for a second then removed the broken rubber. he’s damn close - soso close, and his jaw tightens. as it’s now removed from around the entirety of his length, it leaves a bit of printing ring around the lower part of his dick, and a prominent vein shoots its way up his skin once the cool air hits it. “baby- ‘m not gonna last long if ‘m gonna.. hah- finish inside you raw, y’know.”

with a roused hum leaving from your pursed lips, you give your ass a cute spank before wriggling your dripping cunt against satoru’s flushed, ruby tip. “good. finish inside, baby,” and satoru’s breath gets caught in his throat once he sees your fingers spreading the lower dripping lips of your pussy apart. “riiiight in here, fill me up, s- satoru.”

your filthy, needy words against his ear slid from your lips so smooth like honey. he just couldn’t keep his eyes off of you — more importantly, he couldn’t keep his eyes off your pretty, jostling ass. it’s almost taunting him with the way it moves ‘n wriggles around his pelvis in an alluring circle. “ffuck, baby. know t- that’s right, ride that fuckin’ dick- ngh-” and a whine rips straight from his throat once he sees you slooowly arching inward.

his tip wetly slides its way from between your sniveling cunt as you bent forward - letting him view the dried-up stringy strands of cum that were glued against your sprawled apart thighs.

“mhmm,” you bite back a moan through clenched teeth, wrapping a hand around his veiny cock. you align yourself back on his dick, and his veins immediately malfunction from the sheer hot rawness of your slick, weeping pussy. “pussy’s all yours ‘toru,” you hummed, hearing his gasping ‘oh shiiiit’ ‘s huff out from his lips once he’s bottoming out again.

“f- fuckin’ damn right she is,” he grumbles, reclining himself back, giving your left cheek a whacking spank. you’re moaning once your jolty hips start up again, riding him in reverse with your ass hitting back against his lap repeatedly. with how impactful you slammed back into his lap, each rigid bounce of your ass was just seismic - and satoru’s just … about … there.

he’s hearing ring after ring in his ears, and it’s got his empty mind going for a whirl. your pussy was just ruthless - almost unfair at how good you milked him each time. satoru’s ethereal icy-like pupils that were fully dilated mindlessly lulled to the back of his head. “god- ‘m gonna give you another,” he moans, hearing those same smack smack smacks of your cunt messily pounce back into his lap. the way you rode him in backward oh-so flawlessly, - it was just so… risqué.

the enticingly, saturated grip your pussy had on satoru’s cock was enough to make him drool. as skin continued to rude crudely clash into each other at full speed—creating a sharp unforgettable collision, and it was not long before satoru’s bursting blanks yet again.

this time though - actually inside you.

a looooong, raspy groan scratches from his throat but it’s sounding a bit more high-pitched if anything. he’s inside you raw - finishing inside you raw, and satoru’s gripping your ass with one hand while whining your name into your neck.

“mhm-hm, good girl, oh- s.. shiiit ‘s still comin’,” he breathes deeply, seconds after dumping a fresh buttery load of cum inside. as he’s spasming underneath you—his thighs felt glued to the mattress, and his knot floods into your cum-filled pussy. “damn.. she’s.. hah- more of a slut than you are, look at it spillin’ all out.. f- fuuck, baby-”

“don’t stop now, satoru,” you’d hold in between raucous breaths, still feeling his lustrously, syrupy cum trickling inside of you.

it shoots deep deep deep - pouring into your womb in thick, slimy molasses. satoru’s staring the entire time, bright-eyed ‘n bushy-tailed practically, melting at the way your cunt swallows all ribbons of his seed as if its thirst was finally quenched. well - almost.

“mng- one more, baby,” and he grunts, feeling your ass playfully rooooll into another circling toss. your pussy slaps back down against his cum-oozing tip before you hunch over his lap once again. “ ‘toruuu, one more.”

“my girl’s never satisfied, huh,” satoru dryly laughs, squinting to get a clear good look at your pussy that’s just overflowed with ropes and ropes of velvety, hot cum. for a split second - satoru pulls out, in awe at the sight of his cum streams out your slick orifices. it’s so creamy, and he moaned, still feeling the intensity of his body as his tip silently aching to give you another fill.

your back’s still prettily arched over to a certain degree—and you crane your neck slightly to give him a frisky simper as he continues to play between your thighs. “especially h.. her too,” and satoru’s thumb swipes up a few remains of his cum that wetly sobbed down the slot of your entrance. after a while, he’s even starting to hear his jagged breathing pick up before he aligns his florid-colored tip between your slit again.

as you’re holding in choked moans by biting the inside of your cheek, satoru sits up—making you lean allll the way forward until your cheek’s pressed into the cushioned pillow.

you’re not riding him anymore - instead, he wanted to see the pretty view from behind this time.

“hah- f- fine then,” and he’s grunting, poking his tip in ‘n out of your pearly, drooling pussy before slickly easing it into place. “gotta show this pussy wha- o- ooooh fuck, ‘m cummin’ a-again.”

CHOSO ★ KAMO.

“oh! my fans love you, baby, look.” choso timidly grins, holding in a guttural groan each time your ass steeply bounces right back into his lap.

the room was dim with hardly any light except for the exception of choso’s multi-colored monitor that flashed with pretty colors of LED lights. his stream mostly included the dedicated audience of his 6.9k viewers who usually spammed his chats with thousands upon thousands of lewd, unserious comments all at once.

it was mainly comments specifically saying how you’re just so pretty, how they wish they were you, and egging you on to make choso whine just a liiiitle bit more.

“h.. hi, chat,” you’d huff out in jagged breaths. all you took was a single side glance toward his set-up, but you were sure that thanks to his special guest - he was about to reach 7k viewers within no time.

choso liked including you in his streams—it’s usually not with you riding him, but you were more than willing to entertain his viewers for a little while. he was celebrating a milestone, and the best gift he could’ve ever got was you - you and your dangerous, rocking hips that he was forever obsessed with.

every few seconds, he’d hear that re-occurring ‘ping!’ notification whenever someone donated.

your ass moved like water — so perfect.

your body - it sensually rocked against choso’s lap as your feverishly wet lips pressed against the crook of his neck. “mhm- ‘y always make me feel s.. so good,” he shivers at your lukewarm touch, taking a few blurred peers at the gleamingly-bright screen that shined back into his face.

“hey- look at me,” you’d coo, pressing clammy hands at each side of his face. tousled, inky-shaded strands slit down the corners of his forehead before he meets your gaze. instantaneously, choso softens at your touch, letting off a sweet whine once your thumb rubs against the scarred bridge of his nose.

“they’re not riding you, i am, choso,” and right at that exact moment, your cunt lets out a sobbing wet squelch that makes all jolting limbs judder in an elated frenzy. “so let’s give ‘em a show, hm?”

“y- yes, mommy.” choso locks eyes with you, his pupils dilating and he’s hearing the booming loud sounds of his heart thump-thump-thumping straight out of his bare sweat-covered chest.

“mommy?” you tease at the sudden term.

“b.. baby, i mean.” he grunts, one of his hands fishing down toward the lower part of your jerking ass.

he’s so impatient - so eager to just give you another one of his loads. choso’s stream’s probably been running for about a good two and a half hours—and with the way you were riding him, he didn’t ever want you to stop.

your hips were gonna make choso fall in love all over again. embarrassingly enough, choso’s face heats up at his sudden slip up of calling you ‘mommy’ but he couldn’t lie, the moment he called you that, he felt the tip of his dick twitch in rousing thrill.

pound, after pound, after fuckin’ pound. .

by this point — you were the one fucking choso, and he didn’t even mind at all. he’s louder than you, his gruff whines and whimpers turned more melodic at each cute cracking strain. “pleaaase- please, fuck me, fuuuck me- milk me.” he starts to ramble, gasping once you lightly push him flat back against the pillow.

his fall from your playful shove was soft - not as soft as your insides though. your pussy’s just squeezing onto him, preparing to wring him dry like a wet, soggy towel.

choso’s tongue lolls out his mouth and he’s panting rapidly like a dog - moaning once you attack sloppy, unkempt kisses onto his bitten, raw lips.

they’re a hot pink, glossed with saliva and he’s even starting to drool from the very corners all because of your slippery, hot pussy trying to suffocate his cock with your gripping warmth. “hng- good boy, ‘cho. let your fans hear you,” you whisper, bringing your trail of kisses toward the lower part of his bottom lip. then, you reach toward his chin, giving the tubby part of skin a playful nibble. “cum again for me, choso. ‘s okay.”

the piles of donations continue - loudly pinging, and his chat’s just being flooded with even more thirsty, needy fans direly wishing they were in your place or hell - maybe even being in choso’s place instead. .

“ ‘m cumming- hold me, baby, ‘m fuckinnn’-” and he gets cut off, feeling the lower half of his body erupt into such final stages of utter rapture.

he’s so hot that it feels like an active volcano, and in reality—the magma is his cum—hotly spurting inside of you, bubbling in thick, frothy bubbles before oozing right back out. you’re both moaning in sync, and choso’s face is just shading into a ripe shade of vibrant red as he’s letting out such a large load.

he’s awkwardly clinging onto your hips the entire time as he holds you close, and he takes one single peek at his chat that’s still virtually cheering him on in the background.

‘choso my goat finally getting some pussy? 2025 is off to a great start!’

‘she is sooo hot.’

‘me when me when me when.’

even though the majority of them were clowning him like always - he grumps, shifting his focus back towards you as he’s still pumping in such viscid, milky ropes.

you’re slowing down finally, rolling your hips around before coming to a halt as you’re whimpering into his neck. choso’s got a sleazy grin - and oh, he was the literal epitome of pussy drunk. he’s filled you up so much that it got to his head, and his clingy hold against your ass never left.

in fact, he squeezes it tighter - giving it a soft spank before shyly burying his face in between your tits - his comfort place. “can we.. do that again?” he pouts, hissing once he feels the mere non-existent bouncing of your hips.

already - he’s missed it, but he was still giving you a fresh nice ‘n hot creampie so it’s not like choso was one to complain.

he’s bringing his thin-pressed lips up to yours before kissing you, whining impatiently against your mouth as you contemplated a reply. “i- i want you to milk me again-” and he reaches in, shutting his laptop.

“hhaah- with no one watching this time. just us. p.. please, mommy?”

TOJI ★ FUSHIGURO.

“f- fuck, didn’t know a pretty thing like you knew how to ride s- so fuh- fuuuck,” toji stammers over his words, getting rudely cut off by the clashing slams of your whetted, brutal hips.

toji slouches further back in his rocking chair before raising his pinched front cowboy hat. its jet-black — flawlessly matching his eyes, and a piece of straw stuck from between his scarred lips. tilting his hat downward, he gets a picture-perfect view of your pretty, perked ass riding him ‘round in reverse.

toji’s full weighted base was stacked - just pumped and stuffed with so many milky, dewy wads. it’s been rounds - and you’ve already milked him to the max. but you wanted to milk him again, and again, and again..

at first, toji thought you were interested in milking the actual cows in his feedlots - but oh, you wanted to milk him instead.

“mhm- what’s.. the matter, cowboy?” you breathe, bringing your hands to hold onto his knees for leverage. you heard the clanking loud clanks of toji’s cowboy boots occasionally slam into the dusted ground. your cunt’s just feral at this point, and he’s grunting hoarsely as he sees your body ride him better than you did of any of his horses. “too much stamina for you? maybe i should.. hah- slow down.”

“quiet, ‘lil girl,” he hisses at you, swatting a black-gloved hand at the rotating globe of your ass. with just a rippling smack, your skin instantly jiggles at the contact of his palm and it makes his dick twitch inside you. speaking of, his crowned tip - it’s an angry, carmine shade of red that’s akin to a pepper. the tight-fitted mahogany-colored chaps that toji wore were loosely pulled down, his jangling buckle barely hanging on to his slim waist. “don’t slow down. better ride me good, atta girlie— fuuckk.”

despite how toji was trying his hardest to keep up his prim façade - he knew, he was no match for your sweet, sweet cunt..

“mng- now now, darlin’ . . fuck,” he brings two thick fingers up toward the dip part of his hat as ravened skinny bangs nearly shield his emerald eyesight. your hips had more horsepower than anything, and he’s clenching his jaw at the same time as you’re clenching down on his throbbing cock.

toji felt soooo full, fuller than he’s ever been—and he’s hearing those slippery, sloppy sloshes sing away from your pussy like a lewd western tune of its own.

your ass was sharp and very, very precise. just one smack against his wet lap and toji’s losing all sorts of a train of thought. “good- good fuckin’ girl, put those h…hips-” he lowly purrs, pausing for a second to swallow. “put those hips ‘ta work for me. ride me then- make me proud, heh- cowgiiiirl.”

but once toji gets a wild wild wild taste of cloying overstim - it’s fuckin’ over.

your hips were disgusting - in every best way possible. it didn’t take long at all for his smug act to tear away though, and now, you had an utterly milked-out cowboy right underneath you.

he’s been ringed dry, and he’s probably pumped out such webby masses of cum inside of your pussy. you felt so stuffed, and toji’s barely able to keep up with your stamina. your constant bouncing had him dizzy - and you watched as his hat fell from the crown of his head, falling to the pile of hay that surrounded you both near the wooden century-old chair.

“hng- fuck,” he groans huskily, clicking his tongue at the sharp swats of your clapping ass. his turgid cock’s stretched inside you through ‘n though, and with a single, stretchy thrust - he’s french kissing his way near your convulsing g-spot. he hits that same spot thrice - not once, not two - but thrice, and he sees how your mind’s already starting to go blank just from your cute dumbfounded expression. “h.. heh, what’s the matter, darlin’? no more horsepo- ngh-”

as your ass kept up its crazed pace of slamming up ‘n down on his heavy shaft, you wrapped a hand around toji’s throat. the milked-out cowboy eyes you intently, feeling your soft hand slide around the fabric of his verdant-colored bandana. “less talking, more hahh- milkin’.” you moan, giving his neck a slight squeeze. toji lets out a moan - a slutty one at that, and you spot that glint in his eye.

he’s always been one for a challenge, especially a pretty ‘lil cowgirl who dared to compete with him in riding.

in the background - it’s just the faint sounds of bellowing moos and neighs from the animals nearby in the other stalls. as toji’s wholly milked out, his meaty thighs felt like they were permanently stuck against yours like velcro.

he’s at an utter loss of words—quietly groaning as your cunt swallows up every drop, greedily demanding more and more fills. “f- fuck, y’er quite the rider,” he breathes, burying the soles of his boots into the ground. “ugh- ‘m gonna c.. cum again, doll- shit.”

with your hips purposely stuttering over his lap, toji's head sexily tilts back to a certain degree. you gawk as his black lashes flutter - and he’s feeling each vigorous slam of your ass pound back into his naturally sculptured pelvis. toji’s groaning, running his gloved fingers up your waist, trying oh-so-hard to control the movement of your hips but failing miserably.

“inside again,” you moaned, rubbing your thumb near the lump that grew inside of his throat. toji’s mushroomy-flushed tip was just redly swollen, throbbing sporadically, and on the verge of being emptied once again, and if he wasn’t pussy-drunk then - he definitely was now.

“mngh- better h- hold on, m’lady,” toji grunts, gripping your ass firmly. he hears the latex of his gloves squeaaak against your jarring flesh, and he’s letting off continuous hoarse ‘phew’ ‘s as your sloppy cunt prepares to milk him again.

you’re rolling your waist ‘round in a whirring circle like it’s going for a spin, making sure to focus your weight in the centers of your knees. while the skin continues to pierce against skin in such a loud manner - your pussy’s just sobbing from each sloppy thrust.

toji heard it too - and his dicks’s almost sympathetic, gifting it a few syrupy ‘love taps’ with its tip as it concludes its final sloppy hits.

once toji cums - he cums hard.

he’s shooting yet another thick batch inside of you raw, feeling your quavery thighs clamp shut as he’s filling you to the utmost brim. it’s parchingly hot, and toji’s seed gradually travels its way deep into your womb. “hhah- atta girl, thereeee w- we go,” he groans, still having his fingers dug into the soft globes of your ass. you’re panting just as much as he was, and your mouth suddenly grows dry once toji’s cum starts to dribble out in cottony, satiny clumps.

for once - he’s speechless, and toji’s barely able to keep his eyes open. perhaps this time, he’s really milked out because his cock inside of you felt like it was floating. his tip’s still leaking from all reddened sides but in very small amounts, and he’s holding onto your waist with the piece of straw still sticking out from between his scarred lips. “ngh- maybe i was wrong about ‘cha, doll. you- you can ride damn good, that’s for sur-”

“i didn’t say stop, cowboy,” you bite the end of the wheat with your teeth, picking up his cowboy hat and placing it on top of your head. “c’mon, one more.. hah- riding session for the road, huh?”

with a sly, crooked smile, toji scoffs, beads of sweat streaming down all corners of his face. the overgrown bangs of hair that stuck against his forehead were all muggy from the various rounds that occurred - giving him a bit of a greasy look as his skin ricocheted against the sun’s bright rays.

“h.. heh,” and he gives your ass its final spank, the leather of his glove tickling against your flesh before he tilts his cowboy hat that remained tilted on your head. “yes ma’am.”

[skyrigel]

Simon isn't the man with words. He won't say it — but he'll do it.

Naked, with his arm snaked around your waist and head tucked under his chin, you blinked your crusty eyes to locate your things, which were clumsily tossed around between shared mouths, hot breaths, and rushed hands.

Nothing. Not even the underwear Simon teared off with his teeth last night.

After relentless Simon, Simon, Simon, and one almost-successful attempt to slide out from under his hold, he pulled you back in—eyes still closed.

“Ya’ flutter too much, birdie,” he breathed against your shoulder.

“I need to pee.” So he got up gruffly, his mouth tugging slightly—something you hoped was a smile.

Now, with your back straight, you could see the whole room had none of the things you came with last night—except this hot, big, muscled, nerdy-talks-about-guns-and-whiskey-too-much type of guy.

It felt like his apartment was robbed last night, with only your stuff stolen.

“Can’t see my stuff,” you muttered.

“I can.” Simon said casually, with his eyes fixated over your tits.

After blushing for more time than you should, and recovering for a pointed look at him that finally got him moving.

“Dunno,” Simon said curtly, staring at you before reaching down, abs folding, to pick up a black, curled-up t-shirt.

“Ya’ can have dat.” He shrugged, a grin in his eyes.

Over the morning, you realized you were actually wrong. Not all your things were gone. Just half.

One earring. One footwear. You found your shirt—but with no damn buttons.

You were damn sure there were at least three left, but then again, Simon's mouth hadn’t left you coherent enough to count or claim.

And Simon. God. Fuck him. Literally, metaphorically, now, and ever.

Simon was no help. He had that mischievous glint in his eyes—sexy and annoying.

He was aggravating.

The big boy claimed he was making breakfast, so you shouldn't disturb him with silly things like I know something is fishy and Where's the other shoe? and Return them it's not your size ! But somehow, he had plenty of time to rake his gaze over you as you chicken-legged your way through his house in his black tee, muttering a madness-streaked:

Found it!

Simon, you're sus.

It was only at breakfast—between dodging your suspicious, snoopy glare—that he smugly suggested buying some clothes for you in the evening.

Something casual for everyday...something you’d like while going out with him on coffees etcetera...or something you want to get because “his house ate your things”—your claim, not his.

Simon only had to say, stay.

He only had to ask you on a date.

But Simon isn't the man with words, so for now, he'll just do it this way.

⚝ Masterlist ⚝

[pucksandpower]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. ��So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[carnalcrows]

BABYSITTER - THE SALESMAN

pairing: the salesman x male reader

synopsis: When a broke college student takes a babysitting gig, he signs up for snack time and bedtime stories—but ends up with bloodstains, cryptic employers, and an unsettling crush on the kid’s disturbingly hot dad.

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, blackmailing, blood, anal, breeding, creampie, missionary, mating press, dubcon, mentions of kidnapping, too much plot

word count: 5.2k (good lord)

It was a typical Wednesday afternoon when you found yourself perched in the corner of the campus café, a half-empty cup of cold coffee sweating onto the table beside your laptop. Bills, tuition, and the general weight of adulthood had a way of pressing down on your shoulders, leaving you in a constant state of mild panic. You scrolled through job listings with the desperation of someone clinging to a lifeboat.  

Barista? You had already been rejected twice due to your “lack of experience.”  

Retail? They wanted you available on weekends, which wasn’t feasible with your study schedule.  

Dog walker? Allergic to fur.  

The list grew more depressing as the minutes ticked by, until one particular post caught your attention:  

"Babysitter needed. Flexible hours. Payment upon services rendered. Serious applicants only."  

There was no company name, no attached image of a smiling family, not even a hint about the age of the child you’d be babysitting. The simplicity of it screamed sketchy, but the promise of payment dangled in front of you like a carrot on a stick. 

“Desperate times,” you muttered, clicking on the post.  

The application form was equally bare-bones, asking only for your name, availability, and a short paragraph about why you wanted the job. You quickly typed something generic about being responsible and good with kids, then hit send without much hope.  

To your surprise, you received a reply almost immediately.  

"You’re hired. Start tomorrow at 3 PM. Address: [Redacted]."  

You stared at the screen, bewildered. No interview? No background check? Either this was the world’s most desperate parent, or you were walking into a scam. A friend texted you moments later, asking if you’d found a job yet, and you decided to leave out the details when you replied, 

"Yep, starting tomorrow."  

The afternoon sun was scorching as you made your way up the steps of the quaint suburban house. The place had a sort of storybook charm—a neat lawn, pastel shutters, and a small porch swing swaying lazily in the breeze. If it weren’t for the suspiciously vague job listing you’d answered, you might have thought you were walking into a feel-good rom-com instead of a potentially shady situation.  

You knocked on the door and waited. Seconds ticked by. You shifted awkwardly, glancing over your shoulder as if expecting hidden cameras. But just as you were about to knock again, the door flew open with surprising force, revealing a little girl standing barely taller than the doorknob.  

“Hi!” she exclaimed, her voice so cheerful it nearly gave you whiplash. “Are you the babysitter?”  

“Uh… yeah,” you replied, startled by the sheer intensity of her enthusiasm. “That’s me.”  

“I’m Su-an,” she said proudly, puffing out her chest. “Come in! I was just having a meeting with my council!”  

Before you could even ask what she meant, she grabbed your hand and tugged you inside. The house was warm and cozy, if a little cluttered, with toys scattered across the floor and crayon drawings taped haphazardly on the walls.  

---

“This is Mr. Snuggles,” Su-an announced, holding up a ragged teddy bear with one ear chewed off. “He’s the president of my council.”  

“Uh-huh,” you said, nodding solemnly. “And what does the council do?”  

“Important stuff,” she said, narrowing her eyes like she was letting you in on a state secret. “Like deciding who gets cookies after dinner. Also, they voted to make you the assistant.”  

You blinked. “I don’t remember running for office.”  

“Well, you didn’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “But Mr. Snuggles said you looked like you’d be good at it.”  

Before you could protest, she shoved the bear into your hands and pointed to a tiny table covered in a chaotic mix of crayons, plastic teacups, and a single half-eaten cookie.  

“Sit,” she ordered. “The council meeting is starting!”  

---

The rest of the afternoon unfolded in a whirlwind of nonsensical games and increasingly bizarre “council decisions.” At one point, you were ordered to wear a paper crown (which barely fit) and were dubbed the “Official Snack Prince.” Your royal duties included distributing Goldfish crackers and ensuring everyone—stuffed animals included—got an equal share.  

“You’re actually pretty good at this,” Su-an said, eyeing you critically as you handed Sir Fluffington his crackers. “Better than my last babysitter.”  

“Oh?” you asked, curious. “What happened to them?”  

“They couldn’t handle the council,” she said gravely.  

---

After the meeting adjourned, Su-an decided it was time to “train” you in the art of hide-and-seek. You played along, even though she kept hiding in the same spot: under the dining table, her giggles giving her away every single time.  

“Found you again!” you said, crouching down to peer under the table.  

She gasped, genuinely shocked. “How are you so good at this?!”  

“It’s a gift,” you deadpanned, earning another round of giggles.  

---

When hide-and-seek got old, she declared it was “dance party time.” She dragged you to the living room, where she plugged in her favorite playlist on an ancient speaker. The first song was a pop hit you vaguely recognized, and before you could even protest, she was already twirling around like a whirlwind.  

“Come on!” she yelled over the music.  

“I don’t dance,” you started, but she shot you a look so devastatingly adorable that you had no choice but to join in.  

What followed was ten minutes of the most ridiculous dancing of your life. Su-an moved like she was powered by pure chaos, flailing her arms and jumping around, while you attempted something resembling the robot. She laughed so hard she tripped over her own feet, and you had to catch her before she face-planted into the couch.  

---

As the day wore on, you found yourself genuinely enjoying her company. She was smart, funny, and had the kind of boundless energy that made you wonder if kids ran on caffeine instead of juice boxes.  

By the time bedtime rolled around, you were exhausted. Getting her into pajamas was an ordeal—she insisted she couldn’t sleep without her “lucky socks,” which turned out to be mismatched and buried at the bottom of her toy chest. When you finally tucked her in, she stared up at you with wide, sleepy eyes.  

“Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked, clutching Mr. Snuggles to her chest.  

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “I’ll be here.”  

“Promise?”  

“Promise.”  

---

As you made your way back downstairs, you felt a surprising sense of accomplishment. Babysitting wasn’t what you’d imagined yourself doing, but something about Su-an’s infectious energy and genuine joy made it worth it.  

You tidied up the living room, stepping over plastic dinosaurs and rogue crayons, and couldn’t help but laugh to yourself. If every day was going to be like this, maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad after all.  

---

And so, your days with Su-an became a routine. Every afternoon, she greeted you at the door like an excited puppy, launching into a new scheme or game. One day, she decided you were a dragon and she was a brave knight. The next, you were her art teacher, helping her draw increasingly absurd animals like “dog-o-sauruses” and “cat-icorns.”  

One particularly memorable day, she tried to teach you how to braid her hair. It did not go well.  

“Why are there so many strands?!” you groaned, your fingers tangled in her hair.  

“It’s easy!” she said, giggling. “You just go over, under, over, under!”  

“You sound like a cryptic math teacher,” you muttered, earning another round of giggles.  

---

The days passed in a blur of laughter and chaos, and soon, you found yourself looking forward to your afternoons with Su-an. She made you forget about your stress, your bills, and your endless to-do list.  

Still, a question lingered in the back of your mind: where was her dad during all of this? But for now, you were content to let the mystery be. After all, it was hard to worry about much when you had a six-year-old demanding you be her “Royal Snack Advisor.”

It was one of those rare evenings when the air felt just right—not too cold, not too warm, with a soft breeze that carried the faint smell of grass and distant barbecues. Su-an had begged to go to the park after dinner, and you’d caved, eager to get some fresh air and give her a chance to burn off her endless energy.

“Push me higher!” Su-an squealed as she swung back and forth, her legs pumping excitedly. You stood behind her, laughing as you gave the swing a gentle push.

“Higher, huh? What are you trying to do, touch the clouds?”

“Maybe!” she shouted, giggling as the swing reached its peak.

The park wasn’t crowded—just a few other families and joggers scattered around. It was peaceful, the kind of evening where you could almost forget the strange tension that sometimes hung around the house, the questions you tried not to ask about her father’s late-night comings and goings.

But the peace didn’t last.

As you helped Su-an off the swing and she dragged you toward the monkey bars, a commotion near the edge of the park caught your attention. At first, you thought it was just a group of people arguing—a not-uncommon sight in the city. But then you saw him.

Your heart stopped.

There, in the dim light of a flickering street lamp, was a man—the man. His tall frame was unmistakable, even in the shadows. He stood over a small group of disheveled, huddled figures, who you quickly realized were homeless people. A plastic bag lay torn at his feet, loaves of bread spilled across the ground.

He wasn’t just standing there. He was stepping on the bread.

Your breath caught as you watched him stomp down with deliberate, almost mechanical force, grinding the food into the dirt. The homeless group stared in silence, some in shock, others looking away as if too defeated to protest.

“Isn’t that Daddy?”

The innocent question cut through the haze of disbelief like a knife. You snapped your head down to look at Su-an, her wide eyes fixed on the scene with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“No,” you said quickly, your voice sharper than you intended. “It’s not.”

“But—”

Before she could finish, you crouched down and gently placed your hands over her eyes. “Let’s go, Su-an. We’re leaving.”

“Why can’t I look? What’s wrong?” she whined, squirming in your grasp.

“Because it’s not safe,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady as you picked her up and started walking away, her protests muffled against your shoulder.

Your mind raced as you carried her toward the car. What had you just witnessed? That couldn’t have been him—could it? But the silhouette, the way he carried himself—it was all too familiar.

You buckled Su-an into her car seat, doing your best to distract her with promises of ice cream and cartoons when you got home. But even as she babbled happily about her favorite flavors, your hands trembled on the steering wheel.

By the time you got back to the house and put Su-an to bed, your heart was still pounding. You paced the living room, replaying the scene over and over in your head. The way he’d crushed the bread underfoot—there had been no hesitation, no anger, just cold, calculated precision.

Who does that?

And more importantly, why?

The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as you shifted on the couch. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but between your classes, assignments, and Su-an’s boundless energy, exhaustion had taken its toll.

It was the sound of the front door slamming that jolted you awake. Disoriented, you blinked into the darkness, the faint glow of the kitchen light casting long shadows across the room. Footsteps echoed through the hallway—heavy, deliberate, and nothing like the hurried, near-silent ones you were used to from the man of the house.

You sat up, your heart beginning to race. Something wasn’t right.

When he appeared in the doorway, your stomach twisted into a knot. His usually pristine white shirt was drenched in blood, the vivid crimson staining the fabric and dripping in thick, uneven streaks. His face was ashen, his dark eyes wild and unfocused, like a man teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t name.

“Wh-what happened?” you stammered, instinctively backing away as the metallic tang of blood reached your nose.

“It’s not my blood,” he said curtly, his voice gravelly and sharp.

As if that was supposed to make you feel better.

“That doesn’t answer my question!” you said, your voice trembling despite your attempt to sound firm.

He staggered toward the kitchen, his movements unsteady but purposeful. Against every ounce of self-preservation screaming at you to stay put, you got up and followed him.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, your tone softer this time.

He didn’t respond, instead gripping the edge of the counter as if to steady himself. The dim light overhead cast harsh shadows across his sharp features, making him look even more unapproachable than usual.

“Sit down,” you said, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.

He turned his head, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. For a moment, you thought he’d ignore you, but then he surprised you by obeying. He sank into one of the kitchen chairs, his movements slow and deliberate, as if every step cost him.

You grabbed a damp cloth from the sink, your hands trembling slightly as you wrung it out. You weren’t sure why you were doing this—why you weren’t running out the door or calling the police. Maybe it was the way he looked, like a man who had seen too much, or maybe it was the faint vulnerability hiding behind his hard exterior.

“This... isn’t normal,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, as you began wiping the blood from his face. The cloth came away dark and sticky, and your stomach churned.

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with things you don’t understand,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a warning edge.

You paused, meeting his gaze. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them, filled with something unreadable—a mix of exhaustion, anger, and something else that sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m here,” you said, almost defiantly, as you moved to clean his hands. “So I’m already concerned.”

He didn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly.

The silence between you grew even heavier, the only sound now being the soft movement of the cloth against his skin. Your hands were shaking slightly as you worked, wiping the blood from his face, his hands, but his eyes never left you. They were intense—piercing, almost as though he were searching for something in your expression.

You couldn’t look away for long. The tension in the air thickened with every passing second, your heartbeat picking up, each thud echoing loudly in your ears. It was like being drawn into a web you didn’t fully understand but couldn’t escape from, no matter how hard you tried.

When you finally stepped back, giving him space, you thought you’d be able to breathe again. But then, his hand shot out, quick as lightning, wrapping around your wrist. The touch was firm, deliberate, sending an involuntary jolt of electricity through your veins. You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. His fingers were cold against your skin, but the intensity in his eyes made your heart race.

"Why are you helping me?" His voice was low, gravelly, and for a moment, you wondered if he was testing you—seeing if you’d reveal the truth, or maybe if you’d run.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath, but your pulse was hammering, and you couldn’t ignore the way your body reacted to his proximity. The heat between you both felt suffocating. His touch was grounding, yet it stirred something dangerous inside you. “Because someone has to,” you replied, your voice steady, though you could feel the words slipping off your tongue more as a defense than truth.

His gaze deepened, darkening in a way that sent a chill down your spine. The air between you was thick, electric, as if there were an unspoken promise between you both—a promise you knew you were too afraid to fully acknowledge. Then, before you could even react, he pulled you in close. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a force that made your breath catch in your throat.

And then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was a collision, desperate and overwhelming, like a dam that had been holding back too much for too long and was finally breaking free. His kiss was messy—almost violent—as if he needed to consume you, to claim you in a way that made your knees weak and your thoughts scatter. His lips were demanding, his teeth grazing your bottom lip in a way that made your body tremble.

You should’ve pushed him away, told him to stop, told him that this was wrong. Your mind screamed at you to break free, but your body betrayed you, leaning into him instead, matching the fervor of his kiss. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you even closer, his grip tightening. Your breath was ragged between kisses, and your pulse pounded in your ears as the world outside of the two of you seemed to vanish.

When he pulled away, just far enough to catch his breath, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving. You couldn’t think. All you could feel was the lingering heat of his touch, the undeniable thrum of desire that still buzzed beneath your skin. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something in them—something dark, dangerous, but...hungry.

His lips curved into a smirk, and it sent a jolt of unease running down your spine, mingled with something else, something deeper.

“You’re in over your head, kid,” he said, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your back.

The words should’ve been a warning. They should’ve sent you running. But instead, they only lingered in the air between you, wrapping themselves around you like a noose. You should’ve known then, but you didn’t want to listen.

And for the first time, you realized: you were already tangled up in his web, and maybe—just maybe—you didn’t want to escape.

The obsession grew in subtle ways. You’d arrive to find unexpected gifts waiting for you on the kitchen counter: a sleek leather wallet, a watch so expensive you didn’t dare wear it, a bottle of cologne that smelled like a storm breaking over the ocean.

When you tried to protest—“This is too much” or “I can’t accept this”—his expression would shift. His jaw would tighten, his eyes darkening with something that made your chest tighten.

“Take it,” he’d say, his tone brooking no argument. And you’d always comply, your words catching in your throat as he gave you a look that said refusing wasn’t an option.

Your feelings about him became a tangled mess of contradictions. Every instinct screamed that something about him was wrong. The blood, the cryptic way he spoke, the chilling bread incident in the park—they all painted a picture of a man you should stay far away from.

But then there were the moments that left you reeling. A lingering glance, a brush of his hand against yours, the way he could soften—just slightly—when he saw you with Su-an.

The first time he kissed you, you felt like your world had been turned inside out. It was sudden, overwhelming, and left you breathless. His lips were rough but urgent, like he was staking a claim rather than asking permission. And when it happened again—and again—you didn’t push him away. Instead, you found yourself leaning into him, craving the heat of his touch despite every rational thought telling you to run.

But his obsession wasn’t content to simmer beneath the surface. It began to consume him, bleeding into the delicate balance of your day-to-day life.

He started showing up during your babysitting hours, a presence that was impossible to ignore. At first, he’d just watch from the doorway as you played with Su-an, his dark eyes following your every move with a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

Then, his involvement escalated. He’d dismiss you early—always with some excuse about needing to talk to you. But the moment Su-an was out of earshot, his demeanor would shift. He’d pull you into his room, his hands firm but not rough as he guided you inside.

“You’re spending so much time with her,” he’d say, his voice low and rough, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Don’t forget who’s paying you.”

His lips would crash against yours before you could respond, his kisses urgent and messy, as though he couldn’t stand the thought of you being anywhere else but with him.

The final straw came on a night like any other—or so you thought. Su-an had already gone to bed, and you were tidying up the living room when your gaze drifted toward the slightly ajar door of the man’s study. It was a room he rarely used in your presence, a space he kept locked most of the time.

You hadn’t intended to snoop. But the door was open, and your curiosity, already inflamed by the strange events surrounding him, got the better of you.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of leather and faintly bitter cologne. The dim lighting cast long shadows over the mahogany desk and the shelves lined with books and files. One particular folder caught your attention—it was open, papers spilling out as if hastily shoved aside.

Your heart sank as you picked up the first page. It was your class schedule, neatly printed and highlighted. Beneath it were receipts from your favorite coffee shop, notes about your usual order scribbled in the margins.

And then there were the photos.

They weren’t candid shots taken on the street or at the park. They were intimate, the kind of photos someone would take if they were watching closely—too closely. You recognized the outfits, the moments. One was of you laughing as you pushed Su-an on the swings. Another showed you sitting on a park bench, earbuds in, entirely unaware of the camera.

The air in the room felt too thick, like it was choking you. Your fingers trembled as you shoved the papers back into the folder, heart hammering in your chest.

“What the hell is this?”

The words left your mouth before you even realized he was standing in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from the hall. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with something intense.

The folder in your hands felt heavier than it should have, its contents seared into your memory. Photos of you, notes about your life, details no one should know unless they’d been watching you for far too long. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at him, standing so calmly in the doorway as if this was all perfectly normal.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, your voice shaking.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped further into the room, his movements slow, deliberate. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing you in with the man you were starting to realize you knew far less about than you’d thought.

“I warned you,” he said, his voice low, almost soothing. “I told you not to go looking where you shouldn’t.”

“This—this is insane,” you stammered, backing up until the edge of the desk pressed against your hips. “Why do you have these? Why are you—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” he interrupted, his tone softening as he drew closer. His gaze was unrelenting, pinning you in place. “I’ve been watching over you. Protecting you. You’re... important to me.”

“Protecting me?” you shot back, your voice breaking. “This is stalking. This is obsessive. This—this isn’t normal!”

He stopped just a breath away from you, his height and presence overwhelming. His eyes, dark and piercing, searched yours for something, though you couldn’t tell what. Slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against your cheek.

“I can’t lose you,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking. “Do you have any idea what you mean to me–and to my daughter? You’ve become... everything.”

The warmth of his touch sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. Your body tensed, torn between the instinct to pull away and the undeniable pull of his closeness.

“Stop,” you whispered, though your voice lacked the strength it should have had. “This isn’t—this can’t—”

But he didn’t stop. His other hand moved to your waist, firm but not forceful, as he leaned closer.

“You keep saying it’s wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his breath warm against your lips. “But you don’t push me away.”

His lips brushed against yours, testing, as though giving you one last chance to stop him. But when you didn’t move, when your breath hitched and your hands gripped the edge of the desk behind you, he took it as permission.

The kiss was slow at first, deliberate and searching, as though he was memorizing every inch of your mouth. But it didn’t stay that way for long. His hand slid up to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss.

You gasped against him, your hands instinctively gripping his shirt. The heat of him, the sheer intensity of his presence, was dizzying. When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, you couldn’t suppress the small sound that escaped you—a sound that seemed to ignite something in him.

His movements grew more desperate, more consuming. He pressed you back against the desk, his body caging you in as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down to the sensitive skin of your neck. The scrape of his stubble sent sparks of sensation racing down your spine, and you couldn’t help the way your head tilted to give him better access.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, almost guttural. “Do you even realize what you do to me?”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing even as your body betrayed you, leaning into him. His hands gripped your waist, his thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, and you shivered at the contact.

“This... this isn’t okay,” you managed, though the words came out weak, shaky.

“No,” he agreed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze was dark, filled with something you didn’t dare name. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t want it.”

The words hung between you, heavy and charged, as he leaned in again, his lips claiming yours with a hunger that left no room for argument. And though your mind screamed at you to stop, to push him away, your body betrayed you, pulling him closer instead.

His hand slowly trailed to the hem of your sweatpants, lightly tugging on the strap, you flinched when his cold hand suddenly went under your boxers. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this– Su-an might-” you were interrupted with his other hand covering your mouth.

“Hush now, this room is soundproof,” he merely stated before harshly pulling your pants and boxers down with one tug. He then picked you up and placed you on the desk, pushing aside all the files and paper, which now seemed so insignificant.

“You’re hard. Are you still telling me you don’t want this?” He questions, his warm breath fanning your ear. You shuddered at the feeling, not knowing what to say, or what to do.

Before you could form words, he wraps his hand around your aching cock which was standing erect, partly due to the cool air, and partly due to what was happening.

His movements were minimal, slowly moving his hand along your shaft, while his other hand fetched a packet of lube from his back pocket. Where he managed to get that, you couldn’t tell.

He ripped the packet with his teeth, and spread the substance all over his fingers, before swiftly flipping you over, so that your ass was facing him.

Before you could utter a word of process, he had slipped a lubed finger in you. A wanton moan left your mouth at the sudden intrusion. 

“Fuck–don’t stop, please,” the man only smirked at this, slowly sliding in another finger, and then another. Three of his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you, and oh, it felt heavenly. His other hand held you up just a bit, to keep you from falling off the study desk.

Your hands gripped onto the desk, frantically trying to keep yourself upright, but to no avail. You kept slumping off, the pleasure being too overwhelming.

“Stay still for me pet, that’s it–good boy,” the praise went straight to your dick, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Soon, the man determined that you had been prepped enough, and removed his fingers. You whined at the sudden emptiness, wanting to feel full once more.

He stared at your twitching hole, clenching around nothing. The sight did nothing but turn him on even more.

He removed his belt and cast it aside, while tugging down his pants and boxers with a sense of urgency. He easily flipped you over with his strong arms, now getting a clear view of your already fucked-out face.

He merely grinned, and before you could respond, he slid into your awaiting hole. You gasped at the intrusion, the head of his cock bullying its way into your hole. He groaned feeling the way you clenched around his length.

Without waiting for you to adjust, he fucked into you like an animal in heat, holding your legs in such a way that your knees where at your shoulders.

The new angle made his length hit your prostate with every thrust, making your head fall back on the table, a loud moan leaving your lips.

 The man was savouring every single reaction, every little noise you made. “Such a sweet little thing,” he cooed. “Can’t even keep a straight head while getting fucked, hm?”

The only thing that left your mouth was a string of garbled noises. Your brain had quite literally turned to mush with how well he was fucking you.

Soon, you felt your orgasm wash over you like a waterfall, but the man didn’t stop. Instead, he fucked into you harder, a bulge forming in your stomach with every thrust.

He lightly pressed on the bulge, which made you squeal– the overstimulation doing too much to your head.

He kept rutting into you until he felt his climax. When it came, his thrusts slowly started to stutter. Without warning he emptied his load in you, painting your gummy walls white.

He kept you on the desk, without pulling out as you whimpered, feeling so, so full.

With your mind in such a disarrayed state, you didn’t notice him slip a small ring onto your finger.

“Now you can’t leave me–or Su-an, ever. Poor thing needs a mother after all.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and and I take genuine effort to do them.

[nekonaps0]

First years find out you're dating their dorm leader

(dramatic gasps, chaos, and a lot of “NO WAY! YOU?!”)

✦fem!reader

Ace Trappola

When Ace finds out you’re dating Riddle, he physically malfunctions. He catches the two of you in a rare soft moment. Riddle brushing your hair out of your face in the rose garden, murmuring something sweet… and Ace just… stops functioning.

“WAIT. HOLD UP. HOLD… ARE YOU DATING RIDDLE?! OUR RIDDLE?!”

You nod slowly. Riddle stiffens. “Yes. We have been for some time.”

Ace just throws his hands up.

“You mean to tell me you've been willingly dating a walking rulebook this entire time?!”

Then it clicks.

“Wait… THAT’S why you keep surviving his tantrums. And why he let you off with warnings. I knew something was sus!!”

Cue Ace groaning dramatically while muttering about how

“first the overbolts, now you, what’s next?… Cater adopting a child?!”

Deep down, he’s genuinely happy for you. But he’ll never stop teasing.

Deuce Spade

Deuce finds out about your relationship with Riddle by overhearing you call him “love” behind the dorm kitchen, and he nearly drops a whole tray of tea.

“Wait. Waitwaitwait! Did you just call Riddle love?! LIKE IN A ROMANTIC WAY?!”

You blink at him, guilty. Riddle clears his throat.

“Yes, Deuce. She’s my girlfriend. I’d prefer if you didn’t drop the teacups.”

Deuce looks like he’s about to have a full blown meltdown.

“Wha—I—Is that allowed?! Wait, no… of course it is! I’m just… YOU?! And RIDDLE?!”

He’s trying to process everything like it's a pop quiz he wasn’t ready for. He salutes you both out of sheer panic.

“I promise to uphold your secret honorably! WAIT!! Do I need to call you ma’am now?!”

Riddle: “…No.” You: laughing too hard to answer.

Jack Howl

Jack walks in on you and Leona napping under a tree in each other’s arms and nearly flips.

“…You’re kidding.”

When you’re alone he will catch you, staring you down like a judgmental big brother.

“You’re really dating Leona-senpai? Like, our dorm leader? The one who skips meetings and naps through drills?”

You nod cautiously. “Yes. We’ve been together for a while.”

Jack exhales through his nose.

“…Huh. Can’t say I expected that. But I guess if anyone could handle him, it’s you.”

Still, he’s lowkey worried. Leona’s not exactly emotionally available. But when he catches Leona actually smiling at you, Jack gives a small approving nod.

“Fine. Just don’t let him get lazy about treating you right. I’ll be watching.”

Jack becomes your unspoken protector after that. Big loyal wolf energy.

Epel Felmier

You mention “Vil” a little too affectionately during lunch and Epel spits out his juice.

“YOU’RE DATING VIL-SENPAI?!”

Everyone in the room turns to look. You cringe. “Epel, shhh—”

“LIKE… LIKE ACTUALLY DATING?! HIM?!”

You nod. “We’ve been keeping it quiet, but yeah…”

Epel’s jaw drops.

“He lets you TOUCH him?! Without a ten-step cleansing ritual first?!”

He’s genuinely floored. There’s a mix of shock, admiration, and disbelief in his eyes.

“Okay but… good for you, I guess? You must have magic-level of patience.”

He’ll never stop side eyeing you during self-care nights now, whispering:

“Blink twice if you’ve been force fed.”

Secretly though, he respects you immensely. Anyone who can tame Vil’s perfectionist side is a legend.

Sebek Zigvolt

You and Malleus try to be discreet, but Sebek’s too sharp. The second he catches you smiling at each other a little too long during dinner…

“…What is the meaning of this strange atmosphere?!”

You try to brush it off, but Malleus just calmly states:

“She is mine, Sebek. We are courting.”

Sebek’s brain breaks.

“YOU’RE WHAT?!?!”

Cue thunder and dramatic music playing in his head as he drops to one knee in despair.

“MALLEUS-SAMA HAS FOUND LOVE?! AND I DIDN’T KNOW?!”

He’s in full crisis mode. Rambles for ten minutes about how “he should’ve been notified by royal decree,” and how “no ordinary human could ever be worthy!!”

But when you squeeze his hand and call him “family,” he turns red and shouts:

“I SUPPOSE I SHALL… TOLERATE THIS!”

From that point on, he guards you like you’re also royalty

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Hope you guys liked it ʚ(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )ɞ